No Phule Like an Old Phule

12

Journal #714

The most common question asked of a legionnaire-at least, by civilians-is "Why'd you join the Legion?" The most common answer, in my experience, is "To get a fresh start." While that answer may not be strictly true in every case, it does possess a great deal of psychological validity. A genuine fresh start in life is a rare thing indeed; even the illusion of a fresh start can lead to a significant alteration in a person's outlook. An a in fact, more than almost any other institution in society, the Legion does offer a fresh start to those who come to it in search of one.

The fact that so few of its members take any significant advantage of the opportunity is hardly to be held against the Legion.

Thumper bounded out of bed; it took him only a moment to reach the jangling wake-up alarm and turn the buzzer off. That was all it took to remind him that he was in a new place. It also reminded him, inevitably, of everything that had happened the night before. He shook his head; there was no changing what was past. He quickly washed up, threw on his black Legion jumpsuit, and went out to find some breakfast. Then he would report to Sergeant Brandy's training squad, as she had instructed him the previous afternoon. It was good being allowed to eat before having to stand in formation-Thumper decided that this was another one of the ways Omega Company was a significant improvement over Legion basic camp.

He loaded up his tray and turned to look for a seat at one of the tables. To his surprise, there were a couple of legionnaires beckoning to him from the nearest table. "Hey, new guy, come sit with us!" said one of them-a small human with a hairless head and a wide smile.

Encouraged, Thumper took one of the empty seats at the long table. "Thanks for the invitation," he said. "My Legion name's Thumper. What about you guys?"

"I am Mahatma," said the one who'd invited him. "And until you came, I was one of the new guys in Omega Company. So you have caused me and my friends to become veterans, for which we owe you many thanks." The others introduced themselves: a small human named Super-Gnat, and her partner, a Volton named Tusk anini; two Gambolts named Dukes and Rube; and two other humans named Roadkill and Street. As it turned out, several of them, including Mahatma, were also members of Sergeant Brandy's training squad, to which Thumper had been ordered to report after breakfast.

"Is this going to be anything like Legion basic?" Thumper asked.

Mahatma smiled. "I went through basic training with Brandy, so I have nothing else to compare it to," he said.

"Sergeant Brandy can sometimes be obstinate, but she is usually capable of adapting to circumstances."

Tusk-anini snorted, and said, "Mahatma has not seen many other sergeants. I have. All of them were tough, and Brandy is tough, too. But better than most sergeants, she understands that not all sophonts are just humans with funny faces. That is a good thing to know, for a sergeant"

"But she will make you work hard," said Rube. "I hear you are a fast runner and a good jumper."

"Well, 1 guess so," said Thumper. "They told me 1 set a camp record for the obstacle course in Basic."

"Ah, yes-the obstacle course," said Dukes, brushing crumbs out of his whiskers with one paw. "Captain Jester has us run the obstacle course, too. 1 believe that we do it differently from other Legion companies. It will be interesting to hear what you say after you run it with us."

"Uh-huh," said Thumper, suddenly cautious. "I guess we'll see what it's like when it comes up." He sensed some deeper meaning behind the Gambolt's comment, some unspoken subject he'd best not commit himself on until he saw its complexities firsthand. He took a forkful of salad to chew on, hoping that someone else would pick up the thread of the conversation.

But the only one who spoke was Mahatma, who simply smiled, and said, "Oh, yes, we will certainly see." And with that, Thumper had to remain contented until one of the squad looked up at the wall clock, and said, "Uh-oh-time to get moving. Don't want to make the new guy late on his first day here."

"Ahh, why not?" said Roadkill, grinning. "Make the rest of us look bad if he bein' always on time. Oughta start out on the wrong foot like the rest of us."

"Not correct," said Tusk-anini, shaking his huge head. "If new guy starts out on wrong foot, he doing it on his own. That what Omega Mob be all about-from each according to his inability, to each according to his misdeeds."

Super-Gnat looked up at her partner in awe. "Tusk, 1 don't know what you've been reading, but I somehow don't think it's a manual of military procedure. You're right about one thing, though-the new guy's gotta make his own mistakes. Go ahead, Thumper-the others can be as late or early as they want, but you need to be on time today. And good luck!" The others at the table laughed, but they all stood up along with Thumper.

