No Phule Like an Old Phule

4

Journal #664

Excessive displays of zeal, should always be grounds for suspicion. The religious bigot, the superpatriot, and the zealous company man have in common an emotion-loyalty to something larger than their individual interest. Loyalty to the greater cause is an emotion that everyone shares to some degree, and that in due proportion ought to be considered a good thing. But the zealots carry it to such an extreme that any reasonable person would feel a degree of embarrassment. Even more than the fanatical fixity of their loyalties, it-is the lack of a sense of proportion that makes them suspect. Anyone with a balanced view of the world around him inevitably becomes to some degree a cynic:

I consider myself to have an exceptionally well-balanced view of the world around me. In consequence I am frequently annoyed by the impositions of those less-balanced persons I find myself surrounded by...

The shuttle settled down roughly a kilometer south of the Legion camp. Phule and Beeker watched the landing from within the camp perimeter, then-as the cloud of dust began to settle-Phule gave a signal to his driver, Gears.

The hoverjeep moved forward toward the landing site.

Ahead of them, the shuttle door was already open, and two men--presumably the hunters-were standing idly by, watching the crew piling luggage and equipment on a crawler. They'd evidently brought enough to last them twice as long as their little expedition was scheduled for-either that, or they'd assumed there wouldn't be laundry facilities at a Legion camp. Actually, thought Phule, fastidious visitors might have been advised not to trust their clothing to the mercies of a Legion field laundry-as much to avoid the likelihood of rough handling as on account of pilferage.

With its own state-of-the-art automatic laundry facility built into the encampment module, Omega Company was miles ahead of the normal Legion standard. But the visitors could be excused for not having known that in advance.

Gears brought the hoverjeep to a halt next to the equipment crawler, and Phule leapt lightly to the ground. "Good afternoon, gentlemen," he said, holding out his hand. "I'm your host, Captain Jester. Welcome to Zenobia." The men had been staring at Jester during the hoverjeep's approach. Now one of them took the captain's offered hand and shook it.

"Our host, eh?" he said. "Not quite the way most people describe a visit from us. But I'm glad you're taking it in good spirits, Captain. It'll make our work here a lot easier."

Phule chuckled. "Work isn't exactly how I'd describe your visit, either," he said, heartily. "We've convinced the Zenobians to open up an area where no off-worlder has ever been-I'd call it virgin territory, gentlemen. It won't be exactly a weekend in the Waldorf, but I think you'll find it worth the effort. They tell me there are some spectacular beasts in there."

"Opened up virgin territory?" It was a woman's voice that replied, and Phule turned automatically to face the speaker. She was tall, with sharp features under a bowl haircut, and was dressed in the same dull-colored jumpsuit as the men (phule now realized). The name tag on her breast read C. I. Snieff. "I certainly hope that's an exaggeration, Captain," she added, pursing her lips. "We want to keep this planet's indigenous territory unspoiled, wherever possible. Your company's presence is enough of a problem."

Phule wrinkled his brow, slowly beginning to realize that there was something going on he didn't quite follow. "Excuse me," he began. Before he could finish the thought, a new creature emerged from the shuttle hatchway and made a beeline for the Legion hoverjeep, uttering a steady stream of angry barks.

"What the hell?" said Gears, jumping back into the jeep to escape the agitated animal.

"Hey there, big fellow," said Phule, going down on one knee and stretching out a hand to the dog. "What's your name, huh?" The dog, ignoring him, circled the hoverjeep, staring balefully at Gears and snarling.

"Surely you recognize Barky, the famous Environmental Dog," said Snieff. "He's been on tri-vee allover the galaxy. Every schoolchild loves to watch him sniff out pollution and other dangers to the natural balance. Your hoverjeep's emissions must not be properly controlled."

"I beg your pardon, ma'am," said Gears, who had climbed up on the seat to avoid the attentions of Barky. "I set this vehicle up myself and if it ain't totally up to spec, I'll eat it one piece at a time, without no/ketchup, neither.

Hey, can you call your dog off?" he added, with a note of concern.

