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 chopping 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 with 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.”

“I think I can undertake to provide that,” said Jester. “Worse comes to worst, if our partners don’t have the sporting blood, you and I can put a few splazookies on the round. But we can worry about that when it’s time to pony up. For now, let’s get you some local knowledge. Hit a couple more balls out, and get a look at what kind of lies you’ve got. Then you can find out how the green’s playing … and then you won’t be able to excuse getting beat by saying you didn’t know the course!”

“Hah!” said Blitzkrieg gleefully. “We’ll see who it is who needs excuses, Captain. I’ll have you know I regularly shoot in the low eighties, you young pup. Get us a couple of partners who can put the ball down the fairway, and I’ll show you a few things about the game.”

“That’s the spirit,” said Jester, twirling a club. “I’ll get us a couple of partners, and tomorrow we’ll see how this little course stands up to some real golf. I just hope you won’t find it disappointing after some of the places you must have played …”

“Well, every course is a different challenge,” said Blitzkrieg. In point of fact, even the easiest courses were likely to be a challenge well beyond his golfing skills. He’d gerrymandered his average score into the eighties by a policy of taking as many tee shots as he needed to get a decent lie for his approach, bullying his opponents into conceding improbably long putts, and never counting any strokes after either his partner or their opponents sank a putt to win a given hole. When you had enough stars on the shoulders of your uniform, your opponents weren’t going to challenge you on the fine points of golf etiquette. And from the way Jester was talking, there was going to be no trouble at all playing his regular game here.

He teed up for his second drive and squinted down the fairway. This time he’d aim a little to the left and try to fade the ball right up to the opening of the green …

He gave the ball a mighty whack, and like a missile it took off down the fairway. And even before it reached the peak of its rise, it began its inevitable curve to the right. Blitzkrieg sighed and pulled another ball out of his pocket. He’d get a decent lie to play if it took him all morning …

* * *

“Rot’n’art,” said Do-Wop, looking up at the departures readout in the Tejas spaceport lounge. “At least this time it’s someplace I’ve heard of before.”

“Wow,” said Sushi. “I mean, I’m surprised you’ve heard of someplace outside your own home world.”

“You kiddin’? I’ve heard of lots of places—been to a few of ’em, too. Lorelei, Zenobia, here …”

“OK, I get the point,” said Sushi. “I guess we need to get ourselves booked to Rot’n’art …”

“I guess so,” said Do-Wop. “Wonder why ol’ Beeks is going there? It sure ain’t the place I’d pick for a vacation.”

“Yeah, you’d go straight back to Lorelei and blow everything in the slots,” said Sushi. “But you’re right—Rot’n’art isn’t exactly the scenic high point of the galaxy. Some interesting old buildings there, if I remember my history.”

“If they haven’t all fell down,” said Do-Wop. “Our schoolbooks had pictures of Old Earth, and you wouldn’t believe it. Some of the places—I’m talking ’bout joints where kings and vice presidents and other hot shits lived—were all busted up. You’d think they’d keep ’em in better shape.”

“Yeah, we had those same pictures in our books,” said Sushi. “They had a few too many wars and other kinds of trouble. But I’ve never heard of any wars on Rot’n’art, so maybe it’s in better shape than Old Earth. I guess we’re going to find out.”

“Hope they got good beer there, anyhow,” said Do-Wop. “Hey, that reminds me—we can’t get on the ship for another hour and a half. Let’s go get somethin’ to drink first.”

“Good a plan as any,” said Sushi tiredly. The two legionnaires picked up their duffel bags and headed down the spaceport corridor toward the shops next to the waiting area.

They’d gone just a few steps when Sushi grabbed Do-Wop by the arm and pulled him through a side door into a candy shop. “Quick,” he whispered. “Do you see who I see?”

“Where?” said Do-Wop, sticking his head out the door and looking in both directions. “I don’t see no …”

“Shhh!” said Sushi urgently. “Down by the vending machines—no, the other way, stupid!”

“Who you callin’ stupid, stupid?” said Do-Wop. He looked in the direction his partner had indicated. “Geez—it’s Beeker! Yo, Bee … Mpfhhr!” he sputtered as Sushi put a hand over his mouth.

“Quiet! If he sees us, he’ll know he’s being followed, and then who knows what he’ll do?” whispered Sushi. “We might lose him for good!”

“Escutse me, gentlebeinks, ah you lookink f’som cann’y?” came a squeaky voice from behind the counter. The two legionnaires turned as one to see a small, grey-furred creature peering at them with enormous sad eyes.