"OK, new guy, follow us," said Street "Brandy be waitin'." And together they filed out of the mess hall toward the parade ground for Thumper's first full day with Omega Mob.

The observer in the Fat Chance casino's control center turned away from the monitor screen and called out to her superior. "Looks like Toni's got a live one," she said.

"Let's see," said the manager. She stepped up behind the observer's chair and leaned forward, looking at the monitor. "That guy again," she said. "Yeah, we've been watching this bozo for a good while now. Has all the marks of a grifter, but nobody's seen him doing anything we can nail him for-yet"

The observer leaned back. "Maybe he's running some kind of game outside the casino, then coming in to gamble with the take. I can't believe he came by that kind of money honestly-to throw a hundred bucks on the table like it didn't matter."

"As if," the manager-who was a stickler for grammar corrected her. "Well, we don't know where his original stake came from, but we can blame the old man for giving him enough to play at the big tables."

"The old man 1" the observer looked up in surprise. "What do you mean 1"

The manager grunted, then said, "This guy walked up to Victor Phule when he was pumping chips into the thousand-dollar slots. For whatever reason, Phule seems to have taken a shine to him. So he tossed him a chip and asked him to play it for him-to change his luck, I guess. The guy wouldn't take it at first, but Phule told him they'd split anything he won. Damned if the guy doesn't score an

eight-for-one, and come out four thousand ahead. This morning he changed a thousand into smaller chips-those thousand-buck chips are all marked-and that's what he's playing with now."

"Uh-huh," said the observer. "Well, it looks as if he's winning a little bit of his own. Red just came up twice more, and he was down on it both times."

"Shit," said the manager. "I hate it when these guys win. Let's just hope Toni can persuade him to let it ride a little longer-we don't want this guy getting too far ahead of the game. He's too slimy for my taste-and I'd just as soon not give him enough money to try something really big."

"Like what?" asked the observer. "I mean, he looks like a slimeball, but so far the worst I've seen him do is stare at Toni's boobs-which she's trying her best to get him to do, anyhow."

"Well, we've got a little bit of history on him," said the observer. "He and a woman were here a few months back, and we had a couple of flaky security incidents involving them-nothing we could make any kind of case on, but suspicious. And they left the station very suddenly, didn't check out or anything. Everything was paid up, so we didn't follow it up-but I'm wondering if we shouldn't have..."

"He won again," said the observer. "That's sixteen hundred he's ahead, now."

"Let him just keep playing," said the other woman, leaning forward to stare at the monitor. "Better yet, let him bump the bets even more. C'mon, Toni, that's what you're here for. Get him to put his whole wad on the red." She spoke as if the redheaded woman-whose job description fell somewhere between "shill" and "undercover security guard"--could actually hear her. Maybe she can hear, thought the observer. It wasn't unknown for the floor agents to wear equipment both to send and to receive messages.

Whether Toni had heard the supervisor or simply grasped what the situation demanded, the observer never found out.

But she leaned over to the object of their scrutiny and said something in his ear. He grinned, stupidly. Whoever this guy was, suave wasn't in his repertory at all. Then he reached in his pocket and pulled out a handful of chips. He looked at them, shrugged, and put them all out on the red section of the betting layout. Even from the observation cameras lodged in the ceiling lighting fixtures, it was obvious that there were three thousand-dollar chips in the stack.

"Yes!" hissed the supervisor. "He's betting everything he has. C'mon, black!"

"Black, yeah, c'mon black," echoed the observer. Rooting for or against one of the players wasn't really professional, but there were times even the most hardened casino hands got involved in the play. And nobody could really object if they were rooting for the bettor to lose.

The wheel spun, and the spectators at the table leaned forward, holding their collective breath. So did the two unseen spectators high above the action. The wheel gradually slowed, and the ball's motion brought it down into the slotted section until it came to rest in one division...

"'All right, red again!" shouted Ernie. Suddenly there was a stunned silence around the table as the other bettors realized what had happened. The croupier turned a sour look toward the wheel as he watched Ernie scoop in his winnings-now totaling over ten thousand dollars. But it wasn't the wheel's fault, or the croupier's, either. Ernie was on a hot streak. He knew the feeling, and it was hard to keep from grinning.

