Buck spun around surprisingly quickly in the tight-packed crowd. “Why, Cap’n!” he said. “What brings you by Skilletville?”
“Still looking for my butler,” said Phule. “The West Indians suggested they might have come here.”
“Wa-al, I reckon that could be,” said Buck. “Dunno why I didn’t think of it myself.”
“Yes, I wondered about that myself, once I learned that this is apparently the main tourist destination on the planet,” said Phule. He paused, looking directly into Short’s eyes. “By any chance did somebody tell you to send me out of the way, so I wouldn’t see them?”
“That don’t hardly make sense, Cap’n,” said Short, his eyes shifting from side to side. “Say, how’s about you and me go somewheres, maybe have a drink and figger it out?”
“I’m not buying you any more drinks,” said Phule. “But we are definitely going to figure things out.” He grabbed the cowboy by the collar and began pulling him along toward the edge of the crowd. The onlookers stared and pointed but did nothing, probably assuming that Buck’s squirming was part of the show. Just what they thought Phule, in a custom-tailored modern Space Legion uniform, was doing in a Wild West re-creation show is probably best left unexplored.
Eventually Phule emerged from the crowd, with Buck still in tow. He dragged him over to a horse trough and sat him on the edge. “All right, here’s the deal,” he said. “I’m going to ask you a few questions, and you’re going to give me answers. If I don’t think you’re giving me the right answers, you get a bath-which maybe isn’t a bad idea, after all.”
“Hey, pardner, ain’t no need to get all hasty,” said Buck. SPLASH! Phule ducked him into the trough before he could say any more, held him down for a count of five, then pulled him back up, sputtering. The cowboy finally recovered his breath enough to ask, “What’d you go an‘ do that fer?”
“To make sure you know I’m serious,” said Phule, grinning fiercely. “Have you seen my butler?”
“Wa-al, I can’t rightly remem-” SPLASH!
“I’ll ask the question again,” said Phule, pulling him back up-this time after a count of ten. “Have you seen my butler?”
“Yep, I shore have,” said Buck. “Him and his lady was here last night, enjoyin‘ the roundup. Don’t duck me agin!”
“I won’t, if you tell me where they are now,” said Phule.
Buck Short waved a soggy arm in the direction of the Cut ‘N’ Shoot spaceport. “They went that-a-way,” he said. Phule nodded, then let go of his shirt. Buck nearly fell back in the water. But Phule was paying no attention. He was already heading for his robosteed, ready to ride off in pursuit of Beeker.
General Blitzkrieg stepped out onto the parade ground of Omega Base, his best professional scowl on his face. He’d been here less than one standard day, but already he was feeling frustrated. He was used to arriving for “surprise” inspections only to discover that every legionnaire on the planet had known far in advance of his visit, and had prepared for it. He was even used to having the local COs whirl him through a round of wining and dining and VIP receptions in hopes of distracting him from the object of his visit. He couldn’t pretend he minded the special treatment one bit; as far as he was concerned, it was one of the more attractive perks of being a commanding general in the Space Legion.
Besides, he could afford to enjoy himself a little on these inspection tours. The local commanders might assume they’d managed to pull the wool over his eyes. Little did they know that while the general was getting the VIP treatment, his adjutant, Major Sparrowhawk, was making note of the real lapses in discipline, preparedness, and security on the bases he visited. Blitzkrieg had to admit that Sparrowhawk had a pretty good head on her shoulders, for a female. Sometimes he didn’t know how he’d run the Legion without her.
But somehow he’d failed to realize that Zenobia Base was the sole human outpost on this insufferable lizard-ridden planet. There were no sights to be seen, unless you happened to like swamps and deserts. There weren’t any four-star restaurants, unless you counted the mess hall- which, he had to admit, served a pretty decent meal for a Legion base. And, as far as he could tell, the only recreational facilities within a light-year of the place were the casinos of Lorelei Station, where he’d dropped far too much money on his four-day stopover before coming here. He might just have to spend this visit actually inspecting the troops…
Well, sometimes business had to come before pleasure. He’d come looking for ammunition to finally destroy the career of that damned headline-hunting jackass of a Phule. If he didn’t find it, it was nobody’s fault but his own. He put on his most intimidating expression and headed toward a group of legionnaires he saw lounging about a short distance away.
“Yo, the brass comin‘,” said a soft voice. Blitzkrieg had expected that. He’d also expected the legionnaires to fall into a hasty formation and come to attention. Instead, while a few of them glanced his way, they continued to act like unconcerned civilians. His eyebrows rose a notch. Were they that poorly trained, or was this a deliberate affront? He’d soon find out.
“Hey, boss man, what’s the bite?” said one of the troops, as he strode up to the legionnaires. “You been all triff?”
Blitzkrieg’s eyes bulged out and his jaw fell open. “Wh-wh-what?” he sputtered. “Legionnaire, do you know who I am?”
The legionnaire-a tall, thin man with cafe-au-lait coloration-stepped forward and peered at the general. “Yeah, jes’ like I thought-you’re the main boss mofo,” he said after a long moment’s close-up inspection. “They told me you’re a gruff and skritty chee, but you look mighty sly to me.”
“I look what?” said Blitzkrieg. His voice rose an octave. “They told you WHAT?”
“Oh yeah, that’s sly, all right,” said the legionnaire, nodding with evident approval. “Ain’t nothin‘ skritty ’bout you, not a hair of it.” He stuck out his hand. “Splank it, boss man!”
Blitzkrieg looked around in panic. He knew the Legion took in representatives of every species from every planet in the Alliance. And he knew-better than anyone-that those who couldn’t handle the demands of life and work in the Legion ended up in Omega Company, more often than not. But the reality of it was something those abstract understandings had left him unprepared for. The proposition that this fellow in front of him qualified as a fellow sophont was beyond his intellectual grasp.
But before he could make his escape, another apparition in Legion uniform approached him. This one had a shaved head, round glasses, and a beatific smile. “Ah, General Blitzkrieg,” it said. “It is with great pleasure that I see you here.” He put his hand on the tall legionnaire’s shoulder, caught his eyes, and nodded. The tall fellow nodded back and moved away.
“Uh, pleasure, a real pleasure,” said the general, glad to be rid of the incomprehensible nuisance, but unsure what this new legionnaire was up to. Where are the sergeants?
“I wonder if you could take a moment to inform us on a few important topics?“ said the fellow, still smiling. ”It is unusual to be able to learn from a representative of the higher echelons of command.“
“Uh, what did you have in mind?” asked Blitzkrieg. He wasn’t sure that offering to answer questions was a good idea, but he felt he owed the fellow at least a moment’s courtesy in exchange for his having steered away the first man.
“Why, only the most elementary matters,” said the smiling man. “Perhaps you would be so kind as to explain the imbalance between merit and reward. For example, this company’s previous assignment was on Landoor, a dangerous and demanding environment. But after we achieved our mission there, we did not receive a fine vacation, but transfer to an even more critical mission here on Zenobia. Is this equitable?”