"Why you want cop to buy building?" asked Tusk-anini, his eyes riveted on Do-Wop.
"Not the building, Tusk-I wanted him to buy the story, see?" Do-Wop tapped his fingertips on the tabletop. This was not the first interruption from the giant Volton.
Tusk-anini's frown deepened. "You want him to buy story? Was cop magazine editor?"
"Aw, gimme a break, Tusk," said Do-Wop, while the ring of onlookers broke into laughter. "I might as well try sellin' hooch to robots. Just let me finish the story, and then ask your questions, capisce?"
"But I no capisce," said Tusk-anini, who had spent plenty of sessions listening to Do-Wop's stories in the past. "That why I ask questions."
Do-Wop threw up his hands. "Jeez, cool it with the questions for a while, will ya? Now, where was I?"
"Probably about halfway to getting yourself thrown in jail," said a new voice, and Do-Wop looked up to see Sushi, standing there with a broad smile.
"Yo, man, long time no see!" said Do-Wop, jumping to his feet and throwing an arm around his partner. "Last anybody heard, you was kidnapped by the Yazookas."
"Yakuza, and there was only one of them," said Sushi, laughing as he returned Do-Wop's hug. "And the guy didn't kidnap me-we went off to transact some business. Which went exactly the way I wanted it to, I might add."
"Knowin' you, it was some kind of monkey business," said Do-Wop, who'd been a complete stranger to the subtler forms of chicanery before Phule had teamed him with Sushi. "You gonna tell us the story?"
"Hey, you no finish your story!" protested Tusk-anini, as Sushi plopped himself in a vacant chair, signalling for the waitress.
"Later, Tusk, later," said Do-Wop, waving his hand at the Volton. "The man's been runnin' games, and I gotta know the score. Spill, buddy, spill!"
Sushi leaned forward and began, "Well, I guess everybody's heard about the start of it. I was on duty in the casino, in the blackjack section. The dealer spotted a couple of players passing cards..."
"Sssst! Careful what saying, here comes spy!" said Tusk-anini.
"Spy? Where?" Sushi looked puzzled.
"Quiet, he's coming this way," whispered Super-Gnat, putting a hand on Sushi's elbow. "Let us handle him, and we'll tell you what it's about later."
Sushi nodded just as Flight Leftenant Qual came up to the table. Agile as he was when running flat-out, his normal walking gait was a comic waddle. "Greetings, comrades," said the little Zenobian. "May I join your gathering?"
"Guess we can't stop you," muttered Do-Wop.
"Ah, that must be humor!" said Qual. His translator gave out a strange sound somewhere between a hiss and a snarl, which might have been its attempt to render Zenobian laughter into human speech. Whatever the meaning, it did nothing to ingratiate him with the legionnaires.
Qual pulled an empty chair over from a nearby table and seated himself between Tusk-anini and Do-Wop, both of whom cast baleful stares at him. "So, is this how Legion spends evenings?" he asked, looking around the group.
"Who needs to know?" asked Do-Wop. His tone did not invite further discussion.
Qual's translator was not set to make fine distinctions between tones. "Pardon, did I not introduce myself? I am Flight Leftenant Qual," he said, showing his teeth. "Military attaché from Zenobian Empire."
"We know who you are," said Super-Gnat, her voice dripping icicles. "And we know what you're here for, too."
"Excellent," said Qual, slapping the table. "It is to be sympathetic, not so? Let this one purchase the next circle of drinks!"
"No want drink," said Tusk-anini, his eyes narrowed.
"Me neither," said Do-Wop, though his glass was empty. He was not often known to pass up a round when someone else was buying. The others who'd been sitting at the table all indicated their refusal.
The only exception was Sushi. "Well, I just got here, so I'm dry," he said. "If you're buying, I'm drinking."
"Excellent," said Qual, slapping the table again. "I am doleful none of your comrades are thirsty, but perhaps some different time. I like your custom of having one bring the drinks-it makes more time for mingling than when each must go to the pool for itself."
"Assuming you want to mingle," commented Super-Gnat, casting a significant glance toward Qual. "And now that I think of it, I guess I've had all the mingling I want tonight. Tusk, are you ready?"
"Tusk-anini ready," agreed the Volton, rising to his feet.
He nearly brushed the ceiling, towering over the little Zenobian. "Good seeing most of you," he said, and turned to follow Super-Gnat away.
"Time for me to get ready for my third set," said Dee Dee, standing up. One after another, the others at the table also made excuses and exited. Finally only Sushi sat there with Qual, waiting for their drinks to come.
"A shame so many had to leave," said Qual. "I will simply have to get to know them some other time."
"So it would seem," said Sushi. He pulled his chair up closer to Qual. "But there's no reason for us to be strangers. Tell me, Flight Leftenant, what kinds of things are you most interested in finding out about our people?"
"Why, almost everything," said Qual, his teeth gleaming in the flickering barroom lights. "You are much unlike my race in many ways. To begin with..."
The conversation stretched into the late hours.
7
Journal #310
The key to happiness in life is timing. This is certainly true in finance: Sell stock early or late, and you will always blame yourself. The same is true in military affairs: A general who commits his reserves too soon may see them beaten back by an enemy still strong, and one who delays is likely to find the battle already lost. Even a thing as trivial as entering a room can be done at better and worse times.
My employer had the knack of good timing. Perhaps it was inherited-his father had certainly been adept at timing the introduction of new products. Or perhaps young Phule had simply inherited a more mysterious, but even more useful, trait: the ability to convince everyone around that what one has just done was precisely the right thing to do at that particular time.
"Too good?" Armstrong guffawed. "Some of our troops are too good? That's the first time this company's been accused of that!"
"Lieutenant, I sincerely hope it's not the last time," said Phule, pacing behind his desk. "But if Brandy says it's a problem, I want to hear about it. Sergeant?"
Brandy had an unaccustomed worried look on her face. "Well, Captain, those Gambolts are so good that the other recruits can't keep up with them. I ask for a hundred pushups, and they finish them before the rest have done twenty. We practice unarmed combat and nobody can touch 'em. We haven't run the obstacle course yet-it's still being set up over in the park-but I'll bet my stripes that when we do run it, the Gambolts will make everybody else look sick."
Armstrong let out an appreciative whistle. "Great. This company's needed somebody to set an example for our people. Now the rest have something to emulate."
"Except they can't," said Brandy, shaking her head. "They might as well try to outrun a laser beam. Any time speed or strength or agility makes the difference, the cats have the humans completely outclassed. And the whole training platoon is starting to get discouraged. Unless we can figure out something, their morale's going to go straight down the pipes, Captain."
"It seems to me we had this same problem right after I came to the unit," said Phule. He pulled out his desk chair and sat down, leaning forward. "It was the obstacle course that gave us all the answer, if you'll remember."