It went against all his instincts to pick up his chips when his luck was running. But out of the comer of his eye he'd seen Victor Phule walk by, and that reminded him what he'd come here to do. As tempting as it was to take

another shot at doubling his money, he had work to do, and messing up this job was likely to get him in the kind of trouble he couldn't sweet-talk his way out of. He'd almost be better off coming home with the redhead-her name was Toni----who'd been egging him on to bet the house on the roulette table. At least, if he did that, Lola would vaporize him on the spot, without stopping to ask questions.

Toni looked up at him now, a rather attractive pout on her lips. "Hey, what are you--chicken? Come on, let it ride one more time. I've got a really strong feeling, red's coming up again!" She put her hand on his arm, tempting him to stay.

"Sorry, babe, gotta go," said Ernie, reluctantly shrugging off her hand. "Important business."

"Aww, and I thought you were a real man," said Toni, fixing him with her most seductive stare. Behind her, the croupier was getting ready to spin the wheel. Toni pointed to the betting layout. "Show me what you're made of, big boy."

"Well..." Ernie was torn between putting his chips back on the table and following Victor Phule toward the bank of thousand-dollar slots where he'd won his bankroll to begin with. He glanced at the wheel; the croupier stood there with the ball in his hand, smirking at Ernie, just asking to be taught a lesson. Ernie's hand moved in the direction of his pocket, and he turned back toward the table, almost involuntarily.

But just as Ernie began to turn, a big man shoved his way into the space Ernie had vacated, plopping a small pile of ten-dollar chips on the table. Ernie looked around and quickly spotted another clear space, a few feet away. He stepped quickly forward, but just as he did, someone tapped him on the shoulder. He turned around to see a cocktail waitress with a tray full of glasses. "Bring you something to drink, sir?" she chirped. "It's on the house."

"Sorry, honey, nothing now," said Ernie, forcing himself to smile. He quickly turned, only to find that the space he'd seen before was now occupied. But there was Toni at the far end of the table, beckoning him. He started forward, why were there so many people around the table all of a sudden?-and reached the open space beside Toni just in time to hear the croupier call, "Les jeux sont faits!" Toni shot him a disgusted look, but the wheel was already spinning. Resignedly, Ernie turned to watch the wheel. If it came up red again...

It spun, slowed, and after what seemed like hours came up on thirty-two black. Ernie had just missed losing all his winnings-and the rest of his bankroll, as well. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead as he realized how close he'd come.

After a moment of stunned silence, Ernie reached into his pocket and pulled out a chip. Without even looking at it, he handed it to the cocktail waitress who'd distracted him just at the crucial moment, then walked away in the direction Victor Phule had gone in.

The waitress stood openmouthed, staring at the hundred dollar chip in her hand. Before she could tuck it in her tip pocket, a hand touched her elbow. She looked up to see Toni, who'd been trying so hard to get Ernie to let his bets ride on red. "Don't spend it all in one place, sister," said the shill, with a tight-lipped smile. Seeing the worry on the waitress's face, she added, "No, don't worry-nobody's going to take it away from you. But a word to the wise you just got really lucky. Most of the time, you'll make better tips if you don't stop the customers from playing. Now, you'd better get back to work. I know [have to." Toni turned back to the roulette table, making -it a point to squeeze up against the new big spender who'd taken Ernie's place. Maybe she'd have better luck getting this one to let his chips ride until the odds caught up with him...

The Zenobian sun was just a hand's breadth above the horizon as Phule stepped out into the parade ground of the Legion base for his morning run. The early-morning desert air was crisp and cool, belying the furnace like temperatures Phule knew by now to expect by midday. The company's prefabricated base module was climate-controlled, of course, and it had a thoroughly modem gym and spa built into it. Phule would have accepted nothing less for his money. But he still felt a certain exhilaration when he did his running outside under the blue sky, with real planetary soil under the feet. If nothing else, it made him feel more in touch with the world he and Omega Company had come to help.

