Phule's Errand

by Robert Asprin

  “Wa-al, I can’t rightly remem—” SPLASH!

  “I’ll ask the question again,” said Phule, pulling him back up—this time after a count of ten. “Have you seen my butler?”

  “Yep, I shore have,” said Buck. “Him and his lady was here last night, enjoyin’ the roundup. Don’t duck me agin!”

  “I won’t, if you tell me where they are now,” said Phule.

  Buck Short waved a soggy arm in the direction of the Cut ’N’ Shoot spaceport. “They went that-a-way,” he said. Phule nodded, then let go of his shirt. Buck nearly fell back in the water. But Phule was paying no attention. He was already heading for his robosteed, ready to ride off in pursuit of Beeker.

  * * *

  General Blitzkrieg stepped out onto the parade ground of Omega Base, his best professional scowl on his face. He’d been here less than one standard day, but already he was feeling frustrated. He was used to arriving for “surprise” inspections only to discover that every legionnaire on the planet had known far in advance of his visit and had prepared for it. He was even used to having the local COs whirl him through a round of wining and dining and VIP receptions in hopes of distracting him from the object of his visit. He couldn’t pretend he minded the special treatment one bit; as far as he was concerned, it was one of the more attractive perks of being a commanding general in the Space Legion.

  Besides, he could afford to enjoy himself a little on these inspection tours. The local commanders might assume they’d managed to pull the wool over his eyes. Little did they know that while the general was getting the VIP treatment, his adjutant, Major Sparrowhawk, was making note of the real lapses in discipline, preparedness, and security on the bases he visited. Blitzkrieg had to admit that Sparrowhawk had a pretty good head on her shoulders, for a female. Sometimes he didn’t know how he’d run the Legion without her.

  But somehow he’d failed to realize that Zenobia Base was the sole human outpost on this insufferable lizard-ridden planet. There were no sights to be seen, unless you happened to like swamps and deserts. There weren’t any four-star restaurants, unless you counted the mess hall—which, he had to admit, served a pretty decent meal for a Legion base. And, as far as he could tell, the only recreational facilities within a light-year of the place were the casinos of Lorelei Station, where he’d dropped far too much money on his four-day stopover before coming here. He might just have to spend this visit actually inspecting the troops …

  Well, sometimes business had to come before pleasure. He’d come looking for ammunition to finally destroy the career of that damned headline-hunting jackass of a Phule. If he didn’t find it, it was nobody’s fault but his own. He put on his most intimidating expression and headed toward a group of legionnaires he saw lounging about a short distance away.

  “Yo, the brass comin’,” said a soft voice. Blitzkrieg had expected that. He’d also expected the legionnaires to fall into a hasty formation and come to attention. Instead, while a few of them glanced his way, they continued to act like unconcerned civilians. His eyebrows rose a notch. Were they that poorly trained, or was this a deliberate affront? He’d soon find out.

  “Hey, boss man, what’s the bite?” said one of the troops as he strode up to the legionnaires. “You been all triff?”

  Blitzkrieg’s eyes bulged out and his jaw fell open. “Wh-wh-what?” he sputtered. “Legionnaire, do you know who I am?”

  The legionnaire—a tall, thin man with cafe-au-lait coloration—stepped forward and peered at the general. “Yeah, jes’ like I thought—you’re the main boss mofo,” he said after a long moment’s close-up inspection. “They told me you’re a gruff and skritty chee, but you look mighty sly to me.”

  “I look what?” said Blitzkrieg. His voice rose an octave. “They told you WHAT?”

  “Oh yeah, that’s sly, all right,” said the legionnaire, nodding with evident approval. “Ain’t nothin’ skritty ’bout you, not a hair of it.” He stuck out his hand. “Splank it, boss man!”

  Blitzkrieg looked around in panic. He knew the Legion took in representatives of every species from every planet in the Alliance. And he knew—better than anyone—that those who couldn’t handle the demands of life and work in the Legion ended up in Omega Company, more often than not. But the reality of it was something those abstract understandings had left him unprepared for. The proposition that this fellow in front of him qualified as a fellow sophont was beyond his intellectual grasp.

