Chapter Ten

Journal #813

My employer, for all his dedication to the military life, was at bottom a businessman. In that, he resembled his father. He also resembled that gentleman in a firm conviction that his own view of the world was fundamentally accurate, and that others who did not share it were in need of correction. Unlike his father, he was at least willing to let those others find their own way to correction …

* * *

“That was awesome,” said Do-Wop, shaking his head. “I knew you was a con artist, but I never seen you fool that many people at once.” The two of them were ensconced in the guest room of a suburban home belonging to one of the ringleaders of the demonstration Sushi had inserted himself into as head agitator. It was early morning planetary time, and outside the blinds, the artificial lights of Rot’n’art were slowly working up to their daytime peak intensity.

Sushi was still exhausted despite a sound night’s sleep. Taking over the demonstration had required all his energy, physical and mental, before the crowd had lifted him to its shoulders and carried him away in triumph. “If you ever see me about to try that again, remind me not to,” he said. “I kept worrying that the cops would decide to make a charge. I think it was pure luck that they backed down …”

“Nah, you had ’em fluffled,” said Do-Wop admiringly. “If I had me some money to invest, I’d have put it in that greebfap you was sellin’ the crowd. What is that stuff, anyway?”

“You tell me, and we’ll both know,” said Sushi. “All I knew is, our best chance to get out of the place without major damage was to throw in with the biggest gang we could find. Thank Ghu it worked.”

“Yeah, I couldn’t believe it when they all carried you off like some kind of hero,” said Do-Wop. “You’re a genius, Soosh.”

“Thanks, I guess,” said Sushi. “Only problem is that my face is going to be all over tri-vee. If Beeker or the captain sees the local news, they’re likely to figure out what we’re doing here. And if the wrong cop happens to spot me, I could end up in some back room figuring out how to answer hostile questions about greebfap.”

Do-Wop scoffed. “No problem, we disguise you, is all. A fake beard and some dark shades oughta do the job … or maybe some kinda big hat …”

“Yeah, right, I carry that stuff with me all the time. What are you going to do, go out to the local disguise store? I wouldn’t be surprised if the cops have your face in their files too. They had robots taking pictures all during that riot. And unless they’re really stupid, they’ll be running comparisons with the passport pictures from spaceport arrivals. They probably already know exactly who we are.”

“No freakin’ way,” said Do-Wop. “My passport pic don’t look anything like me, and I bet yours don’t, either.”

“Mine’s a lot uglier than I am,” agreed Sushi. A tired grin came onto his face. “But yours couldn’t possibly be …” Sushi ducked as Do-Wop took a swing at him. “OK, sorry,” he said. “Still, we’ve got this problem of suddenly being way too visible. And we still need to figure out where the captain is, so we can keep him out of trouble—and help him find Beeker, so we can go back to Zenobia.”

“Well, one thing we know about the captain—he ain’t cheap. Just find out what the best hotel on the planet is—I’ll bet you dollars to donuts that’s where the captain’s staying.”

Sushi’s mouth fell open. “Partner, you just earned yourself a whole basket of donuts. That’s the best idea I’ve heard all day. And it wasn’t even mine.”

Do-Wop grinned evilly. “Yeah, well, I’ll pass on the donuts. Just remember this the next time you think you can diss your buddy. When they handed out the street smarts, us Italians was standing right by the flagpole. And you can tell that to the Marines.”

“Uh, yeah,” said Sushi. “So why don’t we go downstairs and see if our host will feed us breakfast—and maybe tell us about the local hotels?”

“Now you’re comin’ up with the good ideas,” said Do-Wop. “Lead the way, Soosh.” Together they headed out the door; somewhere downstairs they could already hear a coffeemaker bubbling away. It was shaping up as a good morning after all.

* * *

Just before noon, Phule took the dropshaft down to the lobby and entered the hotel bar, where he had agreed to meet Perry Sodden, tracer of missing persons, for business—and lunch. He took a corner booth away from other customers and ordered a pint of Old Rot’n’art IPA, which the locals firmly believed to be the finest beer in the galaxy. Phule knew better, but ordering anything else was practically guaranteed to start an argument with the robot waitress. He didn’t need the attention, so he took a sip of the thin, sour-tasting brew and suppressed a shudder. If anything, the home brewery’s product was worse than the export version. Just as well; he needed to keep a clear head anyway, and the taste would discourage him from drinking much of it.

