He supposed he could always try to offer them ransom, but he’d learned at a young age—almost as soon as he’d been allowed outdoors by himself—that paying ransom was never an option. Let anyone know that they could grab you and get payment for your release, and there was no end to it. The only answer was to make it clear that there’d be no ransom payment, ever. Few people would bother kidnapping someone if there was no possibility of a payoff for his return. Of course, that didn’t seem to have deterred the people who’d captured him. Were they too stupid to have figured it out? Or were they taking the chance because they didn’t know his real identity? For the first time, he began to think there was a downside to the Legion practice of assumed names.
His best bet, at the moment, seemed to be Pitti da Phule. If his uncle had made an attempt to contact him at his hotel, he should already have realized that Phule was missing. On the other hand, Pitti had advised him to spend some time sightseeing and playing tourist—so even if he’d tried to get in touch and found Phule away, Pitti might just assume that his nephew had taken him at his word and gone on a side trip to Venice or Pompeii or some other tourist attraction. On the third hand … Phule grimaced at the metaphor. But, while his captors might be anxious to find someone to ask for ransom, he doubted they’d have Pitti on their list.
Who else might he call on? Beeker would be more than willing to come to the rescue, of course. Unfortunately, the butler probably had no idea that Phule was on Old Earth—and Phule had no idea where Beeker was, even if he had some way to contact him. Worse yet, he had no way to keep the butler from leaving the planet—which would shortly thereafter cause the hibernation chip to take effect. That would effectively bring the kidnapping to an abrupt end. Not that he was looking forward to an indefinite period of enforced hibernation, but there didn’t seem to be much he could do to prevent it under his present circumstances.
Phule was trying to figure out whether there was anything concrete he could do, when motion in the alleyway below caught his attention. He leaned close to the glass, trying to see better. But before he could make out what was happening, a loud explosion shook the building. As he ducked back from the window, he could hear voices shouting …
The explosions triggered Phule’s Legion training. Within seconds of the first sound, he’d knocked over his table, dumping last night’s dinner dishes on the floor. He turned the top to face the window and shielded himself behind it. The inch-thick wood wasn’t going to protect him from major ordnance, but it would stop flying glass—and possibly keep a sniper in the opposite building from spotting him. At the moment, he had no idea whether the explosions had anything to do with him. The smart way to handle the situation was to get under cover and stay there until he had better information.
Of course, Phule didn’t always handle things the smart way. Quietly, he hitched the table in the direction of the door, keeping it between him and the window. Even if they hadn’t heard him knock over the table, his captors would eventually look in on him, if only to make sure their hostage was still there; when they did, he wanted to have a surprise waiting for them.
From beyond the door, Phule could hear muffled voices arguing in Italian—at least, the volume and tone sounded like arguing to someone who couldn’t understand any of the words. He waited, listening. Footsteps approached the door, then stopped. The voices resumed, louder this time; then he heard a key turn in the lock.
As the door swung open, he rushed forward with the tabletop in front of him like a bulldozer blade, bowling over the person who’d stepped into his room. Not waiting to see the results of his attack, he leapt over the table and burst into the outer room, ready for action. His best guess was that the person who’d come through the door was Vinnie, and Weasel-face had stayed behind to guard the exit.
He was partly right. Weasel-face was there, all right. But two uniformed figures were also standing there, one with a gun trained on Weasel-face, who stood ashen-faced, his hands over his head. Phule did a double take as he recognized the newcomers: Customs Agent G.C. Fox and, holding the gun, someone he’d been chasing halfway across the galaxy.
Phule blurted out the first thing that came into his mind: “Nightingale! Where have you been?”
* * *
It wasn’t General Blitzkrieg’s style to sneak off-planet after a setback. He wasn’t particularly likely to admit that he’d had any setbacks to begin with. Even with egg all over his face, and his uniform and boots as well, he didn’t believe in letting anyone see that he knew he’d lost a round. But his departure from Zenobia Base was as close as he could contrive to being a triumph. He’d conveniently forgotten that the original idea came from his long-suffering adjutant, Major Sparrowhawk. It helped that Captain Jester seemed completely willing to uphold the illusion. Blitzkrieg was sufficiently relieved not to be reminded of the actual circumstances of his departure that he even forgave the captain for having somehow run out of golf balls just as they were getting ready for the general’s revenge match. Then again, considering the way Jester had played the last time out, Blitzkrieg wasn’t entirely sure he’d be getting much revenge.