"Barky is never wrong abut pollution." said Snieff.

She turned to one of her companions, and said, "Inspector Slurry, please impound that vehicle until we can have it properly tested."

"Woof!" said Barky, the Environmental Dog, his front paws up on the running board of the hoverjeep. It was not a friendly "woof." Gears cringed.

"Wait a minute," said Phule, interposing himself between Snieff's two assistants and the hoverjeep. "That's a Legion vehicle. You can't impound that..."

"We certainly can," said Snieff, haughtily. "Inspector Gardner, show him the subpoena." The third member of the team, a tall thin man with long reddish blond hair and a goatee, grinned and handed Phule a folded envelope. On one side it was marked, "Recycled Paper."

Phule turned it over to read the other side: "Alliance Ecological Interplanetary Observation Union: Inspection Order and Subpoena."

"Subpoena?" asked Phule, blinking. "Inspection?"

"Sir, I believe I understand the situation," said Beeker.

"This is obviously not the party of, ah, visitors we were expecting. This is an Environmental Inspection team from the Alliance Ecological Interplanetary Observation Union. And I'm afraid, sir, that they are perfectly within their rights to impound any vehicle suspected of improper emissions. The laws are quite explicit on that subject, sir."

"Alliance Ecological Interplanetary Observation Union?" Phule stared at the three inspectors, a puzzled look on his face. "But we shouldn't be under their jurisdiction. This planet has its own sovereign government. .."

"That may be so, Captain," said Snieff. "But we certainly aren't about to take your word for it. All the preliminary reports indicate that we might just be in time to prevent an environmental disaster. And nothing I've seen so, far suggests anything to the contrary. Beginning with your driving a vehicle out to our landing site. Are you Legionnaires so lazy you can't use your own feet? Have you forgotten how to march?"

"Wh-what?" sputtered Phule. "I don't understand..."

"Sir, I think we'd best get out of the inspectors' way and let them do their work," said Beeker. "And next time you receive an environmental impact questionnaire, I suggest you give it to someone other than Tusk-anini to fill out."

Phule nodded, understanding at last "In that case, I think we'd best head back to camp. Inspector Snieff..."

"Chief Inspector Snieff, thank you," said the woman.

"Yes, of course, Chief Inspector," said Phule. "If there's anything you need from my people, please let me know. We'll be happy to cooperate."

"I certainly hope so," said Chief Inspector Snieff. "The law provides very hefty penalties for obstruction of an environmental inspection."

"We don't have anything to hide," said Phule. "You'll see when you arrive at our guest quarters..." .

"Oh, no," said Snieff. "Regulations prohibit us from accepting accommodations with a suspected violator. We'll be setting up our own camp, Captain. I think you'll find it an instructive example of a minimal-impact inhabitation.

Now, if you'll excuse us, we have to finish unloading."

"Of course," said Phule.

"Excuse me, ma'am," came Gears's voice. "If you'll just call off your dog..." Snieff ignored him as she plastered a bright orange sticker to the door of the hoverjeep. It said in block letters, "IMPOUNDED FOR POLLUTION."

"Woof!" said Barky, the Environmental Dog. "Woof woof, woof woof woof!"

Legion boot camp was like nothing Thumper (as Zigger now called himself) had ever seen before. For one thing, the population was predominantly made up of humans although there were enough members -of other species to keep him from feeling completely outnumbered. "He was the only Lepoid on the base, though, at least the only one he'd seen in his bewilderingly rapid trip through the initial processing area.

That had been an experience he'd just as soon forget.

