Robert Asprin - Phule 3 - A Phule and His Money

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A Phule and His Money by Robert Asprin with Peter J. Heck

Journal #278

Even the most fortunate circumstances contain the seeds of their own

destruction. So it was with the tenure of Phule's Company on Lorelei.

At first glance, a posh gambling resort like Lorelei would appear a plum

assignment for a Space Legion company that until recently had been the

laughingstock of the Legion. Omega Company had long been the Legion's dumping

ground for incompetents and malcontents. My employer, Willard Phule (or

"Captain Jester, " to use his Legion name) was given command of Omega Company

as punishment for a small indiscretion of his own, namely ordering a peace

conference strafed. He was lucky-only his status as a wealthy munitions heir

kept him from being expelled outright. The generals meant to so overload him

with frustration and embarrassment that he would resign. A spoiled rich kid

could find plenty of more pleasant ways to misspend his youth, they thought.

Instead he had decided to make the company the best in the Legion, and

by applying unorthodox methods had come a long way toward that goal. But he

had powerful enemies, and Lorelei appeared a perfect trap for the unwary.

Dominated by gangsters, and given over to every sort of sybaritic

entertainment, it would have destroyed most military units. That Phule's

company had succeeded beyond all hopes confounded those enemies-but they were

determined to find new ways to destroy him.

Now, the company was about to receive new troops-the first significant

additions to its ranks since he took command. In such a tight-knit unit, any

change of personnel has an impact. When the new troops have been selected by

one's enemies, the impact is likely to be disastrous...

"They'll be docking any minute, now," said Phule, consulting his chronometer.

It was the third time he'd checked it in the last five minutes. Since there

were numerous time displays on view throughout the space station's arrival

lounge, an observer might have concluded that Phule's preoccupation with the

time-combined with his pacing and nonstop talking-was a sign of nervousness.

That observer would have been right.

"A few minutes one way or the other won't make much difference,

Captain," said Sergeant Brandy, who had come with her commanding officer to

greet the new troops assigned to Phule's Company. "They're coming, and we'll

deal with it. All of us will. I've been through this enough times before."

"Oh, I know you have," said Phule, nodding appreciatively to his top

sergeant. "And I know you'll do everything you can to make them fit in

smoothly. I've seen what you can do, Brandy. But this isn't just any new batch

of recruits. It's a completely unique situation."

"You mean the Gambolts, sir?" said Lieutenant Armstrong, the third in

the greeting party. He stood ramrod straight, almost managing to look

comfortable despite the exaggerated precision of his uniform and posture. "I

don't see where they'll be a problem. They're among the finest fighters in the

galaxy. It's an honor to have them in our unit."

"Yes, I appreciate that," said Phule. "But Gambolts have never served in

mixed units with humans before-and these three specifically requested to be

assigned to us. It's a tribute to the good work we've done. But I can't help

wondering..." His voice trailed off.

Brandy shook her head firmly. "Whether the troops will accept them?

Don't worry about that, Captain. This outfit may be the most tolerant bunch in

the Legion. When you've had to live down the reputation we've been saddled

with, you don't have room to get snooty about your barracksmates."

"Losers can't be choosers, in other words," said Phule. "I suppose

that's been true in the past. Most of the companies have had to accept

whatever hand the Legion dealt them. But we've been changing that."

"You've been changing that, sir," said Lieutenant Armstrong. "If not for

you, we'd still be back on Haskin's Planet, slogging through the swamps. Now

we're among the elite companies of the Legion-all thanks to your efforts."

"I can't take all the credit," said Phule. "It's been a team effort, and

every member has contributed. That's why I'm anxious about the new troops, to

tell you the truth. The Gambolts have always had their own elite unit in the

Regular Army. Now three of them are coming to us-and I have to wonder why.

Will they fit into the team? Will they hold themselves apart from the rest of

the unit? Will they..."

Whatever he was about to say was interrupted by the blare of a klaxon

and a red-lit sign flashing on and off by the arrival door. The sign now read,

SHUTTLE DOCKING: PREPARE FOR DEBARKING PASSENGERS. Phule and his subordinates

turned to face the door. Some of their questions were about to be answered.