Other times, Blitzkrieg might have let his loss in the final golf match eat at him. But after stumbling upon the late-night demonstration of just how hopeless Omega Company was, the general was more than willing to postpone the chance to win back a few bucks. After all, he was well ahead of Jester and his officers if you looked at the whole series of games. A profit was a profit. And it was an even greater pleasure to know that Jester had the insuperable task of trying to bring his pack of misfits up to snuff. If he didn’t despise the pup so much, Blitzkrieg might even have felt sorry for him.
It was a bit gratifying that Jester had his whole company turned out for the farewell ceremony. OK, it was Omega Company, but it was hard not to appreciate that they’d made some effort to do things right. Especially now that Blitzkrieg could see what kind of insubordination, incompetence, and downright idiocy Jester had to deal with day in and day out. No wonder the fellow spent so much of his time on the golf course …
“General, I’m glad you got the chance to see what we’re doing here on Zenobia,” said Jester, dressed for once in his Legion dress blacks. “It’s a very unusual opportunity, and I only hope we’re giving the natives a good impression of the Alliance.”
“I hope you’ll make the most of the opportunity, Captain,” growled Blitzkrieg. He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “And keep an eye on that infernal machine they’ve got out by your perimeter, will you? The damned thing worries me.”
“We’ve got it under surveillance, sir,” said Jester in the same lowered voice. He put a hand up, shielding his mouth, and added, “Fact is, we’ve got a pretty good idea what the lizards are trying to do—and the joke’s on them. It’ll never work!”
Blitzkrieg considered for a moment, then said, “Send me a report on it, Jester. I expect you’re right, but I want the intelligence boys to give it the eyeball before I make up my mind.” He somehow resisted adding, And I hope the damned natives’ intelligence boys can’t tell how screwed up Omega Company is. If they get the idea the whole Alliance is like this outfit, they’ll be making plans to take us over.
Ordinarily, that might not be an entirely bad thing. For a moment, Blitzkrieg had a fantasy of the little lizards wiping out Jester and his pack of incompetents—thereby eliminating the Legion’s biggest headache. But with Jester’s uncanny luck, not to forget his ability to convince politicos and newstapers that he was actually a competent officer, the pup was likely to come out of it covered with undeserved glory. On balance, it was probably better for the Legion—and particularly for Blitzkrieg—if Zenobia stayed peaceful.
On the whole, as Sparrowhawk had pointed out, the mission to Zenobia had been a success. Blitzkrieg had come here planning to cashier Jester, then break up Omega Company and disperse its members throughout the Legion. But after seeing the company with his own eyes, he realized that the only safe thing was for Omega Company a
nd its commander to stay right here—permanently, if possible. He couldn’t risk the possibility that Legionnaire Mahatma and his ilk might spread to other companies. No, let them stay here; let poor Jester try to whip them into shape—for all the good that was doing them, or Jester, either. It was beginning to look like a classic case of the punishment fitting the crime! Almost involuntarily, Blitzkrieg chuckled.
If Jester had been the kind of lazybones Blitzkrieg had always thought he was, Omega Company would have been a dream assignment. But now that Blitzkrieg had seen that the poor, deluded nincompoop actually thought he could make these misfits into a crack unit, he knew that Jester would be miserable for the rest of his days in the Legion. A failure even by his own lights! Nobody could shape up this pack of total losers. Now Blitzkrieg could cherish the memory of Jester’s hopeless midnight exercise. He chuckled again, relishing the irony.
“Did you say something, sir?” Jester asked.
“Yes, Jester,” said the general gruffly. “This base is a disaster.” He paused a beat, then said, “Next time I come out here, I’ll want to see a full nine-hole course, you understand?” He punched Jester in the biceps—a little too hard to be entirely friendly, but of course there was no way for Jester to take offense.
