Phule's Errand

6

Journal #790-

“Listen up, squad, here’s Lieutenant Rembrandt to tell us what we’ve been waiting for,” said Brandy, and Thumper was all ears. Everyone in the squad had been trying to guess what kind of exercise the top sergeant had planned for General Blitzkrieg’s visit to Zenobia Base. Some of the legionnaires said it was going to be an obstacle course demonstration-that being one of Omega Company’s specialties. Others expected some kind of live ammo drill simulating an attack on the camp, or perhaps a march into the desert around the camp, to show off the variety of Zeno-bian wildlife.

Lieutenant Rembrandt stepped forward, with a nice smile that Thumper thought didn’t entirely hide the worry on her face. “Good morning,” she said. “I guess you’ve all heard that we’re expecting an inspection by General Blitzkrieg.”

“Yeah, and the old wingnut thinks he’s gonna surprise us,” said a voice from behind Thumper-Street, it sounded like.

“Right,” said Rembrandt. “Except we’re going to have a few surprises ready for him. That’s where you guys come in…”

“Lieutenant Rembrandt, I have a question,” said Ma-hatma. The squad fell silent. Mahatma’s questions were always worth listening to-even though they made the noncoms and officers nervous. Now that he’d been partnered with Mahatma, Thumper had a better idea why. The little legionnaire was always looking for ways to shake things up-to keep everyone on their toes, he said. Asking a question that nobody had a good answer for was a sure way to do that.

“Go ahead, Mahatma,” said Rembrandt, nodding in the direction of the questioner.

“The captain is away from base, is that not correct?” said Mahatma.

“Yeah, everybody knows that,” said Rembrandt. “But he hasn’t gone far. He’s out in the desert, negotiating with the Namoids. I’ll need a party to go out into the desert-Flight Leftenant Qual will be in command. And I’d like the others to be Mahatma and Brick and Double-X and Garbo. You’ve all been to the area I’m interested in, so you’ll know the ground better than anyone else I could send.”

“Oh ho,” said Mahatma, stroking his chin and nodding. The others in the group Rembrandt had named were nodding, too. “I remember that area. It is where we went to rescue the captain when he was captured.”

“That’s right,” said Rembrandt, a twinkle in her eyes. “But you have to get out there and back without any wasted time so he’s here when the general arrives. I’d like you to be ready to leave by sundown tonight; Qual will meet you at Chocolate Harry’s as soon as you’re dismissed here, to pick up your supplies and get your final orders. You’ll have a little time to straighten out anything you need to take care of before you leave, and then you’re out of here. Got it?”

“Yes, Remmie,” chorused the group, in near unison.

“Now, the other half of my plan,” said Rembrandt. “Word from Headquarters has it that the general loves to play golf-which is an Old Earth game involving funny clubs and little balls and a lot of open ground with holes in it. I don’t know much about the game, but if what I hear is true, once the general starts playing, he hardly has time for anything else. So we’re going to give him a chance to play, to keep him off our backs.“

“How we gonna do that?” said Street, scratching his head. “Ain’t no golf field here, last time I looked-just lots of desert full of bugoids and funny lizards.”

“You’re right, Street,” said Rembrandt. “We don’t have a golf course-yet. But Lieutenant Armstrong’s played the game, and he knows what a course is supposed to be like. And from what he says, you can make almost any useless tract of land into a golf course, if you really want to. Harry’s also working on getting some clubs sent in. Anyhow, the rest of Brandy’s squad are assigned to Armstrong, and you’re going to build a golf course. You’ve got to build it in record time, too, because we want it ready to play on the minute the general gets here. The better the general likes it, the less trouble he’s likely to cause the rest of us.”

“Do we get to play on the course when it is built?” said Tusk-anini. “Some of the old books I have read mention golf, and I have often wondered how it is played.”

“Sure,” said Rembrandt, shrugging. “Once the general’s gone, it’s there for anybody in the company to play on. Which ought to give you even more reason to do a really good job, right? OK, all of you report to Lieutenant Armstrong, outside the Supply depot in fifteen minutes. Any more questions? No? OK, squad dismissed!”