  But before he could make his escape, another apparition in Legion uniform approached him. This one had a shaved head, round glasses, and a beatific smile. “Ah, General Blitzkrieg,” it said. “It is with great pleasure that I see you here.” He put his hand on the tall legionnaire’s shoulder, caught his eyes, and nodded. The tall fellow nodded back and moved away.

  “Uh, pleasure, a real pleasure,” said the general, glad to be rid of the incomprehensible nuisance but unsure what this new legionnaire was up to. Where are the sergeants?

  “I wonder if you could take a moment to inform us on a few important topics?” said the fellow, still smiling. “It is unusual to be able to learn from a representative of the higher echelons of command.”

  “Uh, what did you have in mind?” asked Blitzkrieg. He wasn’t sure that offering to answer questions was a good idea, but he felt he owed the fellow at least a moment’s courtesy in exchange for his having steered away the first man.

  “Why, only the most elementary matters,” said the smiling man. “Perhaps you would be so kind as to explain the imbalance between merit and reward. For example, this company’s previous assignment was on Landoor, a dangerous and demanding environment. But after we achieved our mission there, we did not receive a fine vacation, but transfer to an even more critical mission here on Zenobia. Is this equitable?”

  General Blitzkrieg’s eyes bulged; then he began looking about for help. Surely there was an officer—at very least a sergeant—in charge of this squad, he thought. The round-faced man stood there, grinning, with the rest of the squad looking on with evident curiosity. Did they really expect him to answer the question?

  With growing consternation, the general realized that they did.

  Chapter Eight

  Journal #799

  I confess, it is beyond my comprehension what the appeal is of golf. The game was clearly designed by some malignant entity, forcing its devotees to attempt impossible feats with awkward, misshapen implements. And surely the number of heart attacks and fits of apoplexy resulting from the game’s manifold frustrations amply belies the presumed benefits of its being played in the healthy out-of-doors.

  It hardly surprised me, then, to learn that the game was a favorite of General Blitzkrieg, a man whose entire career seemed to be the apotheosis of cross-purposes.

  * * *

  “See here, Jester, I’ve had just about enough …” General Blitzkrieg got no further than that before his jaw dropped and his eyes bulged out.

  “Great, General, we aim to please,” said the commanding officer of Omega Company. To Blitzkrieg’s utter astonishment, Phule was still out of uniform—except this time he had traded in his white dinner jacket for a preposterously bright green golf shirt, blatantly unmatching (largely pink and orange) Madras shorts, and argyle socks that somehow managed to clash with both. A white sun visor and a tasseled pair of blue suede golf shoes completed the ensemble. The captain winked at the general, then said, “I thought I’d go out and hit a few before dinner call. Like to join me? We’ve got a couple of spare bags of clubs if you haven’t brought your own.”

  “Hit a few? Clubs?” General Blitzkrieg stared in incomprehension. Then his expression changed. “Do you mean to tell me you’ve got a golf course here?”

  “Well, at the moment all I’ve got is a driving range and three short holes,” said Phule sheepishly. “I’d love to expand to a nine-holer—the terrain here is just ideal, you know. But we’re here on sufferance by the Zenobians, and they’re likely to raise a stink if we start choppin
g down all their underbrush. I thought if I could teach a couple of the native officers the game, they’d see the point of the whole thing, but it’s slow going.”

  “Teach them the game?” said Blitzkrieg. His eyes narrowed, calculating.

  “Oh yes,” said Phule. “Get a bunch of Zenobians out on the links, and it’d do wonders for interspecies relations, and of course it’d be the quickest way to get their support for building a course for my officers. So I’ve been giving a few of the locals a chance to get out and take some swings. Not that it’s been easy, General. You can’t imagine how much trouble I’ve had finding decent half-size clubs for the little beggars—especially since most of them seem to be lefties …”

  “Captain, Captain—hold on just a minute,” said General Blitzkrieg. “I want to get a good look at these three holes you say you’ve built. And it just so happens, I’ve got my clubs and spikes along. Tell me where the first tee is, and I’ll meet you there in ten minutes.”