As was his habit, Phule turned and scanned the horizon in every direction. As usual, there was little to see that differed from what he'd seen the day before, or any of the other times he'd looked out on the landscape surrounding Zenobia Base. The small cluster of cirrus clouds to the west looked very much like the clouds that had been there yesterday morning, although he knew better than to believe they were actually the same. As much undue excitement as Phule had been through the last day or so, he was actually rather pleased to find at least one thing that was exactly as he expected. With Omega Company, that was the exception rather than the rule. Especially after last night's debacle in the mess hall... . Phule had just begun to stretch out his leg muscles when Lieutenant Armstrong emerged from the base module. He and Phule had been keeping each other company during the morning run for several months now. They were close enough in age and physical condition so that neither held the other back, and of course it was good policy to have a companion along in case the unexpected happened a sprain or some more serious injury was always possible, even in the controlled environment of the gym. Outdoors, in a desert environment, it would be foolhardy to risk it without help close at hand.

"Good morning, Captain," said Armstrong, nodding.

Before Phule could reply, a series of loud sounds came from the desert east of the base. Pop pop pop! Pop pop! Armstrong turned his head that way and said, "What the devil...?"

"That's gunfire, Lieutenant," said Phule, suddenly alert. "And unless I'm completely turned around, it's coming from the direction of the hunting party. What do they think they're doing?"

"Well, sir, I suspect they think they're hunting," said Armstrong. "The sport does involve shooting guns, you know..."

Phule peered at his lieutenant. "You haven't been taking sarcasm lessons from Beeker, have you?" he asked. Then he shook his head. "No, that would require a sense of humor. The point is, as far as they're concerned, neither we nor the Zenobians have given them permission to fire any weapons yet. And I wasn't about to give them that permission until we got them someplace where our AEIOU friends can't hear them banging away. Come on, Lieutenant, let's go read them the riot act. It's just far enough to make a good run."

"Yes, sir," said Armstrong, catching up with his captain, who had already taken off at a steady pace. "Uh-shouldn't we have some backup, sir? I mean, those people are shooting..."

"Yes, Armstrong, and we're going to tell them to stop," said Phule, looking back and grinning: "We're the Legion, remember? We can handle it. In fact, it's our job to handle it. And if we get there quickly, there's still some chance that Inspector Snieff and her friends haven't noticed the noise."

"What if they have, sir?" Armstrong still, looked worried.

"We'll just have to convince them that we were the ones doing the shooting," said Phule, skipping over a small dry streambed in the way. "That shouldn't be too hard. After all, we are a military unit. It's our business to fire our weapons every so often."

"Snieff will start quoting some regulation we're breaking," said Armstrong, doing his best to stay abreast with Phule. They were now out of the cleared area immediately around the base, and the ground had become rougher.

"Sure," said Phule, dodging around a low, bushlike native plant. "One thing you find out in the business world, Lieutenant. You can't do anything without breaking one regulation or another. That's how the game is played. What makes the difference between success and failure is figuring out how to get your job done with as little interference as possible from the people who want to enforce the regulations. And that's what we're going to do here."

"Yes, sir," said Armstrong. He jumped over a low rock and kept moving in pace with his captain.

Up ahead, another loud report broke through the 'calm morning air. Phule gritted his teeth. Whoever was doing the shooting, he hoped they had enough sense to make sure what was in the line of sight before they pulled the trigger.

He hoped he wasn't going to find out he was wrong the hard way...

Hurrying a bit more than was comfortable, Ernie caught up with Victor Phule just at the entrance to the High Rollers' Lounge, where the thousand-dollar slots had been installed. He slowed down the last few steps to give himself a chance to appear unruffled and relaxed. "Hey, how's it going, buddy?" he said, as if greeting someone he'd known since childhood. "Any luck today?" Eddie Grossman took a quick step forward, glaring at Ernie through narrowed eyes, but Victor Phule raised his hand, and said, "Relax, Eddie-you don't need to worry about this fellow."

"Mr. Phule, you're paying me to worry about this fellow, and everybody like him," growled the bodyguard, but when his boss shot him an exasperated look, Grossman shrugged and stood back. Still, he kept his eyes focused on Ernie, ready to move in case of trouble. Victor Phule had the right to give him orders, but he was prepared to ignore those orders if it looked as if he was about to lose his client-not to mention his job.