After a few minutes, Sodden slid onto the opposite bench of the booth. “You’re in luck,” he said, out of one side of his mouth. “I’ve already got a solid lead on the rascal you’re after.”

“That’s great news, but don’t think I’d call old Beeker a rascal,” said Phule. “He’s just taking a sort of unofficial vacation—with a lady friend.”

“Know just what you mean, Captain,” said Sodden with a wink. “Say, how about buying a fellow a drink? Talking’s thirsty work, you know.”

“So I’ve heard,” said Phule, signaling for the waitress. Sodden ordered an Old Rot’n’art, and when the waitbot went to fetch it, Phule said, “Now, what are the chances of catching my man before he takes ship to the next planet? This is the third place I’ve followed him to, and I’d really like to get him back on the job.”

“If I’ve seen it once, I’ve seen it a thousand times,” said Sodden. “Midlife crisis kind of thing. One minute, your fellow’s a sober citizen, and the next he decides it’s time to stop and smell the roses, and the next thing you know he’s halfway across the galaxy, driving a little red hovertible. Funny how the best roses are always on some other planet. But not to worry, Captain. Soon enough he’ll run out of spending cash, and then you’re like enough to see him back at your door, his hat in his hand.” The beer came, and Sodden paused to take a deep sip.

“I can’t imagine Beeks in a hovertible, red or any other color,” said Phule, toying with his glass. “And I sure hope I don’t have to wait for him to run out of money—the old fellow’s as frugal as they come. I think it’d take him quite a while to spend all his savings, even with the lady friend helping him out.”

“You’d be surprised,” said Sodden. “I used to go with this girl from Varleigh …” He shuddered, then knocked back his drink and signaled for another before turning back to Phule. “Anyhow, he’s bound to leave a trail an experienced investigator like me can follow. And like I told you, I’ve got a solid lead. Shouldn’t be more than a couple of days before I’ve got him.”

“He could be off-planet and on a ship to who knows where by then,” said Phule. “I hope you aren’t taking things for granted.”

“Not a chance,” Sodden said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Now, I’ll need a bit more of an advance to check out all the angles—I might have to put on a couple of extra people to run everything down. But you can be sure we’ll get …” The ring of his pocket phone interrupted him. “One moment, Captain. Sorry …” He put the earpiece to his ear, listening. “Uh-huh. Really. Really? Oh, shit. Hang on; I’ll be there.” He thumbed the off button and shoved the phone back in his pocket.

“What is it?” said Phule, worried.

“Minor problem in the office,” said Sodden, getting to his feet. “Now, a couple hundred more for expenses would be a good idea just about now, right?”

“Some straight talk about what’s going on with my case would be an even better idea,” said Phule, getting to his feet and putting a hand on Sodden’s shoulder.

“Uh, well …” Sodden rolled his eyes from side to side, like a drowning man searching for help. Suddenly he pointed to something behind Phule, and shouted, “Look! There she goes!”

Phule turned quickly to see a tall Black woman—Nightingale? or someone else?—vanish through a doorway leading out of the hotel. He turned back to Sodden—who said, “Hurry! Maybe we can catch her.”

They ran quickly to the door where they’d seen the woman, but she had already vanished into the crowd on the sidewalk.

* * *

The sign inside Chocolate Harry’s Supply depot read, GOLF POOL—BEST ODDS ON THE PLANET. A smart legionnaire might have pointed out that, since nobody else on the planet was giving odds on General Blitzkrieg’s golf games, Harry wasn’t promising all that much. But since the legionnaire who pointed that out was likely to have it pointed out that Harry was under no obligation to take bets from anyone, the claim went unchallenged. In fact, Harry had plenty of takers for his odds—a predictable benefit of running the only game in town.

Harry wasn’t picky; he’d give odds on almost anything you could find somebody willing to bet on. He was running a pool on the Zenobians’ team sports, which almost none of the Legionnaires understood (though there were plenty who claimed to). Bets on the arrival time of the next Supply shuttle were one of his most popular offerings. And if things were really slow, he could always fall back on organizing competitions among members of Omega Company, on which other members were then encouraged to bet.