One advantage of building a casino on a space station is that it can be a true

twenty-four hour operation. With no local cycle of day and night, there is no

need for visitors to adjust to the local clock, or to go through what in

prespace days used to be called "jet lag". So the Fat Chance Casino was likely

to have an eager crowd of gamblers at any hour. This, in turn, meant that

Phule's Company had to be alert for trouble at any hour.

But Moustache, who was in charge of "daytime" security at the casino,

wasn't expecting any real trouble. The tall noncom with a balding head and a

bright red moustache sat at the bar sipping a brisk "cuppa" tea, scanning the

early afternoon crowd with detached interest. He knew he wouldn't spot

everything-it wasn't really his job, after all. Other members of the Omega

Mob, disguised as waiters, croupiers, or fellow customers, mingled with the

crowd, probing for the myriad signs that someone was trying to cheat. Behind

the elegant-looking facade, other vigilant eyes performed the same task, aided

by state-of-the-art surveillance equipment.

Of course, since the showdown with Maxine Pruett's hoodlums, there had

been less trouble. Word had quickly gone out on the gamblers' grapevine to

forget about trying to beat the Fat Chance. Still, there was always a handful

of small-time grifters who thought they could outsmart the house security

staff. Most of these were quickly spotted and quietly removed from the casino

floor to a private lounge to await deportation on the next ship off-station.

It was all handled very professionally-and unsuccessful grifters usually

accepted their fate with a stoical shrug. After all, it was one of the risks

of doing business.

So it came as a surprise when a voice spoke quietly in Moustache's

earphone. It was Rose-"Mother" to the company-the voice of Comm Central, the

vital glue that bound the company together. "Wake up, you old buzzard," she

said teasingly. "We're about to get some rough trade. I know you senior

citizens need your afternoon naps, but it'd be a shame for you to doze through

the entertainment."

"Where?" said Moustache, instantly alert. He spoke under his breath,

knowing that the super-sensitive directional microphone on his wrist

communicator could pick up a whisper inaudible to someone at the next table.

"Blackjack tables, darlin'," said Mother. "We've got a mom-and-pop team

palming and passing cards at Number Five. I've already tipped the dealer, and

she's stalling."

"Good," said Moustache, standing up from the bar. "Who's covering that

sector?"

"The dealer's a civilian employee. Her orders are to stay clear if

trouble starts and let security handle it. We've got a couple of actors

playing legionnaire stationed around the room, and they may be all we really

need. But Gabriel's on the nearest exit in case they try to run. And if he

needs help, we've got Sushi and Do-Wop undercover in that area-they're already

closing in on Number Five. You might dodder over, yourself, grandpa just to

see how it all comes out. The grifters might accept you as a father figure."

"Well, Mother, perhaps I'll introduce them to you, as well," said

Moustache, smiling to himself. Of course he wouldn't follow through on that

threat; there was no reason to let anyone know how thoroughly the gambling

tables were monitored. It might inhibit the free-spending attitude the casino

wanted to encourage in its legitimate customers. And to give professional

gamblers a behind-the-scenes look at security might give them ideas how to

beat it.

Moustache had perfected the art of moving quickly without appearing to

be in any particular hurry. If a noncom looked flustered or rushed, the troops

might decide there was something for them to worry about. Moustache had been a

career noncom in the Regular Army before forced retirement made him join the

Space Legion. His crisp military bearing and his carefully polished "British

Sergeant-Major" air made him the perfect front man for Phule's undercover

surveillance operation in the Fat Chance. While all eyes were on him and his

troop of uniformed actors (with a salting of genuine legionnaires to handle

any rough stuff), the real security team could work unobserved, ready to

respond to any threat before the opposition was aware of them.

That was exactly what was happening as Moustache rounded a bank of

quantum slot machines and entered the blackjack area of the casino. Do-Wop had

slouched into a vacant seat at table number five, within an arm's length of a

pudgy gray-haired man wearing a well-broken-in business suit over a brightly

colored shirt. Beside him sat a woman of similar age, in a slightly too-tight

dress and a too-elaborate, blatantly dyed hairdo. A travelling salesman on

vacation with his wife, or so it appeared at first glance. But if Mother was

correct-and she probably was-the outfits were sheep's clothing, camouflage to

make a team of card cheats look like innocent tourists. At the far end of the

table stood Sushi, looking for all the world as if he were trying to decide

how the cards were running at this table before sitting down to play.