“Consider it done, sir!” said Jester, grinning idiotically.
Blitzkrieg smiled. Then he added, in a harder voice, “And as for the discipline—you’ve got to keep at it, Captain! A hard job, but time well spent, say I! Don’t let it slide an inch, do you hear me?”
“Yes, sir,” said Jester, grinning just as enthusiastically as before. “It’ll be my top priority.”
“Good, we’ll expect to see your reports, then,” said the general. He grinned again and ducked his head to get into the shuttle; Major Sparrowhawk was already strapped in, waiting.
“That ought to hold them,” said the general, sliding in next to his adjutant.
“Yes, sir,” said Sparrowhawk. “One question, if you don’t mind?” The general nodded, and she continued, “It seems to me you let them off pretty easily. What am I missing, sir?”
“The good old double bind,” said Blitzkrieg. “The poor idiot will work his tail off trying to get that golf course in shape, and at the same time try to whip some discipline into those oafs. He may get the golf course playable, but the discipline’s a lost cause. It’ll drive him crazy. Heh-heh. Just what I want.”
“Very good, sir, very good,” said Sparrowhawk. Then the shuttle’s engines began warming up, putting an end to any semblance of casual talk.
Meanwhile, outside, just as soon as the shuttle door closed, Lieutenant Rembrandt reached to a special point at the back of the robot’s neck, activating a switch, and spoke a code word, quietly. Without changing its posture or expression, the robot went instantly into standby mode. It would take no more independent action until it was reactivated—after a long and painstaking overhaul.
And for the first time since the shuttle’s arrival, everyone on Zenobia took a deep breath and relaxed.
* * *
“So that’s who’s behind it!” said Phule. “I’d never have thought she had any power beyond Lorelei …”
It was barely an hour after the rescue, and Phule’s head was still spinning with all that he had learned. At least he’d gotten Nightingale to promise that she’d tell Beeker to give him the Port-a-Brain. Then he could relax—and let the two lovebirds make their way back to Zenobia at their own rate.
“Maxine’s plan was very nasty,” said Pitti da Phule, filling his nephew in on the kidnap plot. “She spread a rumor that the Space Legion—the boys in black, she called them—were spying on tax evaders and smugglers. If she’d had a little longer to work on it, half the population of the planet would have been ready to stuff you into the nearest garbage disintegrator. You’re lucky I found out about it before it got that far.”
“I’m glad you found out about it,” said Phule, raising a glass in Pitti’s direction. “But how did you find me in that place they had me hidden? That’s a pretty impressive piece of detective work.”
Pitti smiled. “Not so hard to do, with what you told me about your computer. Your father told me about that security program it has. It doesn’t just send out a signal when the stasis field is working. If you know what to look for, the signal’s there all the time, capisce? Your father told me …”
“Say no more,” said Phule, suddenly realizing that his father had put a permanent tracer on him. The old rascal had always worried whether Phule could handle himself in a tricky situation, but this was taking it a bit too far. Still, it had saved his bacon this time. Best to accept it for what it was worth.
“And I really appreciate your, uh, unofficial help.” Phule nodded to Agent Fox, who’d joined them in the little cafe that Pitti had brought them to just down the street from where Phule had been held prisoner. The owners had brought out an enormous antipasto and a bottle of wine. Phule, who hadn’t yet had breakfast, had ordered coffee instead—and was rewarded with the best espresso he’d tasted on Old Earth. The head waiter was watching their table discreetly to make sure no need went unfulfilled.
Pitti waved an expressive hand. “The agente and I have worked together before,” he said. “Keeping lines of communication open, that’s good for business. Capisce? Where we both have an interest, there should be profit for both. And his news that Maxine Pruett—your old enemy—had come to Old Earth was what convinced me to trace your whereabouts instead of just assuming you’d gone to see the sights.”
“What’s going to happen to Maxine?” said Phule.
