Today, he was glad to see, the line seemed to be moving steadily through the gates. The shipboard lunch menu hadn’t appealed to him, and as a result he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Once through customs, he fully intended to find the best restaurant in the vicinity and enjoy a leisurely meal, with a glass or two of Old Earth’s legendary vintages. His luggage could wait…
Finally, he came to the head of the line, waited a moment for one of the agents to become available, and stepped up to the desk. “Good afternoon,” he said, smiling pleasantly. It never hurt to be polite when dealing with bureaucrats, he’d found.
The agent was a human male of average height, with dark hair and a bushy moustache. On the lapel of his decidedly dowdy