The dealer glanced up as Moustache came into view, and he winked at her.

It was time to put an end to this incident. He stepped forward and put a hand

lightly on the man's shoulder. "Excuse me, sir," he said. His voice was very

polite but carried an unmistakable stamp of authority.

The man glanced over his shoulder, barely long enough for him to

took everyone by surprise. Both the man and the woman abruptly shoved back

their chairs, knocking Moustache off balance. In the split second before he

could recover, the woman had spun around and begun to throw punches,

concentrating on his midsection-which, given the difference in their heights,

was her most convenient target.

The woman was stronger than Moustache had expected. He had to call on

all his training to fight off the middle-aged tourist. Using his superior

reach, he grabbed the chair she had vacated and shoved her back against the

table with it, trying to keep her pinned out of lethal range. Do-Wop was

already stepping forward to help subdue her, and there were black-uniformed

figures closing in from a distance, so all Moustache had to do was keep her at

bay and hope the man didn't come to her assistance. With luck, he'd have

nothing more serious than bruises to show for this episode.

But the woman's companion had ideas of his own. Instead of helping her

break free, he leaped up on the table and launched himself in a flying kick at

Sushi.

Sushi had held back from the altercation, ready to cut off either of the

pair who tried to escape. So while he was caught by surprise, his reflexes and

training got him out of trouble. Instead of trying to duck under the kick, he

leaned backward enough to make the attacker's flailing feet miss him, then

gave the flying body a hard shove in the ribs as it went past, trying to spoil

the attacker's balance. To that extent Sushi succeeded, and the tourist landed

ignominiously on a chair that toppled with a loud crack as the back legs gave

way.

But the shove transferred enough momentum to Sushi to knock him off

balance, as well. He spun around, bounced off the table behind him, and landed

on hands and knees on the floor a short distance from his assailant. Almost at

once, he sprang up, ready for action. Sushi expected the man to be halfway to

the exit, or more likely, lying dazed on the floor. Instead, he was surprised

to find the man already in a compact fighting stance. That made no sense at

all. The man must have known he was surrounded by the legionnaires. If he

wasn't going to try to escape, he should have given up quietly as soon as his

cheating was discovered. Unless...

Sushi looked more closely at his opponent. Under the baggy suit and

graying hair-which upon closer inspection appeared to have been dyed-was a man

close to his prime, solidly built and obviously trained in the martial arts.

His facial features showed Asian ancestry. Suddenly Sushi understood.

Sushi rose to his feet and bowed slowly. "I have been expecting you," he

said to the man. He kept his voice low, speaking in Japanese. "We have

business to tend to, but we should not discuss it in front of outsiders."

The other man snarled. "My family does not dicker with impostors. Our

only business today is your death."

"Do not judge too quickly," said Sushi. "Look!" He made a surreptitious

motion with his left hand and then dropped both arms to his sides, leaving

himself open to the other man's attack.

The other man's face changed in an instant, and he, too, adopted a more

relaxed stance. "Ah! I did not know! Perhaps there is something to discuss

after all. But you are right-outsiders should not hear what we have to say,

though I think there are few here who would understand us."

"One moment, please," said Sushi. "I will tell the others you have

surrendered to me for questioning, and then we will go someplace where we may

talk freely. They will not question me because they believe I am loyal to

their captain. Your woman will be taken to a safe place and not harmed, and

you may retrieve her at your convenience."

"That is good. I will tell her so," said the Yakuza man. The two turned

to the rest of the group. Moustache had one hand on the woman's arm-she had

stopped fighting when Sushi had begun talking to his opponent in Japanese;

presumably she understood that language.

"I need to talk to this man;" Sushi said to Moustache. "He says the

woman will go with you to the holding lounge, and I don't think she'll cause

any trouble now. I'll take responsibility."

Moustache looked to Do-Wop, who nodded. "Cool with me if you know what

you're doing," said Do-Wop. "But be careful just because you know that cat's

lingo don't mean you want to turn your back on him."

