Phules Paradise

by Robert Asprin

  "You're working crew?" Dee Dee said incredulously.

  Lex's smile tightened slightly.

  "I'm managing the crew," he corrected, "but I've worked with them long enough that I feel confident they can handle it."

  "I didn't know you knew anything about the techie side of theater."

  "I've worked a few summer-stock tours," the actor said with a shrug. "In that situation, you do a bit of everything. One week you're playing the lead, the next week you're working lights-"

  "Sorry to interrupt this reunion," the commander broke in, "but there are still a lot of things we have to cover in our meeting. If there are no further questions, Ms. Watkins?"

  "Can I be excused from the rest of the meeting, Captain?" Lex said. "We've already covered the stuff that concerns me, and there are a few things I'd like to go over with Dee Dee while she's free ...

  "Go on ahead," Phule said, sinking onto the sofa once more. "But report back to me when you're finished. I want to be sure to be kept apprised of any modifications in your original plan."

  The actor nodded his agreement and left, relishing the envious looks he gathered from the other men in the room.

  "Sorry for the interruption," Phule said, as if he were responsible for the disruption caused by the singer. "Now then ... back to business. I want you to pass the word through the company that I'm going to need the services of a forger. I repeat, a forger, not a counterfeiter ..."

  "Excuse me ... Mr. Beeker ... sir?"

  Reluctant to let anything intrude on his rare off-duty time, the butler nonetheless paused at the hail, to find Bombest hastily emerging from behind the front desk.

  "It's simply 'Beeker,' sir," he said.

  "Yes, of course," the manager replied absently. "I was wondering if I might speak with you for a moment?"

  "In regards to what, sir?"

  "Well"-Bombest glanced around as if he were afraid of eavesdroppers-"I've been going over the reservations-manually, as Mr. Phule suggested-and I'm afraid we're going to need an extra hundred rooms for the opening."

  "Why?"

  The manager shrugged. "I can only assume computer error. Most of the reservations were entered correctly, but they don't seem to appear on any-"

  "I meant why are you bringing this to my attention ... sir?" Beeker said. "I have no authority in these matters. Surely you were provided with a procedure by which you could report any irregularities through normal channels."

  "I was," the manager admitted, "but ... well, frankly I've been reluctant to speak with Mr. Phule directly. He seems quite preoccupied with the arrangements for the opening, and I hate to interrupt him unless it's important."

  "I'm sure he would feel it was important enough to warrant interruption," the butler said. "After all, he felt it was important enough to import you specifically for the task, didn't he?"

  "I ... I guess so," Bombest said hesitantly. "I've barely spoken with him since my arrival, though. I didn't expect a brass band, mind you, but my lack of contact has left me feeling that there are higher priorities than my work occupying his mind."

  "More likely it's a tribute to his confidence in you, Mr. Bombest," Beeker said easily, long accustomed to soothing the ruffled feathers and bruised feelings which invariably followed in his employer's wake. "He doubtless feels that you are able to carry out your duties with minimal guidance or input from him."

  The manager's posture, never sloppy, improved noticeably at these words.

  "I never thought of it that way," he said.

  "If, however, you still feel uncomfortable dealing directly with my employer," the butler continued smoothly, "might I suggest you speak with one of his officers? Lieutenant Armstrong or Lieutenant Rembrandt? I notice you're wearing one of the company's wrist communicators. I'm sure Mother will be able to put you in touch with them or relay your message if they're unavailable."

  Bombest glanced at the communicator on his wrist as if seeing it for the first time, then grimaced slightly.

  "I suppose that's the only way to handle it," he said. "You know, Beeker, this is part of the problem." He tapped the communicator with his forefinger. "When Mr. Phule contacted me for this job, I was prepared to work as a hotel manager, but at times I feel more like a secret agent. Between the wrist radios and the intrigue-undercover people I'm not supposed to admit knowing, not saying anything to the casino manager-I keep feeling I've gotten in over my head ... in something I'd normally avoid like the plague."

  Beeker allowed himself a small smile.

  "If it's any comfort to you, sir, that feeling is not at all uncommon among those employed by Mr. Phule. He has a tendency to get carried away with things, and has the charisma to carry others right along with him. I'm sure you'll do fine once the initial shock has worn off."

  "How do you do it?"

  "Sir?"

  "You're a fairly ordinary guy, not at all like Mr. Phule or the uniformed fanatics he's associating with. How do you do your job?"

  "Very well, sir."

  "Excuse me?"

  The butler shook his head. "Forgive me. It was my effort at a small joke-something a magician once told me when I asked how he did a particular trick, or `effect,' as he called it."

  The manager blinked, then flashed a brief smile. "Oh. Yes. I see. Very funny."

  "As to your question," Beeker continued, "I imagine that my position is not unlike your own, in that since it is not high-profile, headline-quality work, people tend to assume that it's easy. The truth is that our work is extremely difficult. A special type of individual is required to merely survive, much less thrive, on the stressful decisions we must make daily. One must strike a balance between boldness and caution, theatrics and sincerity, all the while maintaining the open-mindedness and creativity necessary to deal with unforeseen situations. As you know, Mr. Bombest, there are no instruction manuals or college curriculums offered for our type of work. We each have to write our own book of rules from our personal experiences, then stand ready to break those rules should circumstances require it."