  “Yes, sir!” said Phule. “The course is at the south edge of the base, down where you see the red tents set up. I’ll get us a couple of caddies.”

  Blitzkrieg dashed back to his room. And here he’d been thinking that his visit to Zenobia was going to be all work and no play! It looked as if Jester was good for something after all. Not that setting up a few golf holes was going to get the captain off the hook for all his offenses against Legion tradition, of course. Blitzkrieg was sure he’d find plenty of material to make an open-and-shut case against Jester.

  Or, to be exact, Major Sparrowhawk would find it while he was enjoying himself out on the course. If you could call three holes a course … well, if they were interesting enough, perhaps they’d keep him distracted from the sordid business of collecting enough rope to hang the fellow. He finished tying on his spikes, grabbed the bag of clubs, and headed back outside.

  The red tents, as it turned out, had been set up as an impromptu clubhouse for the little golf course. There Captain Jester waited, leaning on a short iron. Next to him stood a pair of legionnaire recruits who looked more than happy at having been rescued from their morning formation to do some honest work for their superior officers. A canopied hoverjeep sat nearby, with a set of clubs leaning out the back next to a Legion-issue field cooler. Beyond them, General Blitzkrieg could make out a more or less green area with a small red-and-white flag flying from a pole in the middle distance. About three hundred yards, he estimated almost without thinking. Drive, six iron, and maybe a chip—easy five, chance at four.

  “Great, there you are,” said Jester, shading his eyes with one hand. “Do you want to hit some practice shots, or shall we have a drink first?”

  The general squinted toward the sky. “Looks as if the sun’s over the yardarm,” he said. He’d never much thought about what a yardarm might be, or how high the sun would have to be to be over one. It seemed as good an excuse as any to have a drink, not that he ever lacked for excuses.

  “All right, name your poison,” said Jester, pointing toward the cooler. “We’ll wet our throats and then see how far the ball’s going today. In this dry air, it usually flies pretty well. Rolls a long way after it lands, too.”

  “Good,” said the general, chuckling. “I don’t mind a few extra yards, to tell the truth.”

  “Who does?” said Jester with a broad grin. “Let’s get a drink, and then we can find out how it’s playing.” He waved toward the waiting cooler, and General Blitzkrieg eagerly stepped forward. This was beginning to look like a worthwhile visit after all—and he hadn’t even started to compile demerits against Omega Company. That would be when the real fun started …

  * * *

  Sushi and Do-Wop sat in a circle with a large group of the Red Indians illuminated by a campfire in the middle. They’d told their story to the chief (the same Indian who’d met them). Then they’d been feasted, they’d been entertained by singers and storytellers, and now the peace pipe was making its way around the circle. At the moment, it was apparently somewhere on the far side of the circle; neither of the two legionnaires had yet sampled it.

  Showing unaccustomed patience, Do-Wop nudged Sushi and said, “Yo, Soosh, what d’ya think of these Indian babes? I think a couple of ’em like me …”

  “That’s just because they don’t know you,” said Sushi. “Give them five or ten minutes …”

  “Funny man,” said Do-Wop, throwing a mock-angry punch at Sushi. He was about to add something else when a voice behind the two of them said, “Legionnaires come quick—heap bad news!”

  “Oh, shit, I just knew it—we’re gonna miss our turn on the pipe,” said Do-Wop. “Soosh, how about you go find out what’s happening?”

  “Both must come,” said the messenger before Sushi could reply. With the strength of robotic muscles, the Red Indian grasped each of them by the arm, pulling them away from the circle around the fire. Reluctant yet full of curiosity, Sushi followed without objection. True to form, Do-Wop complained bitterly every step of the way.

  Their guide took them a short distance to where their robosteeds were hitched. Now, away from the glare of the fire, they could see the chief waiting there for them. Next to him stood another man, who looked as if he’d ridden hard to get there. “What’s going on?” asked Sushi. “Is this about the captain?”

  “Got it in one,” said the new arrival, a lanky copper-skinned man dressed in boots, chaps, a vest, and a hat with three feathers in the brim. “He just left West Indian territory, headed lickety-split toward the spaceport. Word I got is that the guy he’s chasing has already booked ship off-planet.”