"Don't worry, it's under control," said Sushi. He gestured to the Yakuza

and together they walked out of the casino. Even before they were gone the

normal sounds of gambling had resumed.

"There they are," said Brandy, and there was no question what she meant. Three

human-sized cats in Space Legion uniforms would have stood out in any crowd.

And while the Gambolts were famed for their ability to infiltrate an enemy

position without being seen or heard, there was no need for stealth here. They

bounced into the entry lounge, three oversized balls of feline energy, eyes

darting in every direction. Behind them, a group of humans in similar uniform

slouched into the lounge-the rest of the recruits.

The Gambolts immediately spotted the three black-uniformed humans

standing together. They glided over and drew up in front of Phule, coming to

attention. One of them turned on a translator and said, "New recruits

reporting for duty, sir!" The Gambolt vocal equipment could make a limited

range of human sounds, but communication was far smoother with a translator in

place.

"Welcome to Omega Company," said Phule, stepping forward. He waited

until all the recruits had moved up to join them, in a ragged semblance of a

line. "I am Captain Jester, and this is Lieutenant Armstrong. Sergeant Brandy

here will be in charge of your training. You'll meet the rest of your comrades

and officers back at the hotel. We're pleased to have you as part of our

outfit." He turned to Armstrong, who had brought out a clipboard. "Carry on,

Lieutenant."

"Yes, sir!" said Armstrong, giving his usual crisp salute. He turned to

face the new arrivals. "Attention! Sergeant Brandy will call roll."

Brandy stepped forward and took the clipboard from Armstrong. She

inspected the new arrivals. While she'd never seen Gambolts up close, these

three looked to be in excellent physical condition, and their spanking-new

uniforms effectively set off their lithe forms. If the Gambolts were indeed

deadly fighters as rumor said, this trio would be a strong addition to the

company. The rest of the recruits looked like a perfect match for the assorted

misfits and malcontents of Omega Company.

But there would be time enough to sort that out. She looked down at the

clipboard and began reading names.

"Dukes?"

"Here, Sergeant," answered the biggest of the three Gambolts-a tawny

six-footer, with light-green eyes and a nick out of its left ear. (Was this a

male or a female? Brandy wondered idly. The Gambolts' sexual differences

weren't immediately evident to the untrained human eye, and both sexes were

known to choose military careers. It would probably make more difference to

the Gambolts than it ever would to her.)

"Welcome aboard, Dukes. Garbo?"

"Here, Sergeant," said another Gambolt. The translator made this one's

voice sound lighter and perhaps more feminine-as the choice of name also

suggested-though the only outward physical distinction between this one and

the other Gambolts was a slightly lighter build. Garbo had darker fur, nearly

black, with a hint of a lighter colored undercoat.

"Welcome to the company, Garbo. Rube?"

"Right here, Sarge," said the third Gambolt, perhaps a few inches

shorter than Dukes but even more imposingly built. Rube had gray fur, with

slightly longer tufts on the cheeks, and its eyes seemed bigger than the

others'. Its voice sounded a touch more jovial than the others', too, though

that could easily be an artifice of the translator.

"Welcome aboard," Brandy said again. "Slayer?"

"Yo," said a scrawny human with a shaved head and a bone through its

nose-it was difficult to determine its gender, as well.

This was the kind of recruit Brandy was used to. "That's Yo, Sergeant to

you, Slayer," she barked. The recruit flinched, and muttered something that

sounded like an appropriate response. Brandy nodded-she'd have plenty of time

to get into the fine points of Legion discipline, such as it was. For now, it

was sufficient to establish who was in charge. She turned to the next name on

the list. "Brick?"

There were a dozen more recruits, all present, though none looked

anywhere near as promising as the Gambolts. She finished the list, then turned

to Armstrong and said, "All new troops present and accounted for, Lieutenant."

"Very good," said Armstrong, but before he could say more he was

interrupted by a new voice.

"I'm a-gonna hafts take exception to that, Sarge," said a deep resonant

voice. "I'm as much a member of this here company as anybody, and by the

captain's own personal request, as it happens."

