“That almost makes sense,” said Sushi. “West out of town, right-hand road in Brownsville, big cloud of dust. Jeb sent me.”
“That’s the ticket, sonny,” said the cowpoke, benignly. “Say, you oughta buy a feller a drink when he gives you good advice like thet,” he said, turning one of his eyes on Sushi. The other seemed to be aimed somewhere off in the distance.
Sushi began, “I don’t know if we’ve got the-”
“Always time for a drink,” said Do-Wop. “Say, what’s your name, buddy?”
“Well it ain’t Buddy any more’n it’s Jeb. It’s Buck,” said the cowpoke, rising from the bench. “And this here’s the best place I know of for a drink. Not that there’s very many bad ones.”
Recognizing which way the wind was blowing, Sushi went to the bar and returned shortly with a pitcher of beer and three glasses. He set the glasses on the table but didn’t pour any beer. “All right,” he said, leaning forward on his elbows. “As long as we’re in the business of buying information, let’s make sure we’re getting something worth the price.
“Yo, Soosh, I’m on your team,” said Do-Wop, making a grab for the pitcher. Sushi batted his hand away.
“Yeah, so you can wait until I’m ready to pour the drinks,” said Sushi. “I want to find out what else Buck knows about Old Ben, and about where the captain might have gone-or maybe even Beeker and Nightingale.”
Buck Short frowned. “Nightingale? She some kind of singer?”
Sushi looked at Do-Wop and raised an eyebrow. “Funny-I don’t remember saying Nightingale was a she. Do you remember me saying that?”
“Hey, I wasn’t hardly listen-OOF!” said Do-Wop, as Sushi kicked him under the table. He shot a dirty look at his partner, then belatedly caught the hint. “Uh, no, Soosh-you didn’t say nothin‘ at all about Nightingale bein’ a female. Where’d you get that idea, Buck?”
“Well, it’s a girly kind o‘ name, ain’t it?” said Buck Short. ’“Sides, there was one young lady come through a while back, never did get her name, but she was with a kind of dignified older feller, and wearin‘ the kind of outfit you said she might be wearin’. So it kind of makes sense she’s the one you’re talkin‘ about, don’t it, now.”
“Maybe it does,” said Sushi, directing a doubtful stare at Buck. “But I think you better tell us a little more about this young lady you saw. Where did she and her ‘older feller’ go? Has anybody else been asking about them?”
“You want me to answer all them questions without a drink? My throat’s like to get awful dry…” Buck Short put on his most pitiful expression.
“Answer, and you’ll get your drink,” said Sushi, mildly. “Unless we don’t like your answers… My friend here can get mighty cross when we don’t like answers.” He nodded toward Do-Wop, who was scowling fiercely-most likely at the prospect of having to wait for beer, himself. But there was nothing to be gained by letting Buck know that.
It took a few more not-very-subtle threats, but before long Buck was drinking his beer-and talking up a blue streak. At last, the pitcher was done, and so was the cow-poke. He laid his arms on the table, set his head down on them, and fell almost immediately asleep.
“Well, I guess we’ve found out what we need to know,” said Sushi. “Let’s go see what we can do about it.”
“Ya sure?” said Do-Wop, looking at the empty pitcher. “If this hayseed wakes up, he might remember some other stuff.”
“And cost us a lot more time and bucks,” said Sushi. “Let’s get on the case while there’s still a case to get onto.” He grabbed his partner by the arm and out the door they went.
6
Journal #790-
My employer’s military career exemplifies one major strategy for success in life: He has never missed an opportunity to build one success into another. Consider the incident on Haskin’s Planet, where, entirely by accident, he encountered members of an alien race-a situation loaded with opportunities for horrendous blunders. To my employer’s credit, he kept his wits about him, and not only avoided conflict but struck a commercial bargain with the Zeno-bians, as the aliens called themselves. In addition, he made a friend of the alien commander, Flight Leftenant Qual- who, as it turned out, was destined to become a highly admired hero among his own race.
That might have been a significant accomplishment for most officers; few sophonts are lucky enough to make a first contact with an alien race. But my employer managed to pyramid that initial success into a plum assignment as the commander of the Alliance military mission to Zenobia. A significant posting for a mere captain.
It seems almost irrelevant to note that his superiors believed that they were sending my employer into a position on a backward world from which they sincerely hoped he would never emerge. Little did they think that he would thrive in the post, and that, in the end, they would be coming to Zenobia themselves.
“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.“