Luckily, it had gone quickly enough that it seemed to be over almost before it started. But not before he'd been poked and prodded by doctors, and the autodoc had jabbed his arm with at least a dozen inoculations for diseases the Legion thought his race might be susceptible to on distant planets. (The doctors had spent a good half hour looking him up on the base's medical expert system before deciding which inoculations he was likely to need and which were likely to be more danger than help. He'd still been woozy most of the next day-maybe a reaction to the shots, maybe something else.) All the humans were given ultrashort regulation haircuts. Being of a short-furred species, Thumper was spared that indignity, at least. But he was issued a black Legion jumpsuit at least three sizes too large, and combat boots that no imaginable breaking-in would ever make comfortable for his elongated feet. He was all ready to protest this treatment, but he realized that none of the other new recruits' uniforms were the right size, either. Half an hour of searching and trading found him a jumpsuit that fit him better, and his was the almost right size for another recruit...-a lanky, bespectacled human who had adopted the Legion name "Spider." Nobody in the outfit had a pair of boots that fit Thumper. Since appearing without boots was defined as being out of uniform, a serious offense against Legion discipline, that was going to be a problem.

But Thumper had - plenty of other problems to distract him from the boots. Prime among these was his drill instructor, Sergeant Pitbull, who seemed to be of primarily human origin, although there were whispers that he was at least part something else. Exactly what that something else might be, none of the recruits was willing to say-at least not where the sergeant might hear it, which was apparently everywhere in the barracks. At least, the sergeant had an uncanny ability to storm into a room immediately after one of the recruits had said something mildly critical of Legion discipline and to chew out the offender in terms none of them had dreamed of before they had joined the Legion.

It was on their third night of training that Thumper and his new comrades simultaneously realized that the Legion recruiters had actually told them the truth about one thing: Legion boot camp wasn't going to be easy. "By St. Elrod and all powers, I never knew there were so many places I could hurt," said Sharley, lying flat on his bunk, just after lights out.

"That ain't nothing," said Spider. "I never knew there were so many different wrong ways to wear a uniform. Seems like I jes' can't do it right, nohow." Thumper nodded. Even having found a uniform that fit - properly, he was still having trouble getting it to look right-or so the sergeants seemed to think. "I guess they want us to pay attention to all the details;" he said. "When you're in a hostile environment, one little detail could make the difference..."

"Oh, bull," said Spider. "Tell me what difference it gonna make how I fasten my sleeve button!"

"That's not what I mean," said Thumper. "The point is, they want to train us so we don't overlook anything. Then, when you're in a combat situation, you're less likely to overlook something that could kill you..."

"Ain't nobody ever been killed by a sleeve button that I heard of," insisted Spider.

Thumper was about to try his explanation again when somebody hissed "Pitbull!" and the entire bunkroom fell silent in fear of the sergeant's wrath. For once the sergeant - didn't materialize; but by the time the recruits realized it was a false alarm, half of them were asleep, and nobody else seemed inclined to take up the thread.

The one part of Legion life that Thumber found congenial was the healthy dose of physical activity: drill; exercise, hard labor, and more drill. Perhaps this was because he had come to the Legion not as a last chance to escape from an intolerable existence back home; but as an actual lifelong goal. Running, marching, and doing endless calisthenics shouldn't bother someone who had kept himself in good physical condition, he kept telling his buddies. Most of the time, they were too exhausted to answer him. But the looks they shot in his direction were eloquent, had he only been able to read them.

At last, even his friend Sharky, whom he'd met on the space liner that brought them to Legion boot camp, warned him that he was getting "too gung ho." They'd ended up in the same recruit platoon by the simple expedient of showing up at the processing center at the same time.

"What's wrong with being gung ho ?" asked Thumper.

"You're making the other guys look bad," said Sharky.

"We're all in this together, you know. It ain't good if you show up your buddies."

"I'm not trying to show anybody up," Thumper protested. "I've always wanted to be a legionnaire. Now that I am one, why shouldn't I try to be a good one?"

"Cause you make things harder for the rest of us," Sharky explained. "If most of us want to punk out after a hundred push-ups and you keep on going, the sarge is going to get on our asses to keep up with you."

"Gee, I never thought of that," said Thumper. "But don't you want to be all that you can be? If you do more pushups, you'll get stronger. That could be important when the crunch comes..."

"Crunch? What crunch?" Sharky scoffed. "The Alliance hasn't been in a real war since my grandpa was a kid."

"No, but that doesn't mean it won't happen..."