“Who d’ya want, Roadkill?” said Harry as one of Brandy’s recruits studied the odds board. “If you’re a bettin’ man, there’s some pretty juicy situations there.”

The board currently had the general the favorite at two to one; Lieutenant Armstrong was at five to two; Captain Jester was at four to one; and Flight Leftenant Qual was a rank outsider at ten to one. There were also plenty of side bets, such as odds on one or more of the players scoring a hole in one, longest drive of the day on the par-five second, over/under for total putts on the afternoon, number of balls snatched by florbigs, and so forth. The variety of options was a tribute to Harry’s hard work; he’d spent the better part of a weekend researching golf before he had the faintest clue how the game was played, let alone what somebody might want to bet on.

“Why’s the general such a big favorite?” said Roadkill, squinting at the odds board. “He don’t look like much of a player to me. Way out of shape …”

“Ah, but he’s got the edge in experience,” said Harry knowingly. “Condition don’t mean that much in this game, and there’s no defensemen goin’ upside your head if you take your eye off ’em. All a dude has to do is hit his best shot and watch it go. How you bettin’?”

Roadkill rubbed his chin. “Twenty gradoojies on the captain,” he said decisively. “And another five on Lieutenant Armstrong for a hole in one.”

“OK, got you covered,” said Chocolate Harry, smiling. “Who else wants some action?”

“I would like to bet, but first I have a question,” said a familiar voice. Harry turned to see Mahatma standing there, an enigmatic smile on his face.

Harry groaned. “Oh, man, I’m not gonna have to explain the whole history of golf to you, am I?” he asked—only half-joking. Every officer and noncom in the company had learned to tread very carefully when Mahatma approached them with one of his questions.

“Not today, Sergeant Harry,” said Mahatma. “I found a good history on the Net, although I may have other questions on it later. Today I want to know why the general is permitted to hit several drives for every one his opponents hit, then to choose the best to play.”

“Uh, I think that’s what they call a handiclap,” said Harry with utter confidence. “That’s like a courtesy they extend to the visiting player, so’s the local guys don’t have an unfair advantage.”

“That makes some sense,” said Mahatma. Harry breathed a deep sigh—prematurely, as he soon learned. “But tell me, Sergeant Harry—this is a new course, so our local players have not played it any more than the general has, have they?”

“I guess that’s right, Mahatma,” said Chocolate Harry, doing his best to appear unruffled. “But of course, Qual’s a native, and the captain and lieutenant have both had a good, long while to get acclimated to these here desert conditions, which the general, being from off-world, hasn’t done. So they’d still have that local edge. Can’t beat that local edge.”

“The general seems to be beating it very consistently,” said Mahatma brightly.

“So bet on his ass,” grumbled Harry, finally losing his patience. “I ain’t got all day to talk, y’know. And if you ain’t bettin’, go mess wit’ somebody else’s head.”

“Why, that is a wonderful suggestion, Sergeant Chocolate Harry,” said Mahatma. “I believe I will do just that.” And he turned on his heel, leaving C. H. to wonder just which of his two suggestions Mahatma was going to follow.

* * *

“Look here,” said Phule. He was in the spaceport departure lounge, his luggage already checked, and a first-class, one-way ticket to Hix’s World in his hand. “I’ve been on Rot’n’art for nearly a week. I came here to find my butler and his girlfriend, and that was all I really cared about. And now I found out they’re gone to Hix’s World …”

“Bad luck,” said Sodden firmly. “If we’d just been a little bit quicker following up that one lead—you’ll remember I was urging you to do just that …” He slapped his hand against the molded symwood arm of the waiting-room bench in evident frustration.

“No point in might-have-beens now,” said Phule with a shrug. “You’ve done the best you could for me, and I don’t hold it against you that my butler moved too fast for us to catch him. I’ve just got to go to the next place and try to catch him there.”

“Well, that’s mighty big of you, Captain,” said Sodden. He stood up and stuck out his hand. Phule shook it. “If you ever come back this way and need somebody in my line of work, just give a yell and I’m your man,” said the detective.

“Well, there is one last thing I’d like to figure out,” said Phule, holding on to Sodden’s hand. “The longer I’ve been here, the more I’ve realized that this whole planet is obsessed with something I don’t understand at all.”

