No Phule Like an Old Phule

by Robert Asprin

"What do you do when you catch... it?"

  "Put them on the first ship leaving the station and send the pic to the guards at the port of entry," said Bascomb, with a smile. Now he'd shown the elder Phule that he was in charge, and that he belonged in charge. "With any luck, you'll catch the hustlers before they even get to the casinos. That's one of the advantages of operating on a selfgoverning space station-you have a chance keep the troublemakers out altogether, instead of having to catch them in the act"

  "A good policy," said Phule, nodding. "The same idea works in the weapons business. You might be able to dodge missiles once they're launched, but it's a lot more effective to keep the other side from launching them to begin with."

  "Makes sense to me;" said Bascomb. "The same idea is behind our employee-screening program. We do an intensive background check on anybody applying for a job where they'll handle money. That prevents most of the potential problems. These monitors here are our best shot at catching the ones we can't interdict at the hiring stage. Every employee comes through this room as part of the orientation process, so they know their every move is being watched. That keeps most of 'em honest"

  "And the rest?"

  "The rest we catch in the act," said Bascomb. "And when we do, it's a one-way ticket off Lorelei-forever."

  "When?" Victor Phule's voice had a skeptical edge to it "I think you mean if. You don't mean to say you catch all of them, do you?"

  "You better believe we catch all of them," said Bascomb, stubbornly. "Nobody gets away with ripping off the Fat Chance."

  "Overconfidence is your worst enemy," said Victor Phule. "If you think you're catching everything, you're bound to be overlooking something. Come on, admit it you can't stop it all."

  "We can, and we do," said Bascomb, his jaw set even harder."

  "You can't," said Victor Phule. "And I'm going to prove it!"

  "That I want to see." growled Bascomb. "Exactly how are you going to prove it?"

  "If I tell you, you'll be looking for it." said Phule. "Now, excuse me-I think I'll go take a look at things from ground level. I have an idea exactly where you're going wrong, and I'm going to rub your nose in it. And when I do, I think my son will want to know just what kind of man he's put in charge of this casino." He turned and stalked away, his bodyguard a pace behind him.

  "He already knows what kind of man I am, Mr. Phule," muttered Bascomb. "Too bad you don't know him well enough to trust his judgment." He smiled, then turned to the casino employees watching the monitors. "Did you see that man who just left? I want you to watch him like a hawk every second he's on camera. Here's what I think he's going to try..."

  The Reverend Jordan Ayres was frustrated. For the first time in his career as a minister of the Church of the New Revelation, popularly known as the Church of the King, Rev had run into a problem he couldn't solve by consulting the sacred texts and commentaries. Not even applying his good common sense-a commodity he believed himself to possess in ample measure-had he been able to get to the bottom of it. He tapped his fingers on his desk, staring at the useless computer readout, trying to decide what avenue to follow next. .

  The problem was, there just wasn't enough known about the Zenobians. It had been only a few short years since the human race had encountered the reptilian sophonts, who in their appearance and habits resembled nothing so much as miniature allosaurs. That had been back on Haskin's Planet, where Captain Jester's troops had intercepted one of their spaceships-an exploring party commanded by none other than Flight Leftenant Qual. And to the best of Rev's knowledge, other than the members of Omega Company, no human being had set foot on the Zenobians' home world.

  Of course, the Alliance had done a fair amount of crash research into this new race when the Zenobians had requested formal membership-but much of that research remained unpublished, or at least inaccessible to someone with Rev's

  resources, which were far more comprehensive than those available to most civilians. In particular, nothing of the Zenobians' religious beliefs had been recorded by the diplomatic, military, and commercial interview teams that did the groundwork for the Alliance treaty. It wasn't even known for certain that they had any such beliefs. Except for the intriguing morsel that Flight Leftenant Qual had offered in response to Rev's questions about the King...

  'L'Viz. Qual had claimed that Zenobian myth spoke of a figure with that name, a name that resonated curiously with that by which the King had gone in his Earthly days. Even more intriguingly, Qual had remarked that, when Zenobians had first learned of the King, they had taken Him as a human borrowing from their own mythology. Could the King have manifested Himself on Zenobia, bringing his message to the reptilian sophonts of a world far distant from his own home? Rev knew he had to penetrate to the bottom of this mystery, one of the deepest he had found in all his years of reading the sacred texts. Its implications for the Church were staggering-and its solution could catapult him to the first rank of its spokesmen.

