"I seen some of 'em," said Slayer, who was wearing Legion-issue night-vision goggles. "They're sorta yellow green, and they move real slow."
"Any chance Nanoids doing this?" said Tusk-anini, thinking of the microscopic silicon-based beings the captain and Beeker had discovered out in the Zenobian desert.
"It could be," said Rube. "But don't the Nanoids show up on the electronics? That's how they were detected in the first place, I think."
"Usually they do," admitted Tusk-anni. "Don't know much about-them, though. Maybe some new form of them. Or maybe some Zenobian life we don't know yet, flying bugs with taillights, maybe, like the books say on Old Earth."
"Ah, that's just a story for kids," said Slayer. "The guys that write those stupid books must take a lot of drugs to think up all that weird stuff. I bet most of 'em never been anywhere near Old Earth."
"There's another one," said Rube, pointing toward the desert. Sure enough, there was a faint but plainly visible light there-plain to Tusk-anini's night-adapted eyes, in any case. It moved slowly left to right, staying a more or less constant distance above the desert floor, then suddenly winked out.
"Well, Tusk, now you seen it. You think we ought to go out and look where it was?" asked Slayer, deferring to Tusk-anini as the most experienced legionnaire present.
"I don't know," said Tusk-anini. "Looks undangerous, but who knowing? I go back to Comm Central soon and see if sensors pick up anything. Armstrong is OD tonight-is the one who ought to decide whether to look closer or not."
"Yeah, I guess so," said Slayer, clearly relieved that he wasn't going to be sent out in the desert to investigate-at least not yet.
Tusk-anini thought a moment more, then said, "Whatever Armstrong say, tomorrow I ask Qual if any animal on Zenobia acts like that. He going to know, if anybody do."
"Good idea," said Rube, nodding. "You want me to come along when you tell Armstrong?"
"Sure, nobody attacking camp," said Tusk-anini. "I go back on duty-you come now." But when the two legionnaires described what they had seen to Lieutenant Armstrong, he emphatically denied that the Comm Center's instruments had detected any activity in the desert.
"I'm glad you spotted this," the lieutenant said. "I'm not sure what to make of it. I'll twiddle with the instruments and see if there's any signal on some energy band I haven't been monitoring. You keep an eye on those lights, Rube, and if you see anything that looks like a threat to the camp, sound the alarm right away. But for now, my gut instinct is to watch it and wait. If anything changes, let me know right away, and I'll decide whether or not to wake up the captain. Until then, keep a sharp lookout and be ready to respond."
"Yes, sir," said Rube, and he returned to guard duty. But whatever the lights were, they turned out to be undetectable on the base's electronic sensors-and after an hour or so, even the Gambolt reported that they had gone away.
Several parsecs distant, at the Legion's Hickman Training Center on Mussina's World, four dozen raw recruits waited anxiously in their bunkhouse. Just as some of them had begun to gripe that the threatened inspection was another ploy to cheat them out of a night's sleep, the barracks room door burst open. "TENN-HUT!' bellowed Sergeant Pitbull. "GENERAL BLITZKRIEG WILL NOW INSPECT THE BARRACKS!" he added, unnecessarily, as General Blitzkrieg blustered into the bunkroom. He was followed by a female human major bearing a clipboard and a bored expression. The recruits, forewarned, were all lined up at the foot of their bunks, wearing their best uniforms and trying" (for the most part without success) to conceal their nervousness.
Nothing resembling a senior officer had ever deigned to appear on the post during their brief time as legionnaires. Even the colonel who nominally commanded Hickman Training Center might as well have been on another planet entirely-the recruits weren't even sure whether their post commandant was male, female, or even human.
On the other hand, there was no doubt at all that General Blitzkrieg was human. Thumper had sniffed him out even before he'd entered the barracks. Thumper had grown up on a planet with a high enough human population that he knew the race well, and was even fond of a fair number of the sophonts from Earth. But he also came from a race with a highly developed sense of smell, and he knew the odor of humans well. Especially human males who ate meat, smoked tobacco, drank distilled alcohol, and sloshed their faces and armpits with aromatic concoctions as part of their morning ablutions. No question at all, General Blitzkrieg was one of those humans. He entered with a scowl that had been known to make strong legionnaires quake in their boots. That, in fact, was its main purpose, and on most of the recruits it worked quite well.
