“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.“
“Well, that’s mighty big of you, Captain,” said Sodden. He stood up and stuck out his hand. Phule shook it. “If you ever come back this way and need somebody in my line of work, just give a yell and I’m your man,” said the detective.
“Well, there is one last thing I’d like to figure out,” said Phule, holding on to Sodden’s hand. “The longer I’ve been here, the more I’ve realized that this whole planet is obsessed with something I don’t understand at all.”
“Really?” said Sodden. He rubbed his chin with the free hand, a contemplative look on his face. “I can’t for the life of me figure out what you mean, Captain.”
“Greebfap,” Phule barked.
“Hey, no point in getting fritzy about it, Captain,” said Sodden, pulling away his hand and stepping backward. The bench kept him from retreating farther. “Just tell me what you’re talking about, and I’ll let you in on it.”
“I’m talking about greebfap,” snarled Phule, stepping forward and grabbing Sodden’s lapel. “People are rioting in the streets, about to bring down the planetary government, all because of greebfap. Greebfap! Greebfap! Sodden, you’re going to tell me what greebfap is before I leave this planet!”
A mechanical voice from the speaker interposed itself between his question and whatever Sodden might have been about to say. “Sagittarius Arm Special now ready for preboarding,” it said. “Stops at Leibnitz, Hix’s World, New Baltimore, and Glimber. First-class passengers, those who need assistance in boarding, and sophont groups with immature family members, please come to the gate for preboarding.” A wheeled methane enclosure trundled noisily forward, its inhabitants dimly visible through the portholes. In a pocket Velcroed to the outside a set of tickets to Glimber was visible.
“There’s your ship,” said Sodden, pointing in the general direction of the gate. “Better get on board…”
“I heard the announcement,” growled Phule. “I still have half an hour before they dog the doors shut. And that’s all the time I need to make you tell me what greebfap is all about.”
“Willard Phule! Or should I say, Captain Jester! What a surprise to see you!” came a chirpy voice from just behind him. Surprised, Phule turned his head, a look of half recognition already on his face. Almost involuntarily, his grip on Sodden’s shirt loosened.
“Mrs. Biffwycke-Snerty,” said Phule, recognizing one of his mother’s comrades-in-arms from the charity gala circuit. “What a surprise…”
“Equally, I’m sure,” said the woman. “I take it you’re here on Legion duty, helping put down those dreadful rioters. It’s such a reassurance to know that the right kind of people are doing their part to keep the galaxy a safe place to travel.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Phule, as noncommittally as he could manage. “I hope you haven’t been inconvenienced…”
“Fortunately, only slightly,” said Mrs. Biffwycke-Snerty, putting on her most courageous expression. “My hoverlimo was forced to take an alternate route out to the spaceport to avoid the rioters. I saw some of the most appalling neighborhoods-one would think there’d be a better class of groundskeepers on this world, of all worlds. But my business here is finished, thank Ghu. It’ll be such a relief to get home to poor Biffy; the silly boy never knows what to do with himself when I’m away.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Phule again. He’d learned long since that it was the safest thing one could say to women of a certain social class. “Please give Mr. Biffwycke my regards.”
“Thank you, Wilfred-I mean, Captain” Mrs. Biffwycke-Snerty beamed. “I certainly will, and please give your dear mama mine.” She leaned forward and kissed the air a couple of inches from his cheek, then turned and went her way.
And of course, when Phule turned to look for Perry Sodden, there was nothing at all to be seen of the detective.
Chocolate Harry carefully avoided mentioning to any of the bettors in his golf pool that both Lieutenant Armstrong and the “Captain Jester” robot were playing to let General Blitzkrieg win. (Nobody was quite sure what Flight Left-enant Qual was playing for.) Harry expected the members of Omega Company to back their own officers, whether from loyalty or because of apparently favorable odds. And in fact, to date there was almost nobody betting on the genera]-which had allowed Harry to pocket a substantial profit at the end of every single day of the pool.
Harry had also made every effort to involve the anxious bettors in the action taking place out on the golf course. As much as General Blitzkrieg might have appreciated the idea of an audience raptly following his every stroke on the course, he (and his adjutant, Major Sparrowhawk) would have been quick to seize on any evidence that the legionnaires of Omega Company weren’t hard at work. Luckily, Harry remembered that one of Phule’s early purchases for the company was a set of state-of-the-art spy gear, with miniature video cameras and microphones. That allowed one of the caddies, suitably wired, to relay a running commentary back to an oversize tri-vee player in the Supply shack. Today it was Thumper, caddying for Flight Left-enant Qual, providing the play-by-play.
Considering how new the game was to everyone except Armstrong and the general, it had caught on amazingly. On any given day, every off-duty legionnaire on the post was likely to be crowded into the Supply shack. Of course there was a fully stocked bar right next to the odds board. Just as in his poker games, Harry figured that keeping the customers nicely marinated was good for business. Besides, it was a surefire way to even out the cash flow, even when he had to pay off an unexpected long shot-such as the time Flight Leftenant Qual managed to hook a tee shot smack into the middle of the gravitational anomaly on the second fairway, which kicked it straight down the course even faster than it had arrived, a good hundred-fifty yards past the pin. Of course the ball ended up well out in the brush, and when Thumper finally found his ball, Qual needed four more shots just to get it on the green. But the Zeno-bian handily won that day’s long driving pool, at thirty-to-one odds.
The one thing Harry hadn’t quite counted on came knocking on the door to Supply one afternoon, just as the golfers had teed up for their seventh hole. For once Blitzkrieg appeared to have figured out what it took to keep his shots in the center of the fairway. For his part, Flight Leftenant Qual was having uncanny luck with his putter, regularly sinking the ball from ten or more meters out. So the match was more competitive than usual, and as a consequence the bets were even heavier than usual. Harry had just begun to anticipate a killing when Double-X came hurrying over to him. “Sarge, we got trouble.”
“Trouble?” growled Chocolate Harry. “What kind of trouble?” In answer, Double-X nodded toward the entrance to the Supply depot. There, to Harry’s horror, stood Major Sparrowhawk, clipboard in hand and a determined expression on her face. “Shit,” said Harry, in a low but sincere voice. “Guess I better take care of this. Be ready to close things down if I give the signal.”
“Right on, Sarge,” said Double-X. He glanced nervously first at the woman at the entrance, then at the small but enthusiastic group of bettors crowded around the tri-vee display. After a moment, he turned back, and asked, “Uh, what’s the signal?” But by then, Chocolate Harry had already moved to intercept Major Sparrowhawk.