Brandy turned to see a pudgy human, with long, dark slicked-back hair

and even darker sunglasses. Like the others in the formation, the newcomer was

dressed in black, although his jumpsuit was even more flamboyant than the

version of the Legion uniform Phule's Company wore. And there was nothing at

all military about the stranger's hipshot stance and half-sneering expression.

It was Lieutenant Armstrong who broke the awkward silence. He pulled

himself up to his full height and snapped, "If you're assigned to Omega

Company, then fall in with the rest of the troops and report. This is the

Legion, if you know what that means."

"Lordy, do I ever," said the newcomer. He sauntered up next to the

Gambolts, drew himself more or less upright, and gave a passable imitation of

a salute. "Reverend Jordan Ayres reportin' for duty, suh. But y'all can call

me Rev."

"What the hell..." began Brandy, gearing up to give the new man a

demonstration of how an angry top sergeant looked and sounded.

But Phule said, "Wait a minute, Brandy. Reverend.

" Phule's puzzled expression suddenly transformed itself into a broad

smile and the captain reached out a hand for Ayres to shake. "Of course!

You're the chaplain I requested from headquarters. Welcome to Omega Company."

He shot a quizzical look at Armstrong.

"A chaplain?" said Armstrong, staring at the newcomer. "I'd almost

forgotten you'd asked. There wasn't anything about it in the dispatches from

headquarters. I'm afraid you find us not properly prepared to greet you,

Reverend Ayres. My apologies."

"Think nothin' of it," said the chaplain, falling back into his former

posture. "And jes' call me Rev, Lieutenant. Why, the less fuss y'all make

about me, the better. I'm jes' here to do a job, same as everybody else."

"Yes, that's the spirit," said Phule. "Now, I think it's time for us to

get back to the Fat Chance where you people can meet your new comrades and get

started on your duties. I can promise you a very interesting tour of duty with

us."

"That's why we're here," said one of the Gambolts-Dukes, the biggest of

the trio. His expression could have passed for a grin, although the large and

very sharp canine (or were they more properly feline?) teeth made it far more

ferocious than an equivalent expression from a human.

"Good, then let's go," said Brandy. "Follow me, on the double!"

The new members of Phule's Company shouldered their bags, and followed

Brandy and their officers past the line of curious tourists at the immigration

desk, out to a waiting hoverbus that would take them back to the Fat Chance

hotel and their new assignment. They quickly stowed their bags and boarded,

and the bus nosed out into the light traffic and headed away.

Neither they nor the tourists (who were after all most interested in

getting to the casinos and spending their money) noticed the small figure in

black that surreptitiously followed the legionnaires to the bus, and then set

off on foot behind it, sticking carefully to the edge of the road and doing

its best to avoid observation.

Journal #281

The unsavory elements of society look upon gambling as their private

domain. Legitimate businessmen who enter that field are likely to find

themselves the object of unwanted attention from those who wish to take the

lion's share of the profits without having worked for it. Needless to say,

this is not comfortable.

The local mob on Lorelei was led by Maxine ( "Maxie ") Pruett. She had

greeted my employer with a well-orchestrated campaign of strong-arm tactics to

frighten away customers. She also sponsored an invasion of cardsharps and

grifters intended to siphon off the casino's profits. She confidently expected

these tactics to force the casino into bankruptcy, at which point she planned

to foreclose on the substantial loans she had made the owners.

But things did not go as Maxine had planned. Her takeover attempt was

thwarted by my employer's access to the firepower of a fully equipped Legion

company-as well as to a degree of advance intelligence provided largely by

myself. But her failure did nothing to deter outside criminals from their own

forays. My employer knew that such attempts were inevitable. What he didn't

know was how quickly the predators would begin to circle...or to what extent

they had Maxie's aid and comfort in their unsavory ventures.

"You're underestimating Jester again," said Laverna, looking up from the book

she was reading. Out of habit, she used Phule's Legion pseudonym, although she

and her boss both knew his real name by now. "Or have you forgotten how lucky

you were to get away with your skin all in one piece?"

"I haven't forgotten," said Maxie Pruett. "You need a good memory to

stay in this business as long as I have-or have you forgotten that?" Her

piercing eyes glared at her chief advisor, but she knew and respected the tall

black woman's talent for assessing risks unemotionally-an ability that had

earned her the grudging nickname, "the Ice Bitch."