But as much as Thumper thought he knew about humans, he had learned very little about human psychology, and so the little Lepoid had no clue that the general might want to scare him. I've done- my job right, so he can't find fault with me, thought Thumper. He stood at perfect attention, his uniform immaculate, his bunk made with exacting care to every detail. In fact, Thumper's bunk was even more perfectly made than the sample illustration of a correctly made bunk in the Legion Drill Instructor's Manual. His trunk was equally a paragon of exactness. Whatever else the general might find wrong with this recruit company-and Sergeant Pitbull had made it clear that he didn't expect much to be right-there wasn't going to be anything for him to criticize about Thumper.
Sergeant Pitbull had his mouth open, ready to issue another order, when someone hissed, "Now!" and all hell broke loose. As Thumper tried to turn his head to see who had spoken, the lights went out, and he heard the sound of several pairs of running feet. There was an incoherent roar from the front of the room, about where General Blitzkrieg stood, then someone rushed up to Thumper and put something into his hand. "Hold this!" they whispered, and before he could say a word, he found. himself holding something. Even as he realized it was some kind of bucket, and that the outside of the bucket was dripping something wet on his uniform pants, the lights came back on.
Even then Thumper didn't quite realize what kind of trouble he was in. Granted, the sight of General Blitzkrieg splattered head to toe with some sort of brownish sludge, foul-smelling brownish sludge, Thumper immediately realized-was the first thing that drew his attention. The next thing was the row of wet footprints and drips leading away from the general-toward where Thumper stood.
Only then did he recognize that the same foul smell that emanated from the general was also coming from the bucket he was holding. And, most curious of all, the sludge, covered footprints stopped right at his feet.
"WHAT THE FARKING HELL IS GOING ON HERE?" roared Sergeant Pitbull, instead of whatever else he had been about to roar when the lights went out. Then he saw the general, and his eyes grew to the size of dinner plates. "Oh, golly," he said, in a voice the recruits had to strain to hear-the first time in Thumper's memory that one of Pitbull's statements hadn't threatened to shatter his highly sensitive eardrums.
By now, every sophont in the room had managed to grasp that something dreadfully wrong had happened that fact was probably within the intellectual grasp of the pea-sized AI that regulated the water level in the toilets.
Likewise, even the dullest-witted recruit's eyes had managed to trace the damning chain of evidence that led from the general's ruined dress uniform to the odoriferous bucket in Thumper's hands. In fact, it slowly dawned on Thumper that every eye in the barracks was staring directly at him.
"I didn't do it," he managed to sputter as Sergeant Pitbull advanced toward him, mayhem in his eyes. But by then it was way too late.
6
Journal #675
Who among us does not take pleasure in the discomfort of our enemies? Such is common wisdom, noted by many observers.
It is less frequently observed that, by choosing one's enemies with a degree of care, one can significantly increase the number of occasions on which to enjoy the pleasure of seeing them discommoded. In fact, it is likely that infelicitous choice of rivals is the cause of more frustration than almost any other miscalculation. This is
as true in business as in those more personal areas of human enterprise.
The subtleties of the matter are clearly illustrated by the fact that my employer; despite his lack of any salient qualities that might warn off a calculating opponent, had over and over turned unpromising situations to his own advantage and frustrated the hopes of those arrayed against him. In fact, so improbable were his victories, that the defeated party was often inclined to step right up to make another attempt at besting him. But almost inevitably, the outcome of the first encounter was only repeated in the return engagement.
That didn't stop his world-be enemies from coming back for more... .
