"Sure. Come on in, C.H. What can I do for you?"
Though deliberately casual in tone and manner, the commander was curious as to what had dragged Harry away from his normal lair in the supply rooms. They had not spoken more than in passing since the new uniforms were issued, and while the supply sergeant had been more than efficient in handling his expanded duties, Phule was curious as to his true reactions to the revitalization of the company.
Harry eased into the room, peering around through the thick lenses of his glasses as if he expected to find an intruder-or a bargain-lurking in the corners. Finally he ran a hand over his close-cropped hair and began.
"Well, sir," he said, that surprisingly wheezy voice of his emerging mysteriously from his dense, bristly beard. "I've been doing some thinkin'. You know the problems we've been havin' comin' up with weapons for Spartacus and Louie?"
Phule nodded carefully. Along with the problems of locomotion, the Sinthians had other difficulties in interfacing with the troops, not the least of which were armaments. Their spindly arms had enough wiry strength to handle most of the firearms in the company's arsenal, but there was a problem with their eyestalks. It seemed that the sighting devices designed for eyes mounted side by side on a head, like on a human face, were somehow beyond the Sinthians' physiology. They were issued weapons along with the rest of the company when they went out on exercises, but were under strict orders not to fire a round until they had demonstrated an ability to place their shots at least in the vicinity of their intended target.
"Have you got an answer, C.H.?"
"Mebbe so." The sergeant fidgeted. "You see, before I signed up, I was a member of... a club. Pretty rough-and-tumble folks. Anyway, we had one guy, blind as a bat, who was one of the meanest dudes we had in a fight. What it was, was he got hold of a sawed-off shotgun and used that when things got rough. He didn't have to be real accurate, just so long as he got the general direction right. I was thinkin'... you know, with the Sinthians..."
Phule considered this. A sawed-off shotgun was a classic close-combat weapon, especially as an adaptation to some of the new belt-fed models. There was no denying its effectiveness, though it was not usually issued in the military. Of course, the police still used them for really nasty situations, so it wasn't entirely unprecedented. Then again, this was Harry's first independent effort to help the company, and the commander was loath to discourage him.
"That's an excellent idea, C.H.," he said, reaching his decision. "As a matter of fact, we're going to be getting a visit from a sales rep of old Phule-Proof Munitions in the next few days. We'll have to see what he has in stock that can be modified to our purposes."
"That's great, Cap'n. Wouldn't mind browsing through their selection myself. Ain't often I've had a chance to see the new stuff instead of hand-me-downs and black market rejects."
"Oh, you'll be involved in the selections, Sergeant." The commander smiled. "Never fear on that score. Getting back to the shotguns, though, I only see one possible problem with issuing them to the Sinthians. Specifically it will be of the utmost importance that they're pointed at least in the right general direction when they fire. That'll mean being sure they're teamed with someone reliable, and not that many of our more solid Legionnaires have expressed a willingness to accept them as partners. It seems that everyone's afraid that their slowness would be a liability on combat. That may change if the glide-board idea works out, but in the meantime...
"Shoot, that's no problem, Captain." The sergeant beamed, his teeth showing though his fierce beard. "I'd have room for one of 'em-mebbe both-in the sidecar of my hawg. I can keep an eye on 'em myself!"
"Your what?"
"Mah hawg... my hover cycle. I'll tell you, Captain, I never have been able to figure out why the military doesn't use 'em in combat. They worked fine for us in civilian life, and they can go anywhere one of those glide boards can."
Phule had a vague feeling that he had just been maneuvered into letting Chocolate Harry ride his hover cycle into combat. Still, if it was. efficient...
"Tell you what, C.H. Bring your... hawg... by after duty hours tomorrow. I want to take a look at it myself."
"Right, Cap'n!"
"Oh, and C.H., while we're on the subject of the nonhumans in the company, what weapon do you think would be best for Tusk-anini?"
"Tusk?" The sergeant blinked. "Heck, Cap'n. It don't matter none what you have him carry. He ain't gonna shoot it, anyway. "
"I beg your pardon?"
"I thought you knew, Cap'n. The Voltron may look like some kinda big stomper, but he's a strict pacifist. Won't even raise his voice to anyone, much less a weapon."
It was late when the commander leaned back, stretching from the litter of notes on the table in his bedroom, and decided to call it a day. No sooner had he reached his decision, however, than he realized he was hungry. He had worked through the dinner hour (again) and knew that the hotel restaurant was long closed, as was the bar. Still, now that his concentration was broken, an emptiness in the vicinity of his stomach reminded him than he should feed it something or he'd have trouble getting to sleep.
There was a vending machine which dispensed snacks, but that was two floors down (apparently people living in penthouse suites weren't supposed to patronize vending machines), but he had dismissed Beeker several hours ago, and was loath to call on the services of the Legionnaire who would be on communications duty in the main room with no justification other than his own laziness. It seemed he had no choice but to stir his stumps and run the errand himself.
Having reached that decision, Phule felt the momentary tug of politeness and chose to exit his lair through the duty area.
"I'm going down for some noshies," he announced, opening the connecting door while feeling in his pocket for some change. "Can I get you anything while I'm at it?"
The Legionnaire on duty started and looked up from her magazine as if he had shot at her, then ducked her head, shaking it in a quick negative, but not quite fast enough to hide the fact that her face had colored with a blush like a tomato on a seed catalog before she did.
The commander paused, studying the woman as his memory flashed data from files and conversations across his mind.
That's right. This was the Legionnaire named Rose the lieutenants had been talking about. As they had noted, she was attractive enough, with ash-blond hair and the kind of figure usually described as willowy. Of course, her tendency to try to crawl back inside her uniform like a turtle when spoken to did nothing to enhance her appearance.
Brandy had suggested skipping over her when her name came up on the duty roster, but Phule insisted on letting her take her turn at communications like everyone else. Now, looking at her bowed head and averted eyes, he wondered if he shouldn't have been more flexible. From the way she was acting, if a call came in she'd probably faint rather than answer it.
"Say, have you got change for a dollar?" he said, trying once more even if it meant ignoring the coins in his pocket.
The total reaction to his question consisted of a deepening of Rose's blush and another quick shake of her head.
Tenaciously the commander wandered closer, trying to edge into her line of vision.
"While we're talking, I'm curious about your reactions to my reorganization of the company. Do you see it as an improvement or just a waste of everyone's time?"
Rose turned her head away from him, but finally spoke.
"Mmphl gump hmm ol."
Phule blinked a couple times, then leaned closer.
"Excuse me... what was that again? I couldn't quite hear you."