“Really?” said Sodden. He rubbed his chin with the free hand, a contemplative look on his face. “I can’t for the life of me figure out what you mean, Captain.”

“Greebfap,” Phule barked.

“Hey, no point in getting fritzy about it, Captain,” said Sodden, pulling away his hand and stepping backward. The bench kept him from retreating farther. “Just tell me what you’re talking about, and I’ll let you in on it.”

“I’m talking about greebfap,” snarled Phule, stepping forward and grabbing Sodden’s lapel. “People are rioting in the streets, about to bring down the planetary government, all because of greebfap. Greebfap! Greebfap! Sodden, you’re going to tell me what greebfap is before I leave this planet!”

A mechanical voice from the speaker interposed itself between his question and whatever Sodden might have been about to say. “Sagittarius Arm Special now ready for preboarding,” it said. “Stops at Leibnitz, Hix’s World, New Baltimore, and Glimber. First-class passengers, those who need assistance in boarding, and sophont groups with immature family members, please come to the gate for preboarding.” A wheeled methane enclosure trundled noisily forward, its inhabitants dimly visible through the portholes. In a pocket Velcroed to the outside, a set of tickets to Glimber was visible.

“There’s your ship,” said Sodden, pointing in the general direction of the gate. “Better get on board …”

“I heard the announcement,” growled Phule. “I still have half an hour before they dog the doors shut. And that’s all the time I need to make you tell me what greebfap is all about.”

“Willard Phule! Or should I say, Captain Jester! What a surprise to see you!” came a chirpy voice from just behind him. Surprised, Phule turned his head, a look of half recognition already on his face. Almost involuntarily, his grip on Sodden’s shirt loosened.

“Mrs. Biffwycke-Snerty,” said Phule, recognizing one of his mother’s comrades-in-arms from the charity gala circuit. “What a surprise …”

“Equally, I’m sure,” said the woman. “I take it you’re here on Legion duty, helping put down those dreadful rioters. It’s such a reassurance to know that the right kind of people are doing their part to keep the galaxy a safe place to travel.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Phule, as noncommittally as he could manage. “I hope you haven’t been inconvenienced …”

“Fortunately, only slightly,” said Mrs. Biffwycke-Snerty, putting on her most courageous expression. “My hoverlimo was forced to take an alternate route out to the spaceport to avoid the rioters. I saw some of the most appalling neighborhoods—one would think there’d be a better class of groundskeepers on this world, of all worlds. But my business here is finished, thank Ghu. It’ll be such a relief to get home to poor Biffy; the silly boy never knows what to do with himself when I’m away.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Phule again. He’d learned long since that it was the safest thing one could say to women of a certain social class. “Please give Mr. Biffwycke-Snerty my regards.”

“Thank you, Wilfred—I mean, Captain,” Mrs. Biffwycke-Snerty beamed. “I certainly will, and please give your dear mama mine.” She leaned forward and kissed the air a couple of inches from his cheek, then turned and went her way.

And of course, when Phule turned to look for Perry Sodden, there was nothing at all to be seen of the detective.

* * *

Chocolate Harry carefully avoided mentioning to any of the bettors in his golf pool that both Lieutenant Armstrong and the “Captain Jester” robot were playing to let General Blitzkrieg win. (Nobody was quite sure what Flight Leftenant Qual was playing for.) Harry expected the members of Omega Company to back their own officers, whether from loyalty or because of apparently favorable odds. And in fact, to date there was almost nobody betting on the general—which had allowed Harry to pocket a substantial profit at the end of every single day of the pool.

Harry had also made every effort to involve the anxious bettors in the action taking place out on the golf course. As much as General Blitzkrieg might have appreciated the idea of an audience raptly following his every stroke on the course, he (and his adjutant, Major Sparrowhawk) would have been quick to seize on any evidence that the legionnaires of Omega Company weren’t hard at work. Luckily, Harry remembered that one of Phule’s early purchases for the company was a set of state-of-the-art spy gear with miniature video cameras and microphones. That allowed one of the caddies, suitably wired, to relay a running commentary back to an oversize tri-vee player in the Supply shack. Today it was Thumper, caddying for Flight Leftenant Qual, providing the play-by-play.