  But where to begin? Qual had implied that Zenobians were not comfortable speaking of such things to outsiders. That meant that Rev would need to take some sort of indirect approach. Did the little reptiles have sacred texts he might access somehow? Their libraries must have the information he wanted-but so, far they had not linked their data to the Alliance's interplanetary UniNet. Doubtless there were technicians who could make the connection unilaterally and find what Rev wanted. But where was he going to get a tech wizard with that level of expertise, and how was he going to pay him?"

  Rev stood up from his desk. He paced over to his office window and stared out onto the Legion camp's parade ground, thinking. The King had always said that no problem was too difficult to tackle-if the highest mountain stood between him and his goal, he would just climb it. All Rev needed to do was put his mind to it. There had to be a way. There had to be a way...

  Zigger had never been aboard a space liner before. In fact, as far as he knew, nobody in his whole family had ever left their home world-not before he had decided to realize his ambition to join the Space Legion. The experience was considerably less dramatic than he had expected.

  For one thing, the spaceport had apparently been designed with the idea of giving travelers as forgettable an experience as possible. The furniture, the decor, the sights and sounds and smells, everything might as well have been designed to linger just below the threshold of annoyance, without ever breaking out into anything that evoked a specific response.

  And the ship itself-it might as well have been a crosstown hoverbus, for all the passengers' awareness of being in deep space. Zigger found himself in one of a row of identical seats in the main cabin, unless he preferred to stay in his spartan bunk in the dormitory-like sleeping area. The Space Legion, for all its attempt to woo its new recruits, had made it perfectly clear that it was not going to pay for anything more than the basic intersystem fare from the Lepoid's home world to the nearest Legion training camp. That meant a steerage-class ticket, with a very strict weight allowance for personal belongings. "Don't you worry about extra clothes," the recruiting sergeant had told him when he handed him the ticket. "You'll be wearing Legion black before long."

  Zigger would have liked to have at least a view screen in the cabin so he could watch the stars outside, even though he knew that hyperspace travel wildly distorted the appearance of everything outside the ship. Supposedly there was a view screen in the first-class lounge. Zigger was tempted to sneak up and take a look for himself, but he couldn't figure out how to get past the heavy plasteel doors firmly protecting the People Who Mattered from curious Legion recruits and other such rabble. The population in steerage did seem to have a particularly high proportion of nonhuman sophonts, Zigger thought. Well, where he was going, that would be different.

  Meanwhile, there was nothing else to do but sit in the main cabin and view his Poot-Poot Brothers tri-vees. They were almost the only reminders of his youth that he hadn't been prepared to leave behind as he embarked on his new life. His broad-jump medals, his
talking ukelele, the lucky eighter he'd found on the street the day he'd won the math contest-even the favorite winter hat he'd worn until his mother had to mend the earholes three times: All were left behind. Even if he'd been sentimental about those artifacts, the exorbitant charges for overweight luggage would have changed his mind quickly enough.

  But the spaceline provided cheap tri-vee viewers for its passengers, and a reasonable library of current hits and all time favorites, knowing full well that it offered little enough else to keep them from going slowly nuts in the long stretches between stars. And tri-vees took up almost no weight or space. So Zigger's old friends, the Poot-Poot brothers, came along-and so did Oncle Poot-Poot and Mam'selle Toni and all the other series regulars.

  Zigger was scrolling through one of the early episodes, "Oncle Poot-Poot Meets Barky," when he became aware of someone looking over his shoulder. He turned around to see a human-a young-one, he thought, although he wasn't familiar enough with the species to be entirely be sure of his judgment. "Hey, I hope I'm not bothering you." said the human. "It's just been a long while since I saw a Poot-Poot tri-vee-that stuff's really sly. I loved it when I was a kid.

  Especially that one with Barky, the Environmental Dog."

  "I still like it," said Zigger. "Are you from Teloon?"

  "No, I got on back at Fiano," said the human. "I'm on my way to Mussina's World to join the Space Legion."