"Point taken," said Laverna, holding her place in the book with a

forefinger. "But remember this: Jester's troops will eventually be rotated

out. When somebody else has the post, Jester may lose interest in the place,

and move his money someplace he can keep an eye on it more easily. You can

afford to bide your time, see who comes in next, and make your move then.

You're here for the long term-unless you make a serious mistake."

Maxie nodded. "And you think going after the Fat Chance again is a

mistake."

"I know it is," said Laverna. She leaned forward in her chair. "The

first time you tangled with Jester, you had all the advantages, and he still

managed to come out ahead. And you were lucky, at that-all you lost was your

bid to take over the Fat Chance right away. Next time, the consequences are

likely to be permanent. He's got a pretty good idea who's behind any trouble

that shows up at his door-and he's got the ability to hit back a lot harder

than you can hit him."

"That's how I like it," said Maxie. "All the money on the table, and no

backing out. It's easy for you to say `take the long view'-you don't have to

watch that joker pocket all the profits from the Fat Chance while you're

waiting for him to go away."

"I'm here, aren't I?" said Laverna. "I'm here for the long run, too.

It's in my best interest to keep your business healthy. That's why I'm

advising you to let things take their natural course. The odds always favor

the house-and on Lorelei, the house means you. Let the odds do the work for

you, and you'll eventually win everything."

"I know that," said Maxie. She went over to a window and looked out at

the streets below. The view from the penthouse suite was spectacular, with all

the lights of Lorelei's casinos twinkling below her. Actually, since the hotel

was on an orbiting space station, the "outdoors" was as much "indoors" as the

room itself. But there was something comforting about the illusion of an

actual "world" outside, and the casinos wanted their customers to be

comfortable-at least, as long as they had money to spend.

Maxine looked out the window for a moment, leaning her hands on the

sill. Then she said, without turning around, "But there's another problem.

Success breeds success, and if Phule can keep the Fat Chance successful, it'll

start cutting into everybody else's profits. Even after his unit gets

transferred out, he'll leave somebody sharp in charge of it, somebody we'll

have a hard time getting to. And the momentum will keep going his way. We need

to stop that momentum now. That's why I've done a few things to stir the pot-

things they won't be ready for."

"Yes, I hear that the Yakuza team is already on-station," said Laverna.

"There was a dustup at the blackjack tables in the Fat Chance this afternoon-I

think that may have been their work."

"Yes, I heard about that little ruckus," said Maxie. "I am taking your

advice, by the way. None of my little plans can be traced to me-it's all going

to look like somebody else's doing. I can just sit back and collect my regular

percentage, and watch the sharks begin to circle around Jester's little

empire. I think I'm going to enjoy this, Laverna."

"I hope you do, boss," said Laverna, but her expression suggested that

she still saw trouble ahead. Of course, that was part of her job-anticipating

trouble and finding ways to head it off. She wished that Maxie would stop

finding ways to borrow trouble...but if Maxie had been like that, she wouldn't

have needed someone like Laverna. They give you lemons, you make lemonade,

thought Laverna, and went back to her book.

Phule stepped out of the hoverbus and into the front entrance of the Fat

Chance Casino, leaving Sergeant Brandy to show the recruits to their quarters.

He was followed by the chaplain, who ignored Brandy's icy stare and fell in

behind the captain as if it were his place. Nothing had yet been said about

Rev's nominal rank, so Brandy resisted the impulse to order him into line with

the other new arrivals. There'd be time to talk to the captain when she'd

finished her current job. After all, in the Omega Mob, a lot of the usual

patterns of military life and protocol were-well, the only way to put it was

different. Brandy liked it that way.

As he entered the casino, Rev cast a solemn eye upon the busy gambling

tables, the scantily clad waitresses, the bustling bartenders, and the fevered

patrons. Sprinkled throughout the crowd, conspicuous in their black Legion

uniforms, were the guards-the ones he had been called to minister to. "This is

my portion, then," he murmured to himself. "A chance to follow in the King's

footsteps. Let me make the most of it." Then he said aloud to Phule, "Captain,

I'll ask your permission to stop here for a while and meet the people I'll be

serving. Plenty of time to find my quarters later."