  "You're right, Beeker," the manager said thoughtfully. "I guess I've known that all along, though not in those precise words. I just forget from time to time. Thanks for reminding me."

  He thrust out his hand, and, after the briefest of pauses, the butler accepted it with a firm handshake.

  Beeker reflected on his conversation with the hotel manager as he wandered into one of the casino's coffee shops.

  It was occasionally difficult to recall, working as closely with his employer as he did, how intimidating most people found the name, much less the presence, of Willard Phule. A special effort had to be made to put such people at their ease before they could function at peak efficiency, and Bombest was a typical example.

  Fortunately Phule had a simple formula for dealing with such situations. He sincerely believed that each person was special, though more often than not they were inclined to overlook their own assets. All he had to do was to point out what to him was obvious and express his appreciation, and the individual would respond with puppylike enthusiasm.

  The butler helped himself to a cup of coffee, waving at the waitress, who returned his gesture with a smile. He was known here, and by now it was common knowledge among the help that serving himself would not be deducted from his tip.

  It had been no major feat for Beeker to provide the necessary strokes for the hotel manager. Though he didn't completely embrace his employer's philosophy about the value of each individual, he was familiar enough with it and had witnessed its application often enough that he could easily play the part when it was necessary. What concerned him at the moment was that it should not have been necessary.

  Phule was driving himself hard on this assignment, even harder than was normal. While Beeker had long since resigned himself to his employer's obsessive nature, he found this new pattern disturbing. Lack of sleep was making Phule irritable, particularly when reminded of some minor task or decision he had let slide in the midst of his fren
zied, scattered schedule. While it might not be noticeable to the casual observer, it was apparent to those who worked with him normally. From what Beeker had heard and overheard, there was a growing tendency among Phule's subordinates to act independently rather than "bothering the captain with minor stuff." Even worse, they were then failing to notify him or deliberately withholding information regarding their activities.

  While the butler would not directly betray a confidence or attempt to force advice on his employer, he was aware that if the situation got much worse, he would have to act within his powers to intervene.

  Glancing around the coffee shop, Beeker noted with some satisfaction the absence of black uniforms. While he was always ready to listen to the Legionnaires' problems and complaints with a sympathetic ear, he also relished the occasional quiet moment to himself.

  He was about to select a booth by himself when a lone figure at a back table caught his eye and he changed his course in that direction.

  "Good morning," he said warmly, pulling out a chair for himself. "Mind if I join you?"

  Dark eyes rose from the book they had been reading and stared coldly at him from a chiseled ebony face.

  "Excuse me? Do you know me?"

  The chill in the voice surpassed that in the look, presupposing the answer for the question even as it was being asked.

  "Only by reputation," the butler said, easing into the chair. "I simply thought I'd take this opportunity to meet you in person. Unless I'm mistaken, you're Laverna, currently in the employment of Maxine Pruet."

  The slender woman leaned back in her chair, crossing her ankles and folding her arms across her chest.

  "And who does that make you?"

  "Ah. Apparently I lack your notoriety." The butler smiled, unruffled by Laverna's closed body language or the implied challenge in her voice. "Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Beeker. I am employed by Willard Phule-or Captain Jester, if you prefer-in a capacity not unlike your own, though I imagine with substantially less input in financial matters."

  "You're what?"

  "I'm his butler," Beeker said. "I buttle."

  The temperature at the table dropped even further.

  "So you're going to sit here at my table and try to pump me for information about Mrs. Pruet?" Her tone made it a statement rather than a question. "Look, Mr. Beeker, I don't get much time to myself, and this is it. I don't want to waste it playing twenty questions with some fool ... or his butler."

  Beeker stared at her levelly for a moment, then stood up, gathering his coffee as he did.

  "Forgive me for intruding on your privacy, Ms. Laverna," he said. "It seems I was mistaken."

  "Don't go away mad," Laverna said with a sneer, and reached for her book once more.

  "Not mad. Simply annoyed," the butler corrected. "More with myself than with you."

  "How's that?"

  "I pride myself in my judgment of people, Ms. Laverna," Beeker explained. "In fact, my effectiveness depends on it. I therefore find it annoying when it turns out I misjudged someone, particularly in a case of overestimation."

  "Mr. Beeker, I've been awake nearly thirty hours running now," Laverna said. "If you've got something to say to me, you'll have to say it straight out-and in plain words. I'm not tracking things too well."

  The butler paused, then drew a deep, ragged breath.

  "Forgive me," he said. "I'm rather tired myself. All I meant was, I had assumed that from what I had heard and considering your position, you would be a highly intelligent person-intelligent enough to realize that I would not expect you to divulge any information about your employer any more than I would volunteer information about mine. People in our position don't last long if they are careless with confidences. The trust required has to be earned and maintained, so when dealing with someone of a similar standing to my own, I assumed trustworthiness and expected it would be assumed in return."

  Laverna weighed his words in silence for a few moments.

  "So why did you come over, then?" she said finally.

  Beeker gave a rueful smile.

