“Sure, Maj- Sparrowhawk,” said Rembrandt. She smiled and held open a door leading out to the parade ground. Like a lamb to the slaughter, thought Sparrowhawk, stepping out into the sunlight.
She didn’t stop to reflect that the phrase might equally apply both ways…
Skilletville was filled wall to wall with people, apparently about fifty tourists for every local-and a fair number of the locals were “Injun” robots. Among the tourists, most of the men were wearing clearly freshly bought “Western” outfits: broad-brimmed hats, unbuttoned vests, blue jeans, boots with fancy toolwork, and some kind of gun belt. The women’s outfits showed more variety, from a feminized version of the hat-jeans-and-boots ensemble to full skirts, parasols, high necklines, and somewhat less practical hats. Most of them looked extremely uncomfortable. On the other hand, Phule’s Legion jumpsuit got more than its share of curious glances-which might have made him even more uncomfortable, if he’d been prone to second-guessing himself.
Along all the unpaved streets were rows of tents selling food, crafts, vids, and “collectibles,” the latter being junky impulse items so outrageously overpriced that the buyers would probably hold on to them forever in the vain hope of someday getting back what they’d paid. Phule stopped to grab a sandwich and a bottle of the local beer at one stand, and scanned the crowd while he gulped them down. No sign of Beeker or Nightingale. He put his sandwich wrapper and empty bottle into a recycler. Some sort of show was going on near the center of town; he made his way through the thickening crowd toward the sound of music and laughter.
A small wooden stage had been erected in the middle of the street, where a group of musicians-half of them human, the other half robots-were playing banjos, fiddles, and a washboard. A grinning sheriff and a buxom music hall girl performed a lively dance to the music. Phule watched for a moment, then shrugged. Whatever the rest of the crowd saw in the act, it did nothing for him. He went back to searching the crowd for the familiar face of his butler-or the slightly less familiar one of Nightingale. After a few minutes, he realized that he’d just seen another familiar face-one he’d met only a few days ago. He turned his head back, reexamining the crowd… Yes, there it was, just on the other side of the stage. Buck Short.
Once again, he began pushing his way through the crowd, this time toward the grizzled cowboy who’d sent him looking for Beeker out in Indian territory. He got several annoyed glances from tourists intent on watching the show, and a couple of elbows came his way, but before long he was right behind his target. “Hello, Buck,” he said calmly, putting his hand on the cowboy’s shoulder.
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.