Fox shrugged. “Depends on whether we can scare the hoodlums who kidnapped you into naming her as the mastermind,” he said. “I wouldn’t bet the house on it. Her connections on Old Earth aren’t exactly nobodies. She’ll probably have to pay a fair amount to keep from being sent back to Hix’s World, where they’re really mad at her. But if she’s smart, she’s already gotten off-world and left the lawyers to clean up the mess.”
“She’s that smart, she wouldn’t stick her nose in my family’s business,” said Pitti dryly. “I’ll make her and her lawyers both sorry.”
“Hold on a minute,” said Phule, sitting up straight. The coffee had finally kicked in. “What was Maxine doing on Hix’s World?”
“What, you didn’t figure that out yet?” Fox chuckled. “She’d gone to Hix’s World to set up a casino at that hotel of hers. She’d been lobbying for a change in the laws, throwing bribes around as if they were birdseed. It probably would have passed if she hadn’t jumped the gun and brought in a shipment of quantum slots while they were still illegal. When you caught her with them, she figured you were going to inform on her and left the planet in a hurry. That’s why, when she found out you were here on Earth, she persuaded some local goons to kidnap you, figuring she’d get her revenge that way.”
“Inform on her? I never even knew she was on Hix’s World,” said Phule, scratching his head. “It must have been Beeker and Nightingale who found out about her. I wonder if that’s why they went there to begin with …” But Nightingale had disappeared again almost immediately after setting Phule free and wasn’t here to confirm or deny his guess. At least she had promised to bring Beeker to his hotel—and Phule could hardly wait to see the butler.
“Maybe,” said Fox. “The lady did sound as if she enjoyed the Floribunda Fete. Can’t say that I’m all that much of a flower fanatic myself.”
“I can sum it up in one word,” said Phule. “Bo-ring. And you can quote me on that.”
“Oh, I agree—but don’t say that to her,” said Fox with an amused smile. “A woman like that, you want to keep her on your side. Even if she and the butler fall out …”
“Yes, I’ve thought about that,” said Phule. “I really have to talk to them both before we get back to Zenobia, though. I owe them my freedom, obviously. That’s a big one. But I need to get Beeker to enter a certain code in his computer. I wonder why he never read the mail I sent him?”
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“I tell you, there’s gonna be a good reason,” said Pitti da Phule. “That Beeker, he’s old-school—solid like a rock. He does something you don’t understand, it’s because you don’t understand it. Take my word for it.”
Phule shrugged. “Yeah, that’s what I figure. But I’m still curious to find out why he never responded.”
“You worry later about that,” said Pitti. “For now, we got good food, good vino—you listen to your uncle and enjoy while you got it!”
“And that’s the best advice you’re going to get today—or any other day,” said Fox, raising his glass.
Chapter Eighteen
“Well, sir, it’ll be good to get back to Rahnsome Base,” said Major Sparrowhawk, looking out the window of the shuttle at the disk of Zenobia gradually shrinking behind them. They’d left in a hurry, but it was none too soon for her.
“Good to get off that damned hellhole world,” growled General Blitzkrieg. “At first, I was beginning to think Jester had drawn an ace in the hole, what with his private golf course, friendly natives, and all that. I tell you, Major, I had a good mind to pull Omega Company out and put somebody more deserving in there. No point in giving the screwups such a plum assignment.”
“No, sir,” agreed Sparrowhawk. “There are lots of regular companies that deserve good assignments.”
“Well, that’s just what I was thinking,” said Blitzkrieg. “But then—did you see some of those monsters that live in the desert outside that camp? I’m surprised half the complement hasn’t been eaten alive.”
“No, sir,” said Sparrowhawk. She’d heard the general’s description of the—what had he called it?—the gryff. “From what you tell me, I don’t want to.”
“I tell you, it’s enough to change my whole opinion of the place,” said Blitzkrieg. He swirled his drink, took a sip, and continued, “Ironically, that constant danger might just be the thing to turn Jester into a competent officer after all. Much as I’d hate to admit it, there’s a hint of iron in his backbone. I don’t think he meant me to see it, but I caught him chewing out a squad after a surprise inspection. Most commanders want the top brass to think their units are perfect, of course. So they try not to ream ’em out where I can see it.”
The Complete Phule’s Company Boxed Set Page 167