  "Strange as it may seem, considering the constant demands on our time, I was feeling lonely and thought perhaps you felt the same. In our positions as aides-de-camp to rather strongwilled people, it occurred to me that we probably have more in common with each other than we do with our respective employers."

  A sudden smile split Laverna's face, uncharacteristic to anyone who knew her.

  "Sit down, Mr. Beeker," she said, pulling out the chair next to her. "We may have things to talk about, after all. Nonspecific things, of course."

  "Of course," the butler said, accepting the offered seat. "And it's 'Beeker' ... not `Mr. Beeker.'"

  My first conversation with Laverna was pleasant, though tinged with irony.

  I, of course, said nothing to indicate that my employer was aware of her employer's planned computerized assault on the casino, nor gave any hint that Albert and his Bug Squad were working frantically to counter it even as we spoke.

  She, in turn, never let it slip that there was a disruptive incident in progress ... again, even as we spoke.

  It was expected that Maxine would order a certain number of diversionary incidents during this period. If nothing else, they served, or so she thought, to draw my employer's attention away from her real attack as well as convince him he had the situation well in hand. In turn, to convince her that her strategy was working, my employer and his force were required to play along with each scenario as it unfolded.

  It is worth noting, however, for both the casual reader and the student of military behavior, that however minor or token a diversion might be, for the direct participants the action is very real.

  "You'd think they'd have caught on by now," Kong King said, glancing at the door next to the loading dock as the electric delivery van pulled away. "That's the third shipment we've turned away."

  "They'll figure it out soon enough." Stilman didn't even turn his head. "Restaurants need fresh food to operate. You're sure you've got your orders straight?"

  Kong knew his orders, as did his four confederates. They had heard them often enough: no fewer than a dozen times even before they took up their station at the casino's delivery entrance. If anything, it was a bit insulting that the headman felt it was necessary to repeat things to them so often. He kept his annoyance to himself, however. He had worked with Stilman several times before and knew the ex-astroball player wasn't someone you mouthed off to.

  "We go through the motions of shutting down deliveries to the kitchen until a security guard shows up," he said as if for the first time. "Then we let him run us off. No rough stuff beyond harsh words and maybe a little shoving."

  "That's right," Stilman said with a minute nod. "Remember. No rough stuff."

  "These security guards ... all they have is tranquilizer darts in their guns. Right?"

  Stilman turned slowly until he was facing the thug who raised the question.

  "That's what I told you," he said. "Do you have a problem with that?"

  Normally the man would have been cowed by this direct attention, but instead he simply shrugged his shoulders and looked away.

  "I just want to be sure this `no rough stuff' rule works both ways," the thug grumbled. "I don't want to be no clay pigeon in a shooting gallery for nervous guards."

  "They aren't regular guards," one of the others supplied. "They're some kind of army types."

  "Yeah?" The original questioner fixed Stilman with an accusing gaze. "You didn't say nothing about that when you was briefing us."

  "It's been all over the media," Stilman said levelly. "I assumed you knew. All it means is that they shouldn't rattle as easily as normal guards would."

  "Well, I don't like it."

  "You aren't supposed to like it. If you did, we wouldn't have to pay you to do it."

  Kong tensed, waiting for Stilman to quell the rebellion physically as well as verbally. To his surprise, however, the headman simply turned his b
ack on the complainer.

  "If it makes you feel any better," he muttered, "I don't like it, either. It's Max's orders, though, and while I'm taking her pay, she calls the shots."

  Kong tried to think of another time when he had heard Stilman speak out openly against an order from Max, but couldn't bring one to mind. Coming from him, the casual complaint was of monumental significance.

  "Here comes another one."

  One of the small electric vans that were the mainstay of the space station's delivery network was pulling off the main drag into the loading area, a meat wagon this time.

  The men waited in silence as it backed into position, then uncoiled from where they had been lounging against the wall and moved forward as the driver came around to open the back of the vehicle.

  "Hey! You can't unload here!"

  "Who says I ..."

  The driver's words died in his throat as he turned and took in the six musclemen between him and the door.

  "Hey, I don't want any trouble," he said, holding up his hands as he backed away.

  "No trouble, friend," Stilman said easily. "You just got the wrong address is all."

  The driver frowned. "This is the Fat Chance Casino, isn't it?"

  "Maybe you don't hear so good," Kong said, moving forward slightly. "The man said you have the wrong address! Something wrong with your ears? Something we should maybe try to fix for you?"

  "What the hell's going on here?"

  Kong managed to keep a straight face as the men turned to confront the white-aproned cook who had come charging out of the kitchen door. It was about time someone inside had noticed the activity on their loading dock. Security should be close behind him.

  The urge to smile faded as he recalled their "no rough stuff" orders.

  "Nobody unloads here until you hire some union help," Stilman was saying, moving to confront the cook directly.

  "What are you talkin' about?" the cook said. "There aren't any unions on Lorelei!"

  Kong was distracted from the conversation by a small, dark-skinned figure who emerged from the kitchen behind the original cook. Completely ignoring the raging argument, the little man strode over to the open delivery van and shouldered a quarter side of beef, then turned back toward the kitchen.