Phule felt as if he’d been bouncing across the prairies of Cut ‘N’ Shoot on his robosteed for weeks without a rest. In reality, it was just a day and a half since he’d lit out in search of the Indians who had supposedly captured Beeker and Nightingale. Why the Indians would have kidnapped the butler and medic was beyond his ability to understand; but if the other locals with whom he’d had dealings were at all typical, logic didn’t have a whole lot to do with how people acted on this planet.

Fortunately, a stretch as a captain in the Space Legion, and commanding officer of Omega Company, had prepared Phule for dealing with illogic in all its glory. He chuckled as he thought of his crew of misfits and rejects, supposedly the dregs of the Legion-until he’d got hold of them and made them into a tight-knit crew that had overcome every obstacle put in their way. The Omega Mob had a distinctly unregulation way of dealing with its challenges; but the Omega way got results, and that was all that mattered to Phule. Now that he faced his own unexpected challenge, the least he could do was to overcome it in the same style and spirit as his own legionnaires.

Which he intended to do as soon as he reached the place Ol‘ Ben had told him the Indians camped this time of year. He’d have been there long since if he’d been able to take a hoverjeep-but the rulers of Cut ’N‘ Shoot were fanatics for authenticity, and nothing faster than a robosteed was permitted. He had no doubt that a few hundred credits in the right hands would have uncovered exceptions to that policy. But he’d been in too much of a hurry to catch the runaways to stop and feed the hungry bureaucratic maw- or so he’d thought. Now he was paying for his impatience with saddle sores.

All morning he’d been urging the robosteed westward through a particularly inhospitable landscape-01‘ Ben had referred to it as the “badlands,” and Phule could see why. But he had good reason to think he was nearing his destination. When he’d started out, there’d been the merest hint of a column of smoke on the horizon ahead. It had gradually grown thicker, and now the breeze carried a tantalizing aroma of mesquite-and something else. Somebody was cooking, and Phule had an idea that if he could just get his robosteed to move a little faster, he might be there in time for lunch. Whether anybody would offer him anything to eat remained to be seen, but he hadn’t gotten as far as he had by being a pessimist.

The robosteed was stoically plodding up a narrow gulch when a tall figure suddenly appeared, holding a hand up palm forward, in the universal halt sign. “You best be stopping dere, mon,” said the figure in a resonant alto voice. It was a tall woman in colorful, flowing robes, her long dark hair in a multitude of braids. She did not display any kind of weapon, but both her voice and her presence radiated authority.

“Good morning,” said Phule, pulling the robosteed to a halt and raising his own hand in a similar gesture to hers. “I’m looking for two people…”

“Maybe you find dem, if dey want you to,” said the woman, crossing her arms in front of her. “What makes you think dey be here?”

“Everyone back in town said the Indians took them…” Phule began.

“Oh, sure, mon, blame de Indian,” said the woman. “What dey know back in town, anyway? Dey think all Indians be the same.”

“Well, I’m a stranger here, myself,” said Phule. Realizing he hadn’t given his name, he added, “I’m Captain Jester, of the Space Legion.”

“Captain,” said the woman, nodding. “I am glad to know de name. People call me Rita.”

Phule nodded back. “A pleasure to meet you, Rita. So, if the folks back in town are wrong about the Indians, maybe you can set me right.” He paused, looking the woman up and down. “Uh-you are an Indian, aren’t you?”

“Oh yes, West Indian,” said Rita. She pointed to the north. “You go a little bit dat-a-way, you find de East Indians. And de other way, you find de Red Indians, or de Wild Indians, de tourists like to call dem. Which kind of Indian are you wanting to find, Captain?”

“I don’t know which kind,” said Phule, now perplexed. “A fellow in town told me the people I’m lookin for were probably captured by the Indians. He didn’t tell me there were so many kinds of Indians…“

“I told you dey townspeople don’t know ‘bout Indians,” Rita scoffed. “Who dese people you trying to find? Friends of yours?”

“I guess you could call them that,” said Phule. “I’m looking for two people, a man and woman traveling together…”

Rita cut him off with a laugh. “You know how many tourists fit dat picture? Almost everybody who come here, dey come in couples. You may be de only single man I see dis year, and you say you not a tourist. So how I know dem if I see dem?”

