A Phule and His Money

by Robert Asprin

  "Shut up, Abdul," said Bucky. "He's. an alien. Aliens can't help it if they look and talk funny."

  "I don't like him," said Abdul, pouting. "Aliens don't belong here, anyhow."

  Tusk-anini was considering whether it would be diplomatic to point out that, except for the miracle of interstellar travel, neither did humans belong here, and that where everyone was an alien it was best to practice tolerance, when the children's attention was distracted by a new arrival on the scene. "Wow, what's that?" said Bucky, her jaw dropping.

  Tusk-anini turned to follow the children's gaze, and saw a familiar sight: Spartacus, one of the Synthian legionnaires, had come around the corner and was casually zigzagging down the street on his glide-board. Tusk-anini waved. "Friend Spartacus, come over here," he said.

  "Wow, is that your friend?" said Abdul. "What's that thing he's riding?" He seemed entirely oblivious to the fact that the Synthian resembled nothing so much as a large slug in a Legion uniform.

  "I am riding a glide-board," said Spartacus. The translator rendered his voice as a rich baritone, with an aristocratic accent that always surprised those meeting him for the first time. It was also an incongruous touch, considering the Synthian's strong populist leanings-but of course these children would have no notion of that.

  "Triff," said Bucky. "Can you show us how to ride it?"

  "I think I can do better than that," said Spartacus. "If my friend Tusk-anini will help, I think the captain will let us bring several glide-boards along the next time we visit. Then you can all learn how to ride."

  "Wow," said Abdul, his eyes growing round. "You guys are really cool."

  Tusk-anini chuckled in his warthoggish fashion. Perhaps he wouldn't need to give Abdul that lesson on tolerance, after all. An alien bearing a new toy trumped human chauvinism every time.

  Journal #378

  Landoor turned out to be not only a welcome change from life on a space station, but an extremely attractive environment in and of itself. As the legionnaires began to explore the city and the surrounding region, they discovered that the nearby beaches and the mountainous northern end of the island were every bit as scenic as the tourist brochures made them appear. The local cuisine, which drew on several Terran traditions, was good enough to offer an attractive alternative to the excellent fare provided by Mess Sergeant Escrima-who eagerly began to add local dishes to his own repertoire.

  Escrima looked around the hotel kitchen. From the gleaming equipment on display, and the delicious aromas permeating the air, this was the kitchen of a world-class restaurant. It was a rare Legion mess sergeant who'd had the opportunity to actually prepare food...

  Most of the odors were familiar. There was garlic and bay leaf, peppers and onions, tomatoes, the blander aromas of rice and beans in simmering pots. There was also meat, possibly several different kinds, being roasted, grilled, stewed, and sauteed. This last aroma Escrima could not identify, which puzzled him. Evidently it was some indigenous meat. But it was almost unheard of for humans to be able to eat the flesh of a local animal.

  Well, he'd find out. He had an appointment with the hotel's head chef-who was somewhat apprehensive about turning his kitchen into a Legion mess hall. Escrima was here to cure him of that preconception.

  He walked over and took the lid off a simmering pot for a closer look. The contents was a spicy stew, with savory meat and onions-and more. He was looking around for a spoon to taste a sample when a voice behind him said, "Ah, would you be the Army cook?"

  "Not Army, Space Legion," said Escrima, doing his best to keep his voice from snapping at the newcomer, who was dressed in the traditional chef's hat and white apron. "I'm Sergeant Escrima, Food Preparation Specialist E-9, here to inspect the facilities. You've been told that we're going to be sharing the kitchen."

  "Yes, Sergeant," said the chef. "This will be a very...ah, interesting...experience, I think."

  "You're telling me?" said Escrima. "I got an appetite just walking into this kitchen. If the Legion won't eat this stuff, they ought to be checked for signs of life. I can see there's a whole new cuisine for me to learn. What do you call this dish?"

  "Nutria jambalaya," said the cook. "One of our Creole-style dishes. We also have sweet and sour nutria with bingo beans, and nutria parmigiana on the menu tonight."