  "No goofing!" said Zigger. "That's where I'm bound, as well. I guess we're going to be comrades in arms. What's your name?"

  "Well, they say that legionnaires don't tell anybody their real names," said the human. "They only go by their Legion names. The only problem is, I haven't decided on mine yet. Have you got one picked out?"

  "Sure," said Zigger. He'd been thinking about his Legion name ever since his first decision to enlist. He'd looked into several books about Old Earth, hunting for something with just the right feeling. The answer, when he'd found it, seemed just right. "You can call me 'Thumper,' " he said.

  "Thumper. That's pretty sly," said the human. He wrinkled his brow, then confided. "I've been thinking about calling myself 'Sharley' -you think that fits?" Zigger looked the human up and down, then nodded.

  "It's you," he said, not quite sure what made him say so.

  But it was obviously the right thing to say. "All right!" said Sharley. "Thumper, you and me gotta stick together.

  They say the Legion drill sergeants eat recruits for breakfast. Between the two of us, I bet we can keep each other one step ahead of the game. Is it a deal?"

  "Sure," said Zigger-no, his name was Thumper now.

  Thumper grinned, and said, "I've got a whole bunch of Poot-Poot tri-vees. Come sit next to me and we can watch 'em while we figure out what we want to do now that we're Legion buddies."

  "All right," said Sharley again. "Look out, sergeants here we come!"

  "Yo, Soosh, c'mere," said Do-Wop, grinning evilly. "I got a swindle that can't lose."

  "Right," said Sushi, raising an eyebrow. He'd been listening to Do-Wop' s harebrained schemes ever since Captain Jester had made the two of them partners. Almost without exception, he'd ended up having to talk Do-Wop out of his grandiose plans-most of which had some loophole big enough to drive a space liner through. "What's the plan this time?"

  "This one's as solid as neutronium," confided Do-Wop.

  "You know how Chocolate Harry runs a big-ass poker game every time he wants some spare cash, which is like every couple-three days?"

  "Sure," said Sushi, leaning back on the fender of a cargo carrier. He folded his arms over his chest and looked Do-Wop in the eye. "Don't tell me you're going to fry to cheat the sarge at his own game. It'll never work."

  "Nab, this is even sleener," said Do-'Wop. "I'm gonna get up my own game and swindle everybody else."

  "Not very likely," said Sushi. "I know you. You lose every time you play poker with C. H., and every other time I've ever seen you play. What makes you think it'll be any different just because you're the one running the game?"

  "Because I've been watching the sarge, and I finally figured out how he cheats," said Do-Wop. "It's so evil, I don't know why I didn't think of it myself."

  "Really?" Sushi was impressed in spite of himself. If Do-Wop had actually caught the Supply sergeant cheating, he'd done something that had defied the best efforts of the entire company for as long as anyone remembered. "How does he do it?"

  "Scope this out," said Do-Wop. He glanced around to make sure there were no eavesdroppers, and lowered his voice. In a dramatic whisper, he said, "The fat old snarkler drops out of a hand when he ain't gonna got good cards."

  "What?" Sushi's voice rose nearly an octave, and his mouth fell open in surprise.

  "Shh, you want everybody to hear what it is?" said Do-Wop, peering around worriedly. "I tell ya, it's a pure stroke of genius. Why, a dude could get rich overnight doin' that..."

  "Do-Wop, that's not cheating," said Sushi. "It's the way you're supposed to play poker."

  "Oh, su-u-ure," said Do- Wop, scornfully. "Go try that one out on Tusk-anini-it ain't gonna fly with me. If what you said was true, why don't everybody play that way?"

  "Now there's a question well worth asking," said Sushi, grinning. "In fact, 1 think I'm going listen to myself and ask it. Why don't you play that way?" Do-Wop's jaw dropped. "What, and miss the chance of winning a really big one? Believe me, Soosb-there ain't no bigger rush than when everybody looks at your hand and thinks it's total crunk, and tries to boost the betting so's to clean you out, and then your last hole card gives you that sure winner."

  "Right," said Sushi, with a sigh. "So how often does that happen?"