It was 5:00 P.M. Galactic Standard Tune on Lorelei. But it might as well have been 5:00 A.M. or high noon, for all the difference it made in the casinos that were the economic lifeblood of the resort satellite. The casinos were open twenty-four hours, and there was no time of day or night when the brightly lit gaming tables or banks of quantum slot machines were without a full quorum of bettors. Even the exotic potted plants lining the hallways of the Fat Chance Casino got twenty-four-hour attention from the throng of gardeners and housekeepers who filed unobtrusively but efficiently through every public space of the hotel and casino-watering, trimming, cleaning up.
"What games are you going to play?" Lola stared suspiciously at Ernie. She'd intercepted him on the way to the Fat Chance Casino cashier's window to purchase gambling chips.
"Poker's got the best odds, the way I see it," said Ernie, shrugging. "The house just takes a percentage of every pot, and the winner keeps everything else. I figure I can swindle most of the bozos that end up at the poker table here-and beat 'em at cards, too."
"Don't get too creative--if they catch you cheating, you're on the next shuttle off the station," Lola reminded him. She took him by the arm and led him along one of the central aisles through one of the casino's middle-priced gaming rooms. Working their way through the overflowing crowds were cocktail waitresses, dispensing free drinks to the gamblers-a time-honored strategy for increasing the amount wagered. A significant majority of the gamblers were taking the bait, guzzling down the drinks (and free eats) as if they were at a permanent party. Some were undoubtedly shills, encouraging the real customers to act as if the party would never end. And here and there, casino guards in the black uniform of the Space Legion served as silent reminders who owned this casino-and what would happen to anyone caught cheating.
Lola stopped and turned to face Ernie. "Remember, you're playing it straight today. If casino security comes down on you, it's your butt that's on the grill-I don't know you, and I'm not helping you. Got it? So don't go screwing up this job just as it's getting started. Especially considering what's likely to happen to us if we mess up this time..."
"Don't worry, kid, I'll play it close to the vest," said Ernie, grumpily. He waved vaguely toward the nearby blackjack tables. "We gotta have enough spare bucks to keep ourselves flush..."
"And we have to keep from losing what little we have," said Lola, stopping and turning to face him. She gripped him by the lapels, and said firmly, "Your budget for today is fifty dollars..."
"Fifty lousy bucks!" Ernie grumbled. "That's barely enough to get into a decent game!"
"Build it up enough, and you'll have more tomorrow," said Lola. "No sucker bets, nothing that'll get you busted by Casino security. We've got to keep ourselves afloat long enough to get the job done-because if we don't get it done, we're really sunk. You remember Mr. V, don't you?"
"All right, I get you," said Ernie. "Fifty bucks it is. By the time I'm done, it oughta be three-four hundred."
Lola smiled, and said, "Good, and if it is, you get to keep half your winnings to play with tomorrow. Now, excuse me-I'm going to go snooping." She gave him a punch on the biceps and turned toward the high-rollers' section of the casino. Odds were, if their quarry was anywhere on the casino floor, it would be there, where the action was fastest and most furious. Lola's step quickened--even she could feel the excitement There were a pair of guards in Legion uniform flanking the doorway to the elite playing area, but Lola whisked right past them. The casino didn't discourage gawkers in this section, as long as they didn't interfere with the play and didn't linger an unseemly long time. The way Lola was dressed, they weren't likely to single her out-not that they seemed to be enforcing any dress code at all in this section. It wasn't unknown for someone dressed like a day laborer to enter one of the Lorelei casinos and plop down a grease-stained paper sack that turned out to be filled with thousand-dollar bills.
There was an even more private area for those upperclass gamblers who insisted on playing their games out of the sight of the common rabble--but she wasn't interested in them. She was after Willard Phule-and he wasn't going to hide from the paying customers. As she knew from her previous visit to the casino, he spent as much of his time as possible accessible to the patrons. She'd even seen him with his Port-a-Brain set up on a bar table, working where he'd be visible to the players, rather than anonymously in some back office.
But it didn't take more than a glance-to eliminate the possibility that he was in this area. The only Legion uniforms in sight were the pair of guards at each end of the room, visible but unobtrusive. Everyone else in the room was in the casual garb of rich people on holiday-a range that ran from the garish display of the self-made to the tastefully drab leisurewear affected by Old Money.