  "Nutria?" Escrima was puzzled. "That must be the meat, but I don't recognize the name. Is it vat-grown?"

  "No, no, you have missed it completely," said the cook, smiling. "Nutria is our most famous animal, imported from Earth by the Moguls. In their day, it was rare, and as expensive as horse or pompano. But the nutria thrived in the lowland swamps, and now the animal is so common that it has become our major indigenous source of protein."

  "An Earth animal," said Escrima. "That should be good, then-when there's real meat locally, I'll almost never use vat protein. What kind of animal is it?"

  "Game, sergeant," said the sergeant. "Has a very robust flavor, goes nicely roasted or in a spicy sauce. Very versatile, like chicken or cow, but much cheaper. The jambalaya won't really be ready until I add the rice to the meat and vegetables. But this will give you an idea of how it will taste."

  Escrima filled a spoon and tasted. "Excellent," he said. "You're right, that meat will fit a lot of places-this dish will have 'em lining up for seconds. If it really is cheaper than chicken, the troops are going to eat a lot of this nutria.

  The cook smiled. "Trust me, Sergeant, once you've gotten used to nutria, you'll be using it in all your recipes."

  "Well, no time like the present," said Escrima. "Why don't you show me what else you're cooking tonight?"

  Within minutes, the two chefs were comparing notes on spices and discussing the best local sources for fresh produce. The undercooks listened in growing awe to a pair of culinary artists picking each other's brains. The food was going to be even better than usual that evening...

  Journal #381

  Directly across the street from the Landoor Plaza Hotel was a large vacant area, fenced off and posted. When he inquired about it, my employer was informed that it was destined to be part of Landoor Park, a large project funded by the government as part of its economic revival plan. However, as to the exact nature of Landoor Park, the locals had nothing to say...

  "Captain, I must inform you that stock in our projects is not being offered to off-world investors." Boris Eastman's tone and expression made it clear that he considered the question an impertinence. And both the size and decor of his office made it clear that he had no authority to change policy even if he were so inclined. But he was the only official willing to meet with the captain of the peacekeeping team, and Phule was determined to get what he could out of the interview.

  "Mr. Eastman, I am not about to lecture you on economics," said Phule, with more than a trace of annoyance in his voice. He had gone into town to the Ministry of Development, a large building in the neo-Bauhaus style, and despite having made a firm appointment, had been kept waiting in an outer office while several locals were ushered in and out. The receptionist behind the desk had treated his inquiries with ill-disguised disinterest. But he had persevered, and finally was ushered into the deputy's office.

  "That is good," said Eastman, "because I would not expect a foreigner to understand our local situation. We have a long history, and we have arrived at policies based on our unique experience."

  "I am aware that your grasp of local conditions may exceed my own," said Phule, with more tact than customary. Given his extensive research into the economy of Landoor, he probably knew more about local conditions than the deputy. "But perhaps you will do me the favor of explaining your rejection of foreign capital. I would think that bringing resources in from off-planet would be the quickest way to give your economy the boost it needs."

  "That is a superficial assessment," said Eastman, sniffing. "As you would know if you were a native, our world was originally a mining colony..."

  "Yes, I have read your history," said Phule, losing his pati
ence. "This world was discovered in 2521 CE by an expedition from New Baltimore. A geologist on the expedition, Alberto Belperio, found igneous formations on the northern continental mass-now named for him-bearing an unusually high concentration of several rare minerals. He and the ship's captain, Martin Landoor, returned to New Baltimore and raised four hundred seventeen million credits to exploit the deposits. Mining began in 2526..." He continued from memory for several minutes, piling detail upon detail.

  "Enough, Captain!" Eastman, whose face had turned bright red, finally interrupted him. "You have convinced me that you know our history." He wiped his forehead with a large handkerchief and continued, "Perhaps you also know about the collapse of the economy a generation ago."

  "Yes. A series of improvements in mining technique made it feasible to extract the minerals from the poorer ore on several other planets. All of a sudden, the Moguls lost their monopoly."