  "All the time, man," said Do-Wop, excitedly. "I had a hand like that just a couple weeks ago. Had to draw a six to make my straight on the last card. 1 hung in there and got the sucker, on the last card. Woulda cleaned house, too-but all the dudes except Double-X had folded before then, and 1 only won seven--eight bucks on it."

  "Uh-huh," said Sushi, unimpressed. "And how many times do you play for that kind of hand and wind up with crunk anyhow?"

  "Sometimes it happens," Do-Wop admitted. "But hey, like C. H. says-you never go for it, you never get it!"

  "Yeah, he would say that," said Sushi. "You know, I'd be tempted to give you a lesson about poker odds, except 1 seem to remember that you got one of those from Tulle Bascomb back on Lorelei, and it obviously didn't take.

  Maybe he was right-it's a waste of time to wise up a sucker."

  "Hey, who you callin' sucker?" said Do-Wop. "If you wasn't my buddy..." Whatever he was about to say, it was cut off by a fresh voice. "Good mornin', boys. Would y'all be interested in a little special project 1 just cooked up?" The two legionnaires turned to see Rev standing just behind them, with the half sneer that was the closest he came to a smile. "Yo, Rev, what's up?" said Do-Wop.

  "A li'l ol' electronic reconnaissance project, 1 think would be the best thing to call it," said Rev. "When 1 ran into this here problem, 1 couldn't help but think of you" boys, rememberin' how you were the ones that cracked the Nanoids' transmissions. How'd you like to do somethin' along that line for me?"

  Sushi shrugged. "Depends on what you've got in mind," he said. "Why don't you start talking, and we'll let you know whether it interests us."

  "Sure, sure," said Rev, glancing around the parade ground. "But I'll tell you what-why don't y'all come into my office, where maybe it's a little more private? Then 1 can tell you the whole thing."

  "Lead the way," said Sushi. "Come on, Do-Wop, this" might be fun."

  "What the hell, it's a slow day," said Do-Wop. The two legionnaires fell into line behind Rev and followed him to his office. At first, Sushi didn't know whether or not to make anything of the fact that Rev led them on" a roundabout route instead of using the entrance nearest to his office, where Flight Leftenant Qual and two of his fellow Zenobians were working on some of their electronic equipment. But when Rev began to describe his plan, Sushi understood.
>
  "All right, tell me about these games," said Victor Phule, standing in the middle of the Fat Chance Casino's main gambling floor. "How do they work, and what does the house get from them?"

  "Yes, sir," chirped the young resort PR person Tullie Bascomb had assigned to show him around. Marti Mallard was blond and perky, dressed in a short, tight skirt-the very image of a cheery bubblehead. Phule knew better than to take her at face value. He'd already had a look at the casino's personnel files, and noticed that Ms. Mallard had graduated magna cum laude in Interspecies Studies from Libra Arts University, followed by a business degree from Taurus Tech. Underneath that perky exterior was a steel trap of a mind, and her presence on the Fat Chance Casino's staff showed that his son's personnel department hadn't been completely asleep when it put her on the job. "The most popular attraction in almost all casinos is the slot machines," said Marti, leading Victor Phule into a large bay filled with customers happily pumping tokens into an array of quantum slots. "One of the leading points of our ad campaign has been: Captain Jester's decision to make the Fat Chance Casino's slot machine payouts the highest on Landoor..."

  "I wish you wouldn't call my son by that stupid Legion name," growled Victor Phule. "What exactly is the payout percentage on these machines, and why did my idiot son have to go raise it? That sounds like it'd cut into profits."

  Marti moved closer to Victor Phule, and said in a low voice, "You probably don't want to talk about that in front of all these players, Mr. Phule. The fact is, even after your son shaved off one percent of the casino's percentage on the slots, it's still by far the most profitable of all the games we offer. No matter how big the jackpots are, on the whole, we're taking in a steady twenty percent of every dollar played." Just then a bell began ringing, accompanied by bright flashing lights and a honking Klaxon. "Yes-s-s-s!" shouted an enthusiastic voice, and along the ranks of avid quantum slots players, many (but far from all) heads turned to see what had set off the noise, which now included an electronically amplified victory march. "There's one now," said Marti. "The bells and lights mean it's at least-a thousand dollars. We want to make sure everybody knows when there's a big winner."