Phule nodded, saying, "Sure, why not?" and Rev made a gesture that might

have been mistaken for a salute before heading off into the crowd. Phule

barely noticed the chaplain's departure; he had spotted Moustache striding

purposefully toward him. "Yes, Sergeant, what's the situation?" he asked, as

the older man fell in step beside him.

"Sushi's disappeared, sir," said Moustache, in his clipped, British

accent. "The eyes spotted a pair of card cheats at one of the blackjack

tables. Sushi and Do-Wop moved in to handle it; the man turned out to be a

martial arts specialist, and they put up a bit of a fight."

"That's unusual," said Phule, his eyebrows rising. "Any injuries?"

"None reported, sir," Moustache said. "A bit of broken furniture, but

that was replaced in no time at all."

"Well, that's good," said Phule. He stopped, and turned to face the

older man. "How long ago was this?"

"Right after you left, sir," said the sergeant. "Coming up on forty

minutes ago. After the first flurry, Sushi and the man left together. Sushi

told Do-Wop he had things under control, but didn't give details. And he

turned off his communicator as they left. We have the woman in custody-she

turned tame as a puppy after the man stopped fighting-but she's not talking. I

doubt she knows where they are, anyway. We certainly don't."

"Sushi turned off his communicator, you say?" A look of concern came

over Phule's face. "That's not a smart move. I have faith in his judgment, but

this..."

"I know what you mean, sir," said Moustache, grimly. "We can't always

stick to procedures, but he should have given Mother a probable destination

before dropping out of touch. I didn't see anything that justified that."

"What steps are we taking to locate him?"

"Very low-profile at present, sir," said Moustache. "Lieutenant

Rembrandt was informed as soon as we learned of the incident. She ordered all

personnel to report any sighting of either Sushi or the other man-so far no

word. We're assuming that the other man could have taken control of Sushi's

communicator, so we don't want to make a general broadcast that he might

intercept."

"Is there any reason to believe that's the case?" asked Phule.

"None so far," said Moustache. "But you'd best talk to Rembrandt and

Mother-they've been watching the situation develop ever since Sushi left the

casino floor, and may know a fair amount they haven't passed on-the enemy may

have ears."

"Yes, of course," said Phule. "Carry on, then, Sergeant-it looks as if

you've done everything you could." He turned and headed for the comm center.

If anyone knew anything more than Moustache, it would be Mother.

Neither he nor Moustache noticed the small figure in black that watched

them from behind a large, potted Durdanian fern, then swiftly moved to follow

Phule toward the elevator bank.

"These will be your quarters, for the time being," said Brandy, opening the

door to a suite on the third floor of the hotel. One of Phule's innovations

had been abandonment of the normal Legion barracks system. Almost immediately

upon taking over the Omega Mob, he had moved the troops out of their quarters,

lock, stock, and barrel, and checked them into the best hotel in town while

the quarters were rebuilt to his specifications-which were, if anything, even

more comfortable than the hotel. He hadn't seen any reason to change that

policy here on Lorelei. Except for a few individuals engaged in undercover

work outside the hotel, everyone in the company was in the best quarters the

Fat Chance had to offer.

"This is good," said Rube, unshouldering his heavy pack and putting it

on the floor. Dukes made a sound that the translator turned into a murmur of

agreement. Brandy wasn't surprised. In his usual thorough research, Phule had

satisfied himself that human-style beds would be suitable for Gambolt use.

Otherwise, he would have spent whatever was necessary for sleeping

arrangements as comfortable to the Gambolts as the best hotel beds were for

the human troops in his command. It was Legion policy to give equal

accommodations to troops of all races, but in most units that meant equal

discomfort. In Phule's Company, it meant equal luxury, from top to bottom.

The smallest Gambolt, Garbo, stood looking around the room without

speaking. Finally Garbo said, "Do all three of us have to share this room?"

"Why, is there a problem?" Brandy was taken aback. To the best of her

knowledge, the Gambolts did not segregate troops by sex in their own units-

Phule had been careful to determine that was the case-and in any case, they

attached no social significance to males and females sharing quarters. So

there had appeared to be no reason to set aside two suites for the new troops,

when one large one was available. Besides, in a twenty-four-hour mission like

casino security, it was common for roommates to end up on different schedules,

with one needing to sleep while the others were up and active. The layout of

the suite, with several separate rooms that could be closed off, took that

possibility into account.