  “Oh, great,” said Sushi. He looked off into the looming darkness, then turned back to the man with a sigh. “Any report on where they’re heading?”

  “All the ships off-planet stop on Tejas first,” said the chief. He turned and spat off into the field, then said, “Could be anywhere after that. But the ship don’t take off till tomorrow noon. You hurry up, you ask-um yourselves.”

  “Tomorrow noon,” said Sushi. “How long’s it take to get there?”

  The rider looked at the chief, then shrugged. “Depends,” he said. “You ride flat out, you can be there by nine-thirty, ten. Longer if you stop for grub, sleep, or trouble. Be another ship on Thursday, no big deal—they all go the same place.”

  “Hey, that’s right,” said Do-Wop. “That means that even if we miss it, we can catch up with ’em on Tejas, no big deal …”

  Sushi cut him off. “It is a big deal. If we wait for the Thursday ship, we’re three days behind the captain, maybe further behind Beeker. Even worse if we have to waste time figuring out where he’s transferred to after Tejas.”

  “Aww, come on,” said Do-Wop. “It’ll make that long ride a lot easier if I get one good hit off that peace pipe.”

  Sushi wasn’t buying any part of it. “There’s no way we can do our job if we miss that ship. Chief, our apologies for not staying longer; I hope you understand this is important. If we can, we’ll come back and visit you again.”

  “Not likely,” said the chief with an ironic smile. “But we do understand. Just to prove it, you take this with you.” He handed Sushi a small package. “Food for journey—you eat in the saddle and not lose time. Now go ride—and luck ride with you!”

  They hopped into the saddle and rode off. It wasn’t until morning that Sushi opened the package. There he found tasty meat jerky and chocolate brownies. About an hour after eating, Sushi found himself smiling. He looked over at Do-Wop, who had a silly grin on his face. He winked and said, “Y’know, partner, I think those people must like you after all.”

  Do-Wop nearly fell off his horse laughing.

  They made it to the spaceport with plenty of time to spare.

  * * *

  “How long did you say this hole was?” said General Blitzkrieg, squinting down the fairway into the desert sun. He held a driver in one hand, a ball and tee in the other.

  “About two-eighty,” said Captain Jester, shading his eyes wi
th one hand. “I’d think you could reach the green on this one. There’s a bunker on the left, though, so be sure to fade it away from that.”

  General Blitzkrieg nodded sagely and teed up his ball. In fact, based on the general’s showing on the practice tee, it was long odds against his being able to reach the green with anything less than a howitzer. As for the bunker on the left, Blitzkrieg could safely put it out of mind. The general’s tee shots took off with an invariable slice, for which a less stubborn golfer might have tried to compensate by aiming far left in hopes that the wildly curving ball would end up somewhere down the middle of the course. Perversely, the general insisted on lining up every shot as if he were going to deposit the ball in the dead center of the fairway. The unfortunate results of this strategy had not so far deterred the general. He was a hard man to deter.

  The general took his stance, wiggled the club head back and forth a few times, glared at the distant flag, and took a mighty swing. The ball leapt off the tee, headed straight down the middle of the fairway, then inevitably began to curve to the right. “Get back, you bastard!” screamed the general, waving his hand as if to direct the errant pellet. “Hit something, damn you!” But as if oblivious of his exalted rank, the ball continued to the right, disappearing at last into the deep brush lining the course on that side.

  “Wow, you got all of that one, sir,” said Captain Jester, watching the general’s ball fly out of sight. “It’d be pin high if you straightened it out. Hey—it’s just a practice round. Take another and see if you can put it close.”

  “Right, just practice,” said the general, reaching in the side pocket of his golf bag for another ball. “Got to keep that left elbow straight.”

  “Sure, we’ll get a chance to bend our elbows all we want after the round,” said Jester with a wink. “Hit as many as you like; get the feel of the course. Tomorrow I’ll see if I can round up a foursome and we can play for real.”

  “A foursome?” said the general. “Now you’re talking—especially if there’s some action on it.”