Ernie, who had an excellent idea what was likely to happen if he made the wrong move, grinned broadly. He intended to be very careful not to do anything that the bodyguard might decide to interpret as unfriendly.

"It looks like I'm on a hot streak today," he said. "Been cleaning up over at the roulette table all morning."

"Good for you," said Victor Phule. "The owners don't know it, but they're giving money away hand over fist. My idiot son thinks the way to run a casino is to give the best odds on the station. I'm trying to show him the error of his ways. A few lucky customers taking home big jackpots ought to put the icing on the cake."

"Well, I'm all for that," said Ernie. "Can't let these young whippersnappers think they know everything," he added, as if he were somehow old enough to be entitled to the sentiment.

"His biggest mistake was running off and joining the Legion instead of settling down to business," growled Phule, only half-listening. "Now he thinks he can run a business from halfway across the Galaxy. Well, I won't say it can't be done, but you need some real experience under your belt, real business experience. None of this rah-rah save-the-universe crap."

Ernie, whose business experience consisted almost entirely of scams and petty theft, nodded sagely. "No substitute for knuckling down and getting your hands dirty," he said. "Not a job for weak sisters."

"Just so," said Victor Phule. "Say, how'd you like to take another crack at the slots? If you're on a lucky streak, you're just the man I need. If you win a big jackpot, it'll show the boy the consequences of setting the odds too much in favor of the customers."

"Sure, why not?" said Ernie. He was enough ahead of the game that he could afford to throw a few tokens into the slots and still have a little nest egg so that he (and Lola) could afford another couple of weeks on Lorelei. By then, he hoped, they'd have made some kind of breakthrough. If not... well, as usual, he'd deal with the problem when his other choices ran out.

He followed Phule into the elephants' lounge. As usual, nobody was playing the thousand-dollar slots. Even the most well heeled bettors generally considered it foolish to drop that much on such a low-return bet. Other than Phule and Ernie, there hadn't been more than the occasional dabbler, who typically put in one or two tokens, then went on to play something that delivered better odds. Which was almost everything else in the Fat Chance Casino.

"All right," said Ernie, fishing in his pocket for the thousand-dollar chips. He had ten of them, now. He picked a likely-looking machine--not that there was any noticeable difference among them-and put a chip into the slot. He grabbed the handle, then turned to Phule. "Say, by the way-what's a partner's share of the casino stock actually worth? Must be pretty valuable, considering they're charging a thousand bucks for a chance to win it."

"I guess it's valuable enough, if you want that kind of property," said Victor Phule. "Probably fifty or sixty million, if I were going to guesstimate."

"I see," said Ernie. All of a sudden his palms began to sweat. He looked at the machine he'd just pumped a thousand dollars into. Fifty or sixty million, Victor Phule had said. Of course he'd dreamed of having that kind of money, but actually having it had never been remotely probable. Fifty or sixty million... He pulled the handle and the machine display became a whirl of rapidly changing symbols. .

He eased up on the handle, and one of the electronic "wheels" stopped on a golden bar that framed the words "FAT CHANCE" in bright blue letters. The other symbols continued to change rapidly. He waited, trying to feel the right moment, then gave the handle a little jiggle and watched a second "FAT CHANCE" golden bar appear. All right! he thought. Now, any symbol but a lemon would give him a decent return for his play. The machine was of course carefully calibrated not to turn up another gold bar.

The first two were supposed to make him think he'd just missed, and pump another token--or a dozen or more into the machine. But a bell or a cherry or a rocket ship were always possible... He gave the handle a little pull toward him, then released it. The final wheel came to a stop.

It was a third golden bar, with the words "FAT CHANCE" in bright blue letters. A bell started ringing somewhere very close, and, after a pause, tokens began pouring out of the machine.

Victor Phule stood openmouthed, speechless. But he was nowhere near as surprised as Ernie, as a loud siren added its noise to the bell, and happy music began playing.

In front of his face, a sign was flashing off and on:

"SUPER JACKPOT!!!" That was echoed in the back of his mind by a little voice saying, Fifty or sixty million, over and over and over...