"Against who?" Sharky demanded. "Every time we meet a new race, they want to join up with us on account of the trade advantages. Like those lizards out on Zenobia." Thumper shook his head.

"There was a civil war on Landoor..."

"Sure, and that wasn't much more than a food fight, from what I hear tell," said Sharky. "Nobody except the locals got hurt. All the Legion did was go in to mop up, and they spent more time lying on the beach than anything else.

So why make things any tougher than you have to?"

"You can't assume just because things have been easy lately that it's always going to be like that," insisted Thumper.

"Hey, I'm just trying to give you a clue," said. Sharky. "If you play along with the other guys, everybody's happy. Make too many waves, nobody's gonna be happy-and they're gonna know whose fault it is."

"All right, I understand you," said Thumper, with a nod and a smile. He didn't say what he was thinking. He didn't have to. His actions would do the talking for him, when the time came.

"The slots, huh?" Tullie Bascomb shook his head in disbelief at what the security monitors were showing. "Most of the guys who think they can beat the house by playing some kind of homemade system go for blackjack," he said.

"Or poker, if they think they can win steady enough to cover the house percentage."

Doc grinned. "That's for sure. Only suckers play the quantum slots-they're the worst bet in the joint. You showed us that, back when the captain first brought us to Lorelei."

"Yeah," said Bascomb. "I guess the captain-didn't tell his old man that, though. look at him pumping the tokens into into those machines!"

"Yeah, I saw him pretty near knock down two white haired little old ladies who tried to horn in on a machine he'd been priming," said Doc. "He's got the Fever, all right."

"Well, he's a grown man," said Bascomb. "And 1 guess he can afford to lose a few bucks. Hell, I doubt we could put a serious dent in his bankroll if we set up a row of thousand-dollar-a-'pull machines. That doesn't mean I'm not tempted, though..."

"Nab, what's the point? At that price, nobody but Victor Phule could ever afford to play 'em," said Doc. "And what would the payouts have to be...?"

"High enough to make a billionaire's palms sweaty," said Bascomb. "Right now, I think he's just playing on principle-he thinks the payouts are too generous, and he's trying to prove the point. To really get him hooked, we'd need to offer something big-even a million bucks is probably small potatoes, when you're talking about someone who's used to supplying armaments to entire planets." Doc rubbed his chin and leaned forward to point at Victor Phule's image on the security monitor. "What if we did set up a bank of machines for nobody but Pop Phule to play? Offer him a jackpot that'll make even his mouth water-title to the whole darn casino, for example-but at impossibly long odds. Once he's thrown enough tokens down the slot, then he'll have to admit that we aren't giving away money."

"You've got an evil mind," said Bascomb, chuckling.

"Only one problem I can see with it. We don't own the casino-Omega Company does, and we can't offer a prize we aren't able to deliver if somebody does win it. Not even on Lorelei, where the house rules and the laws of the land are pretty damn close to one and the same."

"So we make the odds so impossible that he can't possibly win, is all," Doc insisted. "Let's say he's got to get five simultaneous jackpots on five different machines... or some other combination that only comes up once in a trillion times."

Bascomb shook his head. "It's tempting, you know, Doc? But we can't do anything as screwy as that without getting the captain to sign off on it. I don't care if we would be setting those crooked slots to teach his father a lesson-bad business is bad business, even when you keep it in the family."

"I guess you're right," said Doc.

"In fact, has anybody gotten in touch with Captain Jester? He'd want us to tell him that his father's here, I'm pretty sure of that."

"I got his OK before showing the old man the books," said Bascomb, snapping his fingers. "But this is a new wrinkle, and I'm not sure whether he'd go along with it. Guess the only thing to do is get him on the horn and ask."

"Right," said Doc. He pressed one of the studs on his wrist chronometer and nodded. "It's midafternoon at Zenobia Base, so he's likely to be in reach of a vidphone. Do you want to call him, or shall I? Or shall we just send a priority message and let him get back to us?"