“Hmmm…” said Phule, trying to think of a way to distinguish Beeker and Nightingale from other tourist couples. “An older man with a younger woman,” he said. “She’s maybe thirty, tall and dark-skinned like you. He’s shorter and about forty-five-I think. I don’t know how they’re dressed-the last time I saw them, she was wearing the same kind of uniform I am, and he was in a dark suit. But I doubt they’re wearing that on their vacation…”

Rita nodded. “Captain, come wit‘ me.” She turned and began to walk back up the trail Phule had been following.

“Wait-where are you taking me?” he said, putting his robosteed into forward mode again.

“We goin‘ to see de Mon,” said Rita, and Phule had nothing to do but to follow her.

Chocolate Harry looked out over the large plot he’d just marked off to the south of Zenobia Base. It was about the most worthless piece of land in the vicinity; good for a practice bombing range, if Omega Company had included any bomber pilots it wanted to turn loose on some simulated targets. Or maybe the plot would’ve been good enough to con some gullible investor into a land deal, although Harry was fairly sure that no investor who actually laid eyes on the place was likely to buy it. After all, even the Zenobians had no particular use for it-at least, not until they’d ended up leasing it to the Legion as part of the Zenobian Base.

Now he’d been ordered to turn it into a golf course. Lieutenant Armstrong had drawn up a set of plans for three golf holes-all they’d have the time to build before General Blitzkrieg arrived on base. It was going to be Harry’s job to take that worthless patch of ground and make Armstrong’s plan a reality.

Things had come along reasonably well, he had to admit. He’d already turned loose a couple of squads with flamethrowers to get rid of the worst of the gnarly Zeno-bian desert vegetation. Heavy earthmovers would follow, doing what they could to turn the brutal ravine-crossed terrain into something a sane sophont might want to take an occasional recreational stroll over.“ With any luck, the brush fires and rumbling machines would have driven off at least the larger local predators by the time he sent the squads back out for pick-and-shovel work.

But to judge by the reports coming back from the construction gangs, it wasn’t the large predators that were going to be a problem. The whole area was apparently the prime breeding grounds for some kind of Zenobian critter-Flight Leftenant Qual had identified them as “florbigs,” and dismissed them as harmless. Harmless they may have been, and there were even a few of the legionnaires who thought they were “sorta cute,” as Brick put it. They also had an unfortunate habit of darting out of the underbrush to steal any small object left unattended for more than a moment. This included hand tools, the workers’ lunch, and the occasional article of apparel. And they were fast-most of the time, the workers never got a glimpse of them until they were scurrying away with somebody’s sandwich. Harry’s first instinct was to send out another flamethrower squad to get rid of the vermin, once and for all.

But Harry made the mistake of asking Lieutenant Rembrandt’s permission, which was when he learned of a provision in the treaty that Captain Jester had signed with the Zenobians-a clause inserted on the insistence of the Extraterrestrial Protection Agency, forbidding the Legion to harass any local creature, no matter what the natives thought of the matter. And despite his attempts to prove the contrary, toasting the critters with flamethrowers was definitely a form of harassment. This left Harry with two choices: hire a squad of Zenobians to get rid of the florbigs or put up with them. After a discreet inquiry as to the going rate for local exterminators, he reluctantly chose the latter option.

Then there was some kind of gravitational anomaly in the middle of the tract. Nothing big and dangerous, like a stray white hole, but definitely something that didn’t match the gravitational profile of the rest of the plot of land. Harry’d sent a crew out to locate it, but the best they could do was report that it was something like a hundred yards underground, more trouble than it was worth to try to dig up. Besides, its profile on the surface was almost small enough to ignore entirely-an area about twenty feet across that, gravitationally, acted as if it were a sharp pinnacle instead of a flat surface. That would’ve been almost no problem at all-if it hadn’t been smack in the middle of something Armstrong’s plan marked as “second fairway.” Harry didn’t know what a fairway was, but according to the plan he had to get grass to grow on it. That was going to be tricky…

Then Harry shrugged. The antigrav anomaly meant that none of the players was ever going to have a ball land in the area. He might as well just leave it alone. It couldn’t possibly affect the game-could it?

Flight Leftenant Qual took a hefty swing and watched the ball fly down the driving range, curving rapidly from left to right. It was remarkable how a hard little sphere, no bigger than a vlort egg, could display such unpredictable aerodynamic effects when launched into the air with one of the striking objects-golf clubs, the humans called them, although the phrase seemed to have more than one meaning. The rocket scientists could undoubtedly learn something from the performance of the little spheres, although Qual had no idea whether it would be useful. He thought it unlikely to have much value as a weapon unless its accuracy could be improved-a task at which he had been laboring for some time now.

