“I can’t imagine Beeks in a hovertible, red or any other color,” said Phule, toying with his. glass. “And I sure hope I don’t have to wait for him to run out of money-the old fellow’s as frugal as they come. I think it’d take him quite a while to spend all his savings, even with the lady friend helping him out.“
“You’d be surprised,” said Sodden. “I used to go with this girl from Varleigh…” He shuddered, then knocked back his drink and signaled for another before turning back to Phule. “Anyhow, he’s bound to leave a trail an experienced investigator like me can follow. And like I told you, I’ve got a solid lead. Shouldn’t be more than a couple of days before I’ve got him.”
“He could be off-planet and on a ship to who knows where by then,” said Phule. “I hope you aren’t taking things for granted.”
“Not a chance,” Sodden said, with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Now, I’ll need a bit more of an advance to check out all the angles-I might have to put on a couple of extra people to run everything down. But you can be sure we’ll get…” The ring of his pocket phone interrupted him. “One moment, Captain. Sorry…” He put the earpiece to his ear, listening. “Uh-huh. Really. Really? Oh, shit. Hang on, I’ll be there.” He thumbed the off button and shoved the phone back in his pocket.
“What is it?” said Phule, worried.
“Minor problem in the office,” said Sodden, getting to his feet. “Now, a couple hundred more for expenses would be a good idea just about now, right?”
“Some straight talk about what’s going on with my case would be an even better idea,” said Phule, getting to his feet and putting a hand on Sodden’s shoulder.
“Uh, well…” Sodden rolled his eyes from side to side, like a drowning man searching for help. Suddenly he pointed to something behind Phule, and shouted, “Look! There she goes!”
Phule turned quickly to see a tall Black woman-Nightingale? or someone else?-vanish through a doorway leading out of the hotel. He turned back to Sodden-who said, “Hurry! Maybe we can catch her.”
They ran quickly to the door where they’d seen the woman; but she had already vanished into the crowd on the sidewalk.
The sign inside Chocolate Harry’s Supply depot read, golf pool-best odds on the planet. A smart legionnaire might have pointed out that, since nobody else on the planet was giving odds on General Blitzkrieg’s golf games, Harry wasn’t promising all that much. But since the legionnaire who pointed that out was likely to have it pointed out that Harry was under no obligation to take bets from anyone, the claim went unchallenged. In fact, Harry had plenty of takers for his odds-a predictable benefit of running the only game in town.
Harry wasn’t picky; he’d give odds on almost anything you could find somebody willing to bet on. He was running a pool on the Zenobians’ team sports, which almost none of the Legionnaires understood (though there were plenty who claimed to). Bets on the arrival time of the next Supply shuttle were one of his most popular offerings. And if things were really slow, he could always fall back on organizing competitions among members of Omega Company, on which other members were then encouraged to bet.
“Who d’ya want, Roadkill?” said Harry, as one of Brandy’s recruits studied the odds board. “If you’re a bet-tin‘ man, there’s some pretty juicy situations there.”
The board currently had the general the favorite at two to one; Lieutenant Armstrong was at five to two; Captain Jester was at four to one; and Flight Leftenant Qual was a rank outsider at ten to one. There were also plenty of side bets, such as odds on one or more of the players scoring a hole in one, longest drive of the day on the par five second, over/under for total putts on the afternoon, number of balls snatched by florbigs, and so forth. The variety of options was a tribute to Harry’s hard work; he’d spent the better part of a weekend researching golf before he had the faintest clue how the game was played, let alone what somebody might want to bet on.
“Why’s the general such a big favorite?” said Roadkill, squinting at the odds board. “He don’t look like much of a player to me. Way out of shape…”
“Ah, but he’s got the edge in experience,” said Harry, knowingly. “Condition don’t mean that much in this game, and there’s no defensemen goin‘ upside your head if you take your eye off ’em. All a dude has to do is hit his best shot and watch it go. How you bettin‘?”
Roadkill rubbed his chin. “Twenty gradoojies on the captain,” he said, decisively. “And another five on Lieutenant Armstrong for a hole in one.”
“OK, got you covered,” said Chocolate Harry, smiling. “Who else wants some action?”
“I would like to bet, but first I have a question,” said a familiar voice. Harry turned to see Mahatma standing there, an enigmatic smile on his face.
Harry groaned. “Oh, man, I’m not gonna have to explain the whole history of golf to you, am I?” he asked- only half-joking. Every officer and noncom in the company had learned to tread very carefully when Mahatma approached them with one of his questions.
“Not today, Sergeant Harry,” said Mahatma. “I found a good history on the Net, although I may have other questions on it later. Today I want to know why the general is permitted to hit several drives for every one his opponents hit, then to choose the best to play.”
“Uh, I think that’s what they call a handiclap,” said Harry, with utter confidence. “That’s like a courtesy they extend to the visiting player, so’s the local guys don’t have an unfair advantage.”
“That makes some sense,” said Mahatma. Harry breathed a deep sigh-prematurely, as he soon learned. “But tell me, Sergeant Harry-this is a new course, so our local players have not played it any more than the general has, have they?”
“I guess that’s right, Mahatma,” said Chocolate Harry, doing his best to appear unruffled. “But of course, Qual’s a native, and the captain and lieutenant have both had a good long while to get acclimated to these here desert conditions, which the general, being from off-world, hasn’t done. So they’d still have that local edge. Can’t beat that local edge.”
“The general seems to be beating it very consistently,” said Mahatma, brightly.
“So bet on his ass,” grumbled Harry, finally losing his patience. “I ain’t got all day to talk, y’know. And if you ain’t bettin‘, go mess wit’ somebody else’s head.”
“Why, that is a wonderful suggestion, Sergeant Chocolate Harry,” said Mahatma. “I believe I will do just that.” And he turned on his heel, leaving C. H. to wonder just which of his two suggestions Mahatma was going to follow.
“Look here,” said Phule. He was in the spaceport departure lounge, his luggage already checked, and a first-class oneway ticket to Hix’s World in his hand. “I’ve been on Rot’n‘art for nearly a week. I came here to find my butler and his girlfriend, and that was all I really cared about. And now I found out they’re gone to Hix’s World…”
“Bad luck,” said Sodden, firmly. “If we’d just been a little bit quicker following up that one lead-you’ll remember I was urging you to do just that…” He slapped his hand against the molded symwood arm of the waiting-room bench in evident frustration.
“No point in might-have-beens now,” said Phule, with a shrug. “You’ve done the best you could for me, and I don’t hold it against you that my butler moved too fast for us to catch him. I’ve just got to go to the next place and try to catch him there.“