Considering how new the game was to everyone except Armstrong and the general, it had caught on amazingly. On any given day, every off-duty legionnaire on the post was likely to be crowded into the Supply shack. Of course, there was a fully stocked bar right next to the odds board. Just as in his poker games, Harry figured that keeping the customers nicely marinated was good for business. Besides, it was a surefire way to even out the cash flow, even when he had to pay off an unexpected long shot—such as the time Flight Leftenant Qual managed to hook a tee shot smack into the middle of the gravitational anomaly on the second fairway, which kicked it straight down the course even faster than it had arrived, a good hundred-fifty yards past the pin. Of course, the ball ended up well out in the brush, and when Thumper finally found his ball, Qual needed four more shots just to get it on the green. But the Zenobian handily won that day’s long driving pool at thirty-to-one odds.

The one thing Harry hadn’t quite counted on came knocking on the door to Supply one afternoon, just as the golfers had teed up for their seventh hole. For once, Blitzkrieg appeared to have figured out what it took to keep his shots in the center of the fairway. For his part, Flight Leftenant Qual was having uncanny luck with his putter, regularly sinking the ball from ten or more meters out. So the match was more competitive than usual, and as a consequence, the bets were even heavier than usual. Harry had just begun to anticipate a killing when Double-X came hurrying over to him. “Sarge, we got trouble.”

“Trouble?” growled Chocolate Harry. “What kind of trouble?” In answer, Double-X nodded toward the entrance to the Supply depot. There, to Harry’s horror, stood Major Sparrowhawk, clipboard in hand and a determined expression on her face. “Shit,” said Harry in a low but sincere voice. “Guess I better take care of this. Be ready to close things down if I give the signal.”

“Right on, Sarge,” said Double-X. He glanced nervously, first at the woman at the entrance, then at the small but enthusiastic group of bettors crowded around the tri-vee display. After a moment, he turned back and asked, “Uh, what’s the signal?” But by then, Chocolate Harry had already moved to intercept Major Sparrowhawk.

Chocolate Harry had long since perfected a number of techniques for covering his tracks. When bluster and misdirection failed, he could usually fall back on misunderstanding and flat denial. And when all else failed, feigned ignorance was almost always good enough to get him through a crisis. From the look on the major’s face, he was likely to need his entire repertoire today. “Hey, Major, good to see you,” he began in what he hoped was a convincingly hearty tone. “Need some supplies today?”

“Cut the crap, Sergeant,” said Major Sparrowhawk. “You’re making book on the general’s golf game, which is against all regulations. And if I couldn’t find a few dozen other violations of the Uniform Space Legion Code just by walking around in here for a few minutes, I’m a Centauran tree slug.”

“Maybe you could,” said Harry. “What’re you gonna do if you do find ’em? Assign me to Omega Company?”

“Very funny,” said Sparrowhawk. “If you don’t think I can make unpleasant things happen, try me. A general’s adjutant can give you way more trouble than most field officers. But think about this, Sergeant—if I was just looking for a way to bust you, I wouldn’t be giving you even this much warning. You’d never know what hit you until it was way too late.”

“Maybe,” said Harry again, somewhat less cockily. Then, his curiosity aroused, he asked, “So what’s the deal, then? You got a proposition for me, Major?”

Sparrowhawk looked around the Supply shack. Up front, the off-duty bettors were crowded around the screen, waiting to see the foursome hit their tee shots. Double-X was staring at Harry with obvious anxiety. “Too many people in here,” she said after a moment. “Let’s go somewhere quiet to talk.”

“OK,” said Harry. He looked around. “Your place or mine?”

“Watch it,” said Sparrowhawk with an expression that had been known to make senior officers cringe. Then, after a moment, she said, “I know exactly the place. I’ll meet you in the captain’s office in ten minutes.”

“The—what?” said Chocolate Harry.

“Captain Jester’s not there,” said Sparrowhawk, waving at the tri-vee screen. “He’s playing golf. So’s my boss, and so is Lieutenant Armstrong. And I happen to know that Lieutenant Rembrandt’s down in Comm Central. So who are you worried about, Sergeant—more than me, that is?”

“OK,” said Harry, nodding slowly. “Ten minutes.”

“See you there,” said Major Sparrowhawk. Then she turned on her heels and left the Supply shed, leaving Chocolate Harry scratching his head in bewilderment.