“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?”
General Blitzkrieg’s eyes bulged, then he began looking about for help. Surely there was an officer-at very least a sergeant-in charge of this squad, he thought. The round-faced man stood there grinning, with the rest of the squad looking on with evident curiosity. Did they really expect him to answer the question?
With growing consternation, the general realized that they did.
8
Journal #799-
I confess, it is beyond my comprehension what the appeal is of golf. The game was clearly designed by some malignant entity, forcing its devotees to attempt impossible feats with awkward, misshapen implements. And surely the number of heart attacks and fits of apoplexy resulting from the game’s manifold frustrations amply belies the presumed benefits of its being played in the healthy out-of-doors.
It hardly surprised me, then, to learn that the game was a favorite of General Blitzkrieg, a man whose entire career seemed to be the apotheosis of cross-purposes.
“See here, Jester, I’ve had just about enough…” General Blitzkrieg got no further than that before his jaw dropped and his eyes bulged out.
“Great, General, we aim to please,” said the commanding officer of Omega Company. To Blitzkrieg’s utter astonishment, Phule was still out of uniform-except, this time, he had traded in his white dinner jacket for a preposterously bright green golf shirt, blatantly unmatching (largely pink and orange) Madras shorts, and argyle socks that somehow managed to clash with both. A white sun visor and a tasseled pair of blue suede golf shoes completed the ensemble. The captain winked at the general, then said, “I thought I’d go out and hit a few before dinner call. Like to join me? We’ve got a couple of spare bags of clubs if you haven’t brought your own.”
“Hit a few? Clubs?” General Blitzkrieg stared in incomprehension. Then his expression changed. “Do you mean to tell me you’ve got a golf course here?”
“Well, at the moment all I’ve got is a driving range and three short holes,” said Phule, sheepishly. “I’d love to expand to a nine-holer-the terrain here is just ideal, you know. But we’re here on sufferance by the Zenobians, and they’re likely to raise a stink if we start chopping down all their underbrush. I thought if I could teach a couple of the native officers the game, they’d see the point of the whole thing, but it’s slow going.”
“Teach them the game?” said Blitzkrieg. His eyes narrowed, calculating.
“Oh yes,” said Phule. “Get a bunch of Zenobians out on the links, and it’d do wonders for interspecies relations, and of course it’d be the quickest way to get their support for building a course for my officers. So I’ve been giving a few of the locals a chance to get out and take some swings. Not that it’s been easy, General. You can’t imagine how much trouble I’ve had finding decent half-size clubs for the little beggars-especially since most of them seem to be lefties…”
“Captain, Captain-hold on just a minute,” said General Blitzkrieg. “I want to get a good look at these three holes you say you’ve built. And it just so happens, I’ve got my clubs and spikes along. Tell me where the first tee is, and I’ll meet you there in ten minutes.”
“Yes, sir!” said Phule. “The course is at the south edge of the base, down where you see the red tents set up. I’ll get us a couple of caddies.”
Blitzkrieg dashed back to his room. And here he’d been thinking that his visit to Zenobia was going to be all work and no play! It looked as if Jester was good for something after all. Not that setting up a few golf holes was going to get the captain off the hook for all his offenses against Legion tradition, of course. Blitzkrieg was sure he’d find plenty of material to make an open-and-shut case against Jester.
Or, to be exact, Major Sparrowhawk would find it while he was enjoying himself out on the course. If you could call three holes a course… well, if they were interesting enough, perhaps they’d keep him distracted from the sordid business of collecting enough rope to hang the fellow. He finished tying on his spikes, grabbed the bag of clubs, and headed back outside.
The red tents, as it turned out, had been set up as an impromptu clubhouse for the little golf course. There Captain Jester waited, leaning on a short iron. Next to him stood a pair of legionnaire recruits who looked more than happy at having been rescued from their morning formation to do some honest work for their superior officers. A canopied hoverjeep sat nearby, with a set of clubs leaning out the back next to a Legion-issue field cooler. Beyond them, General Blitzkrieg could make out a more or less green area with a small red-and-white flag flying from a pole in the middle distance. About three hundred yards, he estimated almost without thinking. Drive, six iron, and maybe a chip-easy five, chance at four.
“Great, there you are,” said Jester, shading his eyes with one hand. “Do you want to hit some practice shots, or shall we have a drink first?”