"Seeing that it's during his business hours, I think we better tell him this in person," said Bascomb. "And since I'm in charge of the gambling end of the business, I guess I ought to be the one to make the call. You want to talk to him, too? He might have a few questions you can answer as well as I can."

"Sure, why not?" said Doc. He waved a hand in the direction of the monitor. "One good thing-our main problem's not going anywhere. Except maybe to the cashier's window for another batch of tokens."

"Let's hope he makes that particular trip a lot of times," said Bascomb, with a thin smile. He gestured toward a door, and the two men went to the office to place a call to Captain Jester.

"YOU FARKING SLUGS DISGUST ME!" roared a voice that seemed far too loud for an ordinary human's vocal apparatus. Thumper jerked his eyes open, awaking from the utterly exhausted sleep he'd been in a fraction of a second before. He automatically checked the time: Five in the morning. The drill instructor, Sergeant Pitbull, was right on time, fully dressed and ready to eat raw recruits for breakfast. Thumper had last seen him only six hours before, when he'd put the squad of new legionnaires to bed with threats and curses.

Thumper still hadn't figured out how the drill instructor managed to stay alert and fit on what must be even less rest than the recruits were getting, but he'd come to take it for granted. Every task he demanded of the recruits-including some that at first had seemed impossible-Sergeant Pitbull could perform better than any of them, despite being at least ten years older. Even Thumper, who had already learned that he was in better physical condition than almost all his fellow recruits, couldn't beat the sergeant in any direct competition-especially in hand-to-hand combat where the sergeant seemed to have a bottomless repertory of dirty tricks. Even in an outright sprint where Thumper was sure he had the advantage, Sergeant Pitbull had somehow managed to make him trip and fall before he got three steps from the start.

Worst of all, it seemed as if the sergeant was always angry. One night, after lights out, the whispered conversation in the bunkhouse got to the subject of whether anyone could remember hearing a friendly remark pass Pitbull's lips. The closest anyone could come was, "THAT'S RIGHT, WAY TO STOMP HIS WORTHLESS CIVY ASS!" when a hulking recruit named Crunch put Spider in the infirmary with a dislocated shoulder during judo practice. And while Crunch was probably right that the sergeant meant-it as a compliment on his judo technique, most of the other recruits agreed with Spider's heated protestation that congratulating one of the recruits for injuring another wasn't his idea of a "friendly word." Then Sergeant Pitbull slammed the door open and bellowed, "SHUT UP, YOU STINKING BUGS!" (He seemed never to have learned to speak softly.) In the utter silence that followed this remark, he continued, "WHEN I TURN THE LIGHTS OUT, YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO FARKING SLEEP, NOT YAMMER LIKE A BUNCH OF SCHOOLGIRLS! THERE'LL BE PUNISHMENT DETAIL FOR THE WHOLE FARKING SQUAD!" After that, even Crunch conceded the point. Pitbull had been as good as his word-next morning, there were a hundred extra push-ups for everyone.

But this was another morning, which meant another chance for Pitbull to deal out arbitrary punishment.

Thumper and all his buddies scrambled out of their bunks and came to attention. There was just a glimmer of a chance that today they might manage to avoid extra pushups or some other equally unpleasant task. Not much of a chance, but Thumper had gotten in the habit of grasping at even minuscule chances. Along the way, he'd gotten much better at push-ups than he'd ever imagined being. It wasn't what he'd seen himself doing when he'd dreamed of joining the Legion, but if his experience so far was any indication, push-ups were a significant component of Legion life.

"LISTEN UP, YOU FILTHY SKIME-EATERS," roared Sergeant Pitbull. Thumper wasn't sure what a skime was, but after hearing the sergeant, he knew he didn't want to eat one. Or maybe it was a filthy one he didn't want to eat... He had only a brief moment to meditate on that question, as the sergeant continued with his high-volume harangue. "TODAY WE'RE GOING OUT TO THE OBSTACLE COURSE," the sergeant boomed. "THAT'S WHERE WE SEPARATE THE REAL LEGIONNAIRES ..