Then Lola did a double take. To one side a lean man pumping tokens into a bank of quantum slot machines. That was completely off the expected pattern. The high rollers had their own preferred games-obsolete games like roulette and baccarat were their style, rather than the faster-moving, high-tech games that predominately in the outer rooms. Never mind that the odds on the elite games were heavily stacked in the house's favor. The very rich enjoyed the risk, and they were willing to pay to be seen playing the more prestigious games. But slots were utterly declasse-there was almost no pretense of skill to them, and even less of elegance. So why, suddenly, were there slots here in the high-priced area of the casino?
Then Lola peered more closely at the man playing the slots. There was something familiar about that face... She was ready to move in for a closer look when she noticed the compactly built man always hovering close by the slot player, never so close as to be obvious or obtrusive, but to her experienced eye, unmistakably a bodyguard-and he was looking at Lola. She favored the guard with an embarrassed smile, then glanced away, pretending to misunderstand the reason for his interest. It was a ploy that worked with most men; she hoped this guard wasn't too professional. But her curiosity was definitely piqued; who was the man he was guarding? She shuffled through her mental database of faces, trying to place him without another glance that might alert the guard to the real reason for her interest.
For the moment, she couldn't quite place him. But she was sure there was something important going on. Sooner or later she'd figure it out. And then she'd figure out how she could turn it to her profit. In the meantime, she might as well continue her search for Phule at the twenty-four hour free lunch spread.
"Here are your overnight messages, sir," said Moustache, bringing a small handful of printouts to Phule's desk.
"Great," said Phule, his face lighting up.. "Anything from Legion headquarters?"
"I don't believe there's anything out of the usual, sir," said Moustache, crisply. By now he knew-everyone on the base knew-that the captain was expecting a promotion. He also knew that the promotion had yet to materialize, despite several months having elapsed since the first rumors of it had reached Omega Company at its Zenobia Base. He wondered whether it might not be time for someone to tell the captain not to pin his hopes on something that evidently was stalled deep in the bowels of the Legion bureaucracy-most likely on General Blitzkrieg's desk. Perhaps it was; but Moustache couldn't find it in his heart to break the news.
Phule's face fell momentarily, but he quickly regained his composure and returned to business. "Any report from the team inve
stigating last night's incident?"
"None yet, sir," said Moustache, standing at attention. He could have been modeling for a Legion recruiting poster, so perfect was the stance. "They've got a fair bit of territory to cover, though. Most likely it'll turn out to be some local wildlife we haven't seen before."
Phule tapped his fingers on the desktop. "Likely enough," he conceded. "Funny we haven't seen it before, though, if that's what it is. We have guards out every night, and nobody's reported moving lights before."
"That could be readily explained if the phenomenon were seasonal, sir," Beeker pointed out. "We've not been here an entire local year yet, so we've hardly had sufficient opportunity to observe all the phases of the indigenous fauna."
"True enough," said Phule. "But Flight Leftenant Qual didn't seem to know of any animal that might be causing it, either."
"Duly noted, sir," said Beeker. "However, Mr. Qual is a military person by profession, not a naturalist. Nor is he native to this region of his planet. He may be no more familiar with its denizens than we are."
"I guess that makes sense," said Phule. "Still, I'd be happier if we got some kind of definitive result from our search. If we don't, I may have to station a team out in the desert after dark, to see what they can find out. And I don't like doing that when I don't know whether I'm putting them in danger."
Moustache said, "Sir, if I may comment." He paused briefly, and at Phule's nod continued. "If whatever made those lights is dangerous, there is no reason to think it's any less so in broad daylight. If our search team finds nothing today, I myself would not hesitate to send them out again at night. The camp's safety is an overriding issue, sir."
"Thank you, Moustache, the point's well-taken," said Phule. He stood up and paced, thinking, then turned, and said, "In fact, I think we ought to plan for that. First..." He was interrupted by the buzz of his wrist communicator. "Yes, Mother, what is it?"
No Phule Like an Old Phule Page 9