“Uh, yeah, that’s what we’re lookin’ for, candy,” said Do-Wop. “Y’got any Green Woofers?”

“Ahh, Greem Wooferts, Aldebaran Cann’y Com’any, ver’ gootd, yes,” said the little creature. It went over to one of the display cases and reached in the back. “You wan’ larch or chumbo sidze bocts?”

While the shopcreature waited on Do-Wop, Sushi stepped over to the doorway and cautiously peered down the corridor again. “I think he’s gone,” he said.

“Hang on, Soosh, I’m gettin’ some Green Woofers,” said Do-Wop. He turned back to the shopcreature and said, “Better make it the jumbo box. I dunno if they’ll have ’em on the ship.”

“Chumbo, yes, ver’ gootd,” said the creature, digging out the candy from the display case. “Anatink elts?”

Sushi stuck his head out the doorway again, then abruptly pulled it back and scurried over to Do-Wop. “Damn, I spoke too soon! Here comes Nightingale!”

“Well, she probably isn’t coming in here,” said Do-Wop, not showing much concern. “Maybe she’s not the candy type, y’know? These skinny broads can be weird …”

“Even if she doesn’t come inside, she might spot us, and then we’re totally zickled,” said Sushi, suddenly aware that his Legion-issue black jumpsuit stood out like a sore thumb in this spaceport. He turned to the little grey creature. “Is there any place we can hide for a few minutes? Someone’s coming that we want to surprise …”

“Oh, you gon’ buy cann’y f’it?” The shopcreature did something with its face that looked like a wink, then pointed to the counter along the back of the store. “You hite ovah derh!”

The two legionnaires scooted behind the counter and crouched down, hoping they’d been quick enough to avoid Nightingale’s attention. They suddenly became aware of the sound of footsteps entering the shop—a small human’s, to judge from the tempo and apparent weight. Sushi held his breath, hoping that, just this once, Do-Wop would be able to keep his mouth shut.

“Hey’o, missy, you need some cann’y?” said the shopcreature.

“Yes, have you any white chocolate?” The customer’s voice was muffled, although it was plainly a human female speaking. Sushi scrunched down lower.

“Ridte disweh,” said the little grey sophont, heading directly for the counter where the legionnaires hid. The woman’s footsteps followed the shopcreature.

“I want only the finest quality,” said the woman. “Nothing commercially processed.” Sushi still wasn’t sure whether this was Nightingale or not; he had only heard the Omega Mob’s medic speak a few times really close. He wished now that he’d made it a point to listen to her …

“Dadt wudbe da Viceroy spetyal ectspo’t,” said the shopcreature, coming behind the counter where Sushi and Do-Wop cowered. It pulled open a drawer. Sushi held his breath as he heard the shopcreature say, “Disiz ahr verabes’.”

The woman gasped. “Who is that behind the counter?” she cried. That was the last straw for Sushi and Do-Wop; they bolted from the store, nearly knocking down the shopcreature and his new customer, a petite blonde in an electric blue chiton.

The last thing either of them heard was the shopcreature calling, “Zir! Zir! Yuhaf vergo’in da Wooferts!”

Journal #804:

Rot’n’art is the indisputable “galactic center”—just ask its natives (if you can find any). This despite the planet’s location well out on the fringe of the Alliance, which in itself is located a considerable distance from the rather dangerous central regions of our galaxy. As to what Rot’n’art is the center of, the best indication might be found in its nearly universal—and richly deserved—reputation for decadence, corruption, and utter paralysis of every agency.

Unique among the planets of the Alliance, Rot’n’art has been entirely enclosed and roofed over. Seen from space, the planet is an irregular spheroid of metal and synthetics, which extend as much as a mile above the actual surface. It is not at all clear why someone—several generations of someones, to be precise—thought this particular form of development to be worth the effort. I suspect it was the Interplanetary Shippers Guild, who are greatly enriched by Rot’n’art’s need to import the vast majority of its foodstuffs, which despite its diminished population the planet can no longer grow for itself.

Rot’n’art’s claim on the title of “galactic center” unquestionably holds true if the subject is service robots. Not that robots are at all rare on other worlds—far from it. But on many worlds, they are found only in positions unsuited to human workers: undersea mining, for example, or nuclear reactor maintenance. Because of the positions they are in, the visitor (whose interest in undersea mines or the innards of nuclear reactors is usually nil) rarely sees them.