Qual understood that one of the humans’ chief leaders, General Blitzkrieg, was on his way to Zenobia to harass the members of Omega Company. Strong-arm seemed to believe that a display of proficiency in launching the golf balls would make the general less harsh toward the local humans. This made some sense if the balls were to be used as weapons, but it seemed that only the officers were being encouraged to launch them. Qual had noticed that in most human military organizations, the officers exposed themselves to danger as little as possible, avoiding the active use of weapons. His good friend Captain Clown seemed to be an exception to that rule, as he was in so many other ways.

Perhaps the balls, like the swords and spears his own race had employed in the distant past, were obsolete weapons used only in symbolic combat. Many human officers seemed to enjoy such symbolic combats-fencing, boxing, driving vehicles at unsafe speeds-so perhaps golf belonged in that category. One of the meanings of “club” did appear to refer to a kind of weapon-although Strong-arm had made it clear to Qual that it was extremely bad form to bash one’s opponents’ heads with the golf clubs. Humans were a curious species-but Qual already knew that.

He removed another ball from the bucket and balanced it on the conical plastic support called, for some nonobvious reason, a “tea.” It rested there while he addressed it with his club. (It had taken him a little while to understand that one did not actually need to inscribe the ball with the name of the place one intended to send it-though it occurred to him that perhaps if one did, it might arrive there more reliably.) He lifted the club-called a “chauffeur,” again for reasons undiscoverable by simple logic-keeping his left elbow straight, as Strong-arm had instructed him. A swift downward movement of the club and this ball soared off to join its companion, somewhere in the brush on the right fringe of the driving range. This was a sort of progress; the last few shots had ended up in more or less the same place.

Qual was taking the next ball out of the bucket when his translator spoke to him. “Greetings, Flight Leftenant Qual. How satisfactory to you is your progress in the practice of hitting balls with the chauffeur golf club?” Or words to that effect; Qual had long since learned that the translator’s output was not to be taken as utterly reliable. Much depended on both context and on the actual speaker’s choice of language. He looked up to see the legionnaire known as Thumper, a nonhuman like himself.

“Greetings, Dull Noisemaker,” Qual replied. “My progress remains uncertain; I have only recently managed to place several consecutive balls in a tight pattern. Unfortunately, that pattern is far to one side of my point of aim.”

Thumper made a movement with his head that, when humans did it, signified understanding or agreement. He said something which Qual’s translator interpreted as, “That is an awkwardness. I hope it would not be impertinent for someone of limited experience to suggest realigning your point of aim to compensate.

“That is a very rational suggestion,” said Qual, putting the golf club over his shoulder. “Of course, it requires consistency of effect, which is what I now strive to attain. With such a realigned aiming point, it would be a misfortune inadvertently to strike a ball so that it flies absolutely straight.”

“Agreement,” said Thumper. “Consistency is the usual result of assiduous application, so we can hope that principle will apply in this case.”

“I appreciate your encouragement,” said Qual. “I intend to exert myself to that end.” After a pause, he added, “Since this golf is a novel pursuit to my kind, I would appreciate any education you can offer me. I have not made great progress, but after all, this is only my first session. Perhaps you would even be so kind as to serve as my adviser during my attempts to compare golfing skills with the humans.”

“Thank you, Flight Leftenant,” said Thumper, via Qual’s translator. “I would much appreciate the opportunity to assist you in your competition, but golf is hardly my specialty. Also, having fallen into General Blitzkrieg’s ill graces through no fault of my own, I have been advised to hold myself as much as possible beyond the periphery of his awareness. I fear I will have to decline the invitation.”

Qual thought for a moment, leaning on his driver. “Perhaps not,” he said. “As a valued ally of the humans, I have certain privileges, including the choice of my own staff. If I elect to employ the services of one of their legionnaires, it should be seen as an honor to the Alliance, rather than a slight. And”-he paused for a moment-“if I have not guessed wrong, you have insights into human activities I am not likely to get from either a human or from one of my own species.”