"Yes, there is a problem," said Garbo, turning to face her sergeant. "I

joined this unit because I wanted to serve with humans, not to be set apart

with others of my own kind. And here, at the very start, you are about to put

me into quarters with the only others of my kind in your company. Isn't there

anyplace else I can be housed?"

Brandy was surprised, but the request was reasonable. It was unusual for

Gambolts to serve with anyone not of their own race. So it wasn't really

surprising that a Gambolt who'd volunteered for a human outfit didn't want to

be housed with her own kind. It was a far cry from being the strangest thing

she'd run across in the Legion. In fact, to most Space Legion veterans, it

would have been suspicious if there hadn't been something strange about a new

batch of recruits...

"All right, I can fix that," Brandy said to the Gambolt. "But first,

while we're here-Dukes and Rube, you two have an hour to unpack your things.

At 1500 hours you'll report to Sergeant Chocolate Harry at the supply depot to

be outfitted. At 1600 hours, you and the other recruits will report to the

Grand Ballroom for orientation and duty assignments. Understood?"

"Yes, Sergeant," the Gambolts said again.

"OK. Garbo, let's see if we can find you a room before 1500-I want

everybody set up with rooms and duty assignments by then. It may mean you

don't have time to get completely settled in until later. Understood?"

"Yes, Sergeant," said Garbo, shouldering her pack.

"Good," said Brandy. She thought to herself, They said these Gambolts

make ideal soldiers. I wonder what's wrong with them that they ended up in the

Omega Mob? She remembered Phule's determination to make his company an example

of the Legion's true potential. Maybe these Gambolt recruits were the next

step toward making that determination a reality. We'll find out soon enough,

she thought, and headed down the corridor, with Garbo close behind.

Tusk-anini was perched on a stool near the entrance of the Fat Chance Casino

when two humans in bad suits stepped up to him. Even Tusk-anini, who paid very

little attention to human clothing styles, could tell that the suits were bad.

Not only cheap and ill-fitting, but unattractive by design. They looked as

ugly as the uniforms the Omega Company had worn before Phule's arrival.

"Excuse me, friend, can you direct us to the Fat Chance Casino?" said

the taller of the two humans. He wasn't that much taller, but the difference

in height was the only marked distinction between them. They had nondescript

faces, mousy brown hair in nearly identical unflattering short cuts, and

extremely unstylish dark glasses. They also carried identical briefcases, in a

sort of grayish dark material that had come out of a vat in some chemical

plant. The briefcases were almost the same noncommittal color as the suits.

"You standing in front of Fat Chance," said Tusk-anini, cautiously.

While neither of the humans had done anything in particular to alarm him, he

had a bad feeling about them. One thing the Volton had learned during his

association with humans was that feelings could be trusted. In fact, they

sometimes gave you better answers than the most rigorous logical analysis.

The shorter human looked up and noticed the sign and said, "Yes, so we

are." Now that he heard the voice, Tusk-anini realized that the shorter one

was a female, a fact that the baggy suit and short haircut did much to conceal

from the casual glance.

The man spoke again, "Are you a casino employee?"

"Yes, I am," said Tusk-anini-not quite truthfully, for while the

legionnaires had been brought to Lorelei to guard the casino, they had always

been freelance contractors, not regular employees. Now, of course, as a member

of Phule's Company Tusk-anini was in fact a part-owner of the Fat Chance. A

comparatively small part-owner, since every member of Phule's Company also had

shares, but put together the Omega Mob was the majority stockholder.

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APhuleandHisMoneybyRobertAsprinwithPeterJ.HeckCopyright19991Journal#278Eventhemostfortunatecircumstancescontaintheseedsoftheirowndestruction.SoitwaswiththetenureofPhule'sCompanyonLorelei.Atfirstglance,aposhgamblingresortlikeLoreleiwouldappearaplumassignmentforaSpaceLegioncompanythatuntilrecentlyhadb...

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Robert Asprin - Phule 3 - A Phule and His Money

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