Not so on Rot’n’art. There, even more than on Cut ’N’ Shoot, robots fill the majority of public contact positions. Stop in a restaurant for lunch? A robot takes one’s order, brings the food, and collects the payment. For all I know, another is back in the kitchen preparing one’s sandwich. Travel to some tourist destination? One robot vends the tickets, another collects them, a third operates the vehicle, and still another directs one to the best places to view the attractions. Robots so dominate the landscape that a first-time visitor is likely to wonder where the people of Rot’n’art have fled.

* * *

Phule stepped off the liner to discover an empty, ill-lit corridor, which might have been swept sometime in the last month, but not very carefully. There was a row of vending machines on the wall facing him. About half of them appeared to have been vandalized. The door hissed shut behind him, and he was alone. He stopped and looked around, confused; this didn’t look anything at all like the entrance to one of the major hubs of the galaxy …

“Welcome to Rot’n’art, stranger,” said a harsh voice behind him.

Phule whirled quickly, ready for action. But the figure facing him was as unthreatening as he could imagine: a stringy-haired man in a ragged overcoat leaning unsteadily against the doorframe. Hardly the kind of reception he’d expected, but he might as well make the best of it. “Hello. Can you tell me the way to the spaceport office?” asked Phule.

“Spaceport office?” echoed the stranger. “You don’t want to go there.”

“Of course I do,” said Phule. “Why would I ask if I didn’t?”

With a visible effort, the man stood more upright and took a step forward. “Sheer ignorance, most likely,” he said, peering quizzically at Phule. “That’s the most common reason, with off-worlders. On the other hand, you might be perverse or just plain stupid. But I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. Say, could you spare a few credits so a guy could get himself some drugs?” He stuck out his hand, palm up.

Phule bristled. “What, first you insult me, then you ask me for money for drugs? You really must think I am stupid.”

The man shrugged and stuck his hand into his trousers pocket. “Well, some people are, you know. You can’t really tell until you ask. It never hurts, I figure—I just might end up getting some money. And some people might even consider it a commendable sign of an inquiring mind. But tell me, what makes you think you want to go to the spaceport office?”

Phule paused a moment—why should he tell this stranger his business? The fellow had done nothing to inspire confidence. But then again, he had nothing to lose. The sooner he found out how the land lay, the quicker he could decide how to find Beeker. This fellow’s information might be as good as anyone’s. He looked the man in the eyes and said, “I’m trying to find somebody who recently came to Rot’n’art, and I thought the spaceport office might have a record of his arrival.”

“Not much chance,” said the stranger. “There wasn’t anybody here making a record of your arrival, was there?”

“Not unless it’s you,” said Phule, looking at the man again.

The stranger opened his mouth, then shut it again and looked at Phule with raised eyebrows. Finally he said, “Say, you aren’t so slow after all, are you? Or have you been on Rot’n’art before?”

“First time on-world,” said Phule. “Now, friend, it’s been instructive talking to you, but I really need to be on my way. I do have to find somebody, and I don’t have a lot of time.”

“Well, you’ve come to the right place,” said the stranger, putting his hand on Phule’s elbow. “Rot’n’art’s the galactic center of missing persons. In fact, I do a bit of work in that line myself—maybe I could lend a hand.”

“Really?” Phule raised his own eyebrow in return. “For a small fee, I suppose? I have to say, you don’t look like the kind of fellow who could be much help.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t judge people on first sight,” said the man. “You spend much time on Rot’n’art, you find out that taking folks at face value can get you in a lot of trouble.”

“True enough,” said Phule. “But you can get in just as much trouble if you don’t pay attention to what’s in front of your face. You already tried to beg from me and told me you’d spend it on drugs. Why should I trust you to help me?”

The man shrugged. “I know Rot’n’art like a native, and you don’t,” he said. “And I’m for hire. As for the trust, that’s part of the standard contract.”

Phule smiled. “Ah, contracts—now, that’s something I understand. What are your terms?”

The man turned and snapped his fingers. A clanking sound came from down the corridor, and after a moment a stenobot appeared with a printout already emerging from its slot. “Got my boilerplate ready,” the man said with a predatory grin.

“I’m sure you do,” said Phule with a grimace of his own. “Of course, I’ll have to see whether I can agree to all your terms. For one thing, I never sign a ‘hold harmless’ clause …”

The negotiations took a little while, but after suitable modifications, Captain Jester and Perry Sodden—that was the name the man signed to the contract—had agreed to terms. “All right, let’s go find your missing man,” said Sodden.