  "And the foreign scum, having sucked us dry, took their profits and left us to wither away," said Eastman, pounding his fist on the desktop. "We have learned one key lesson from that, Captain. Never again will Landoor be held hostage by foreign money. Landoor Park will be financed by money we raise from our own people, not from the likes of you."

  Somehow, Phule kept his temper. "Mr. Eastman, you are making a mistake. If you will notice, my legionnaires and I are already pumping a fair amount of money into this economy. If your plans to attract foreign tourism succeed, you will be even more heavily dependent on off-planet money. If a little foreign seed money helps you get on your feet, why not take it? This isn't a zero-sum game we're playing."

  Eastman shook his head. "Captain, we appreciate the fact that your troops are spending their money in our local businesses. You realize, of course, that this is a pittance. Your troops would be of far greater benefit to us if you sent them to the mainland to end the rebellion once and for all."

  "Really?" Phule's eyebrows rose a notch. "I was under the impression that the rebels were a joke-from what the previous peacekeeping troops reported, the only thing they've done in years is take a potshot at me, back when we landed."

  "They are a symptom of all that was wrong with the old government," fumed Eastman. "Far from working to liberate the people, they are behind most of the crime here in the capital. They are constantly sabotaging our efforts to rebuild the economy-why, nearly one in three of our signs for Landoor Park has been defaced by them."

  "I saw that, but it seemed like petty vandalism to me," said Phule. "I'll look into it, of course."

  Eastman was livid. "Look into it? Better you should suppress the rebels once and for all."

  "Mr. Eastman, that is not my mission," said Phule. "My orders strictly forbid offensive operations on this planet. If the rebels attack the city, or take other military action, we will stop them. By the same token, if your government takes any direct action against the rebels, we will stop you. Frankly, I don't want to take action against either side. I would be much happier investing my money to help rebuild this planet. That's what I came here to talk about."

  "And, as I told you, we do not want your money," said Eastman. "I believe this interview is at an end, Captain."

  "I'm afraid you're right about that," said Phule, rising to his feet. "It may be the only thing you've been right about all day." And he stalked out of the deputy's office, slamming the door behind him.

  The eastern beaches of Atlantis were widely considered the choicest on Landoor. They offered broad expanses of amber sand, warm water, a gentle slope from wading to swimming depth, serious surf beyond the outer bar, as well as what most locals considered the right balance of natural beauty and such amenities as cabanas, boardwalks, and food vendors. So as soon as the new Legion base was sufficiently set up to give a few personnel a day's leave, a rented hoverbus arrived at Sunrise State Beach and unloaded a large pack of legionnaires in swimsuits, carrying blankets, picnic coolers, and an assortment of beach toys.

  It was early enough in the morning that only a few blankets and umbrellas were in place on the sand, so the Legion contingent had its pick of spots to set up. Brandy chose a large dune well above the surf line, where they dropped off their baggage. Then, she made a beeline for the surf, with two dozen legionnaires whooping and hollering behind her. A riot of ducking, splashing, and other horseplay broke out at the water's edge. The few non-Legion bathers quickly withdrew to a safe distance, casting wary looks toward the frolicking newcomers.

  After a while, two civilians strolled up to the little group that hadn't gone into the water. "You guys ain't from around here," one of them said to Flight Leftenant Qual, who was allowing Super-Gnat to bury him in the sand.

  "You are observant," said Qual, flashing his allosaurus grin.

  The local drew back a pace, but then noticing the tiny woman fearlessly dumping handfuls of sand onto the toothy alien's torso, tried another conversational gambit. "You talk pretty good for a foreigner."

  "Oh, I hasten to assure you, everyone on my world talks, some even better than I," said Qual, with a jovial chuckle. "You should hear Chief Potentary Korg when he gets his jaw wagging."

  "Is that so? I reckon he's something, then," said the Landooran, a skinny youth with an asymmetrical haircut that needed retrimming. "I'm Okidata, by the way, and this is my girlfriend Wandalune. We're from out South Worton, down by Dunes Park."

  "I do not know that district," said Qual. "Perhaps I shall visit it now that I have met someone from there."