FROM THE FARKING WEAK-SIBLING CIVVIES. DO YOU BUGS WANT TO BE REAL LEGIONNAIRES?"

"YES, SERGEANT PITBULL!" the squad shouted in chorus. They'd long since learned that any less enthusiastic response would be greeted with scorn. Privately Thumper wondered whether Sergeant Pitbull might have stood too close to an explosion at some point in his earlier career, damaging his ears in the process. If he were partly deaf, that would explain a lot... but no, the autodocs could fix that...

"FOLLOW ME, YOU BUGS!" said the sergeant, and he set off at a flat-out run--the only speed at which a Legion recruit was allowed to move. Luckily for Thumper, he could outrun everyone in the squad without particularly trying. It was one of the minor advantages of being a Lepoid. He hadn't found very many of them here in the Legion, so he had acquired a finer appreciation for the ones he'd found.

Running easily, he stayed just behind the sergeant until the squad arrived-many of them huffing and puffing despite several weeks of rigorous exercise-at the obstacle course.

In front of him, Thumper saw a tract of land that would probably feel flattered to be described as "ruined." Or even "devastated." It was a mud-filled morass with craters and chunks of broken stone wall or the jagged stumps of trees at seemingly random intervals. The few open stretches were strewn with skeins of ugly-looking barbed wire laid parallel to the ground. Here and there were wide waterfilled ditches and eight-foot wooden walls. At the far side Thumper could make out sandbagged bunkers, from which the muzzles of machine guns protruded.

"LISTEN UP, YOU BUGS," explained Sergeant Pitbull.

"THIS HERE IS WHAT WE CALL A STIMULATED BATTLEFIELD, WHICH IF YOU'RE EVER IN A FARKING SHOOTING WAR YOU'RE GONNA SEE A SHITLOAD OF 'EM. THE DRILL IS, WHEN I BLOW MY WHISTLE, YOU GET TO THE OTHER SIDE AS FAST AS YOU FARKIN' CAN. BUT CHECK THIS OUT THEM SKIME-EATERS WITH THE MACHINE GUNS GONNA SHOOT LIVE FARKIN' AMMO OVER YOUR HEADS, SO YOU BETTER KEEP 'EM THE HELL DOWN. WE LOSE A COUPLE-THREE STUPID-ASS RECRUITS EVERY MONTH ON ACCOUNT OF THEY JUMPED UP AND TRIED TO RUN AWAY"

Thumper nodded as the sergeant explained the drill. Looking at the course, he could see that the machine guns were limited to a narrow field of fire. Outside that area, the main problem was dodging around the craters and rubble, but if one didn't mind a bit of mud, there was no reason to go at less than full speed. After all, the sergeant had said that the point of the exercise was to get to the other side as quickly as possible.

So when the sergeant blew his whistle, Thumper was off and running...

Phule stared blankly at the sheaf of papers that had just landed on his desk. "What's all this?" he asked in an annoyed voice. It was obviously not the promotion papers he'd been expecting from Legion Headquarters.

"Environmental impact forms from those AEIOU guys," said Roadkill, one of the two legionnaires who'd carried in the mountain of paperwork.

"That Chief Inspector Snieff brought it over in some kind of wheelbarrow.

Street and I just happened to be the first legionnaires she saw, and she took that as a license to order us around."

"Order you around?" Lieutenant Armstrong looked up from the adjacent desk, where he was filling out work assignment forms. "I think I'm going to have to talk to her myself. I've been trying to get some of you rascals to follow orders ever since I became an officer in this outfit, with little or no sign that I'm getting anywhere."

"Jeez, some thanks we get for being good legionnaires," grumbled Street. "I'd have given her a piece of my mind, if she hadn't had that stupid dog with her. That ugly mutt looked at me as if it was gonna take a bite out of my tail end."

"Barky, the Environmental Dog?" asked Phule. "He seemed pretty harmless to me."

"I think he thought Street was a polluter," said Roadkill, deadpan. "Or maybe a litterer-it's hard to tell what that dog thinks when all he'll say is 'woof!'"