“The possibility exists,” admitted Thumper. “It does appear to have the potential for amusement. But if you do not object, I wish to consider it a little more-and get the advice of a trusted acquaintance-before giving you a final answer.“

“Utterly reasonable,” said Qual. “And now, if it is not in conflict with your assigned Legion duties, I would appreciate your continued advice on my mode of striking the ball. Please be absolutely candid-it is to my benefit.”

“With enthusiasm,” the translator said, after Thumper had spoken. “Attempt a number of swings, and I will determine if I can detect anything of use.”

“Very well,” said Qual, stepping up to address the ball again. “Be alert! Anything might well occur!” He took a powerful swing, and again the ball flew on its way down-range…

“What the hell’s that up ahead, Soosh?” Do-Wop asked, peering into the darkness that had fallen over the trail. It was clear what he was asking about; some distance away, there was a flickering of light, not quite steady enough to be artificial. They’d been following directions the general storekeeper in town had given them; but it had been dark for some time, and it was anybody’s guess if they were still on the trail.

“I think those are fires,” said Sushi, in a low voice. “If our map’s right, that ought to be the Indian camp they told us about back in town. I think we’re on the right track.”

“Fires, huh?” said Do-Wop. He pointed to his wrist comm. “You think we oughta call the fire department, then? There must be half a dozen of ‘em up there, burning away. Somebody might get hurt…”

Sushi shook his head. “Don’t bother,” he said. “I think they’re supposed to be part of the Authentic Western Experience of Cut ‘N’ Shoot. From what I remember, they used to use open fires all the time on Old Earth, for cooking and light, and to keep wild animals away at night.”

“Lousy way to run a planet,” said Do-Wop. “Authentic Western Experience or not, I bet the Italians didn’t do it that way.”

“How do you think they did it?” said Sushi, hunkering down to peer ahead. “Porta-range furnaces? Pocket microwaves?”

“Sure,” said Do-Wop, nonchalantly. “We invented everything else any good. Ice cream, pizza, beer…”

Sushi rolled his eyes. “Right,” he said. “Maybe I’d believe you if I thought you knew enough history to find Italy on a map, which would surprise me no end, considering you can’t find the Legion base on a map of Zenobia.”

“Hey, I can read a map just as good as you can,” said Do-Wop. “Besides, you’re just jealous. Italians invented the mob, too, which your guys only got a stoopid-sounding copy of. What’s it called, Yazooka? Is ‘at some kinda chewin’ gum, or what?”

“Yakusa,” said Sushi. “Which to me, at least, doesn’t sound any stupider than Mafia, if you want to know the truth.”

“Yeah, huh? You call my uncle Nunzio stupid, you gonna find out whether you can walk wit‘ the fishes…”

“I thought it was sleeping with the fishes I was supposed to be worried about,” said Sushi. “Y’know, if you’re going to try to scare people, you ought to at least try to make a threat that makes sense.”

“Ahh, that shows how much you know,” said Do-Wop, poking his finger at Sushi’s chest. “When I make a farkin‘ threat…”

“You make-um heap big noise,” came a deep voice from out of the dark. “Heard you both a long way off, bump and crash like drum roll-um downhill. You lucky no wild animals here look-um for nice rump of paleface for supper.”

“Who said that?” said Do-Wop, jumping. He peered out into the dark but could see nothing.

“I think the Indians just found us” said Sushi, standing up. “Hello, whoever you are. Can you take us to your leader?”

“What, you think we in some bad movie?” said the deep voice again. A towering figure glided forward from the shadows, its facial features still obscured by the darkness.

“What’s a movie?” asked Do-Wop, moving up alongside Sushi. Almost without thinking about it, he assumed a fighting stance.

“Like a tri-vee, only flat,” said Sushi, absentmindedly. He put his weight on the balls of his feet, not in as aggressive a stance as Do-Wop, but still ready to respond if the stranger made a hostile move.

“You paleface boys look like you get ready kick-um ass,” said the stranger, amusement in his voice. “Why you don’t come smoke-um peace pipe instead? We talk, eat some good food, maybe do some business…”

“Food?” said Sushi, suddenly aware of his nearly empty stomach. “Gee, I guess I could use a bite to eat.”

“Peace pipe?” said Do-Wop. “Yo, man, lead the way.”