  "When somebody gives you their name, you're supposed to introduce yourself in return," said Super-Gnat, laughing. She turned to the two locals. "This is Qual-he doesn't know human customs too well yet-and they call me Gnat. We're staying in the Landoor Plaza, out west of town."

  "Wow, I hear that's a fancy place," said Wandalune, wide-eyed. "Are you rich tourists?"

  "Nope," said Gnat. "We're here to do a job, is all. The boss gave us the day off, so a bunch of us decided to see what your beach was like. I'm glad we did."

  "That's a triff boss," said Okidata. "Last guy I worked for, he bounced me for going to my sister's funeral without asking. He didn't warn me fair, so I managed to get unemployment, but jobs are scarce. There's a new government park hiring, but they had a waiting list longer than the Weasel. I'm still looking, but the unemployment may run out before I get anything."

  "That rots, for sure. What kind of work were you doing?" said Gnat.

  "I was a mechanic at a ride park," said Okidata. "An apprentice mechanic, really-lug the tools and clean up grease spills and do the dirty work. They think you don't have anywhere else to go, the dirty work can get pretty dirty. You wanna eat, you do it, though."

  Then he grinned. "Besides, it's what I wanted to do ever since I was a kid. My old man wanted me to be a printer, like him, but I always wanted to work in a park." His voice changed, and he squinted at the legionnaires. "What about you guys? I didn't know they were bringing in foreigners to work here. There's not enough real jobs for us natives."

  "I know all about that," said Gnat. She dumped a final load of sand on Qual and dusted off her hands. "Jobs were pretty scarce back on my home world, too-so I joined the Space Legion. Our job here is to keep you guys from shooting each other. Want to join up and help us?" She grinned.

  "If that's the whole job, you might get a lot of people to join up," said Okidata. "Hasn't been any shooting since the war ended, which is about the only good thing I can say about this place. I'd take that chance, for a regular paycheck."

  "So would I," said Wandalune. "I got out of school a year ago, and I've been looking for work ever since. I've had a few fill-in jobs, but nothing longer than a couple weeks. Same with all my friends. Most of 'em have quit looking."

  "Uh-huh," said Gnat. "Well, the Legion's a steady paycheck and three squares a day, and a chance to get offworld, if you want to see something besides home. But there's plenty of dirty work here, too. Maybe you should talk to our captain-find out whether it's really your idea of what you want to do for the n
ext few years."

  "Maybe I will," said Okidata, though he looked doubtful.

  "It is an honorable calling," said Qual, from underneath the sand pile. "Captain Clown has given his troops opportunities of great rarity. Ambitious hatchlings could do far worse."

  "We'll think about it," said Wandalune. Then she reached out and took her boyfriend's hand. "Come on, Okey, let's go see if the rides are open yet." And the two locals wandered up the beach toward a medium-sized amusement park visible beyond the boardwalk.

  As they departed, Tusk-anini came out of the surf and trotted up to Super-Gnat. He was dripping wet, with a thick pair of dark goggles covering his light-sensitive eyes. "Who those people, Gnat?" he said, noting her frown. "They bothering you?"

  "Not the way you mean," said Super-Gnat, looking after the departing locals. "What bothers me, if they're telling the truth, is that a lot of kids here can't find jobs. That could make our job here tougher, if it's true."

  "You mean they think we taking jobs from them?" said Tusk-anini. "Not true. We come here, bring in money from off-world. More money for everyone here."

  "They're still likely to resent us if they see we've got money to spend when they don't," said Gnat, shaking her head.

  "This may produce a problem," said Qual. "Alas, our power to change that is circumscribed."

  "You said a mouthful," said Gnat. "I hope this whole job isn't more than we can swallow."

  "Do not fear, small strong one," said Qual, chuckling. "My people have a saying: `Better the swamp than the desert, but the river is swifter than either one.' "

  "Huh? What's that mean?" Super-Gnat wasn't always sure the Zenobian's translator was correctly wired.

  "Don't care," said Tusk-anini. "Right now we on the beach, so I not going to worry. Come on, you want to go in water?"

  "Race you there," said Super-Gnat, and they took off running. Qual lay back and closed his eyes, grinning.