"Stupid mutt can't prove nothing on me:" said Street, scowling.

"Are you saying that because you haven't done anything, or because you think you've covered up your tracks?" said Armstrong, raising one eyebrow just a fraction. He pointed at the two legionnaires, and added, "Don't be too sure Barky can't sniff you out, if you've been polluting."

"I already told ya, I ain't done nothin'." said Street. He stared at the floor, squirming as if one of his schoolteachers had called on him to recite a lesson he hadn't studied.

"It's all right, Street, nobody suspects you of anything." said Phule. Then, remembering to whom he was speaking, he hastily added, "Not this time, anyway."

"Yeah, I was just joking," said Roadkill, punching his buddy on the biceps. "But we'd better get back to that job we were doing, before somebody notices we're gone then we might really get in trouble."

"Just tell them you were bringing me something," said Phule. "And thanks-I think." He looked at the pile of papers, and his expression was anything but thankful. But Roadkill and Street were already out the door.

Phule picked up the top sheet of one of the piles of papers and began to read it, but before he'd gotten more than a couple of lines, his wrist communicator buzzed.

"Yes, what is it, Mother?" he said, holding the device closer to his mouth and ear.

"Priority call from Lorelei, you silly thing," said Mother's teasing voice. "You must be an even bigger man than you look."

"Lorelei? Put them right through," said Phule. He wondered what was urgent enough for the team he'd left to run the place to call him about. Among them, there weren't many things he didn't think they could handle. He wouldn't have left the place in their hands if he'd believed otherwise.

"Tullie Bascomb here, Captain." came the familiar voice. "We've got-well, not really a problem, but a situation Doc and I think you need to know about."

"Go ahead, Tullie," said Phule. "Is it my father again?"

"Yeah, he's still being a pain in the butt," said Bascomb. "It was bad enough that he wanted to go over the casino's books...".

"You showed them to him, didn't you?" asked Phule.

"Sure, after you told me it was all right," said Bascomb.

"For a while I was worried he might really find something to raise a stink about, but I guess he didn't. But then he decided to stick his nose into the gambling operation."

"That's hardly in character," said Phule, rubbing his chin speculatively. "I never knew him to have any interest in gambling. Where is he now?"

"Playing quantum slots," said Bascomb. "Somehow, he got the idea our jackpots were too big. We tried to tell him about the odds, but he didn't want to listen. So now he's trying to win a big one to prove we're wrong."

Phule chuckled. "Tullie, if my father's determined to throwaway his ill-gotten fortune one token at a time, I'm not about to do anything to stop him. It's just that much more for the Company's retirement fund."

"Well, I'm glad you feel that way about it, Captain," said Tollie. There was a definite note of relief in his voice. "In that case, would you have any problem if we cooked up a way to get even more of his money out of his pockets?"

"Not in principle, I guess," said Phule. "What exactly did you have in mind?"

"Doc came up with the idea of adjusting some of the slots to take really big bets-up to a thousand bucks a pull," said Bascomb. "We'd advertise a monster jackpot, but set the odds so long nobody'd have the ghost of a chance to collect on it. What do you think?"

"I don't see why not," said Phule. He chuckled, then continued, "At a thousand dollars a pull, I doubt anyone but Papa will ever be able to afford to play. And 1 have no compunction whatsoever about taking his money for my troops. Go ahead, and let me know how much he loses before he gives up."

"You got it, Captain," said Bascomb, and closed the connection.

Phule stared for a moment at the wall across from his desk. His father's antics shouldn't really have surprised him, he supposed-it was typical of the old fellow to show up unannounced and try to take charge. But, as usual, he seemed to have come up with a new twist He shook his head. There weren't many people in the galaxy who seemed more out of place in a casino than the old man not that his father would ever let something like that stop him. Well, it was about time somebody taught Victor Phule a lesson. And he couldn't think of anyone who could better afford to pay the tuition. He sighed, then picked up the top sheet on the pile the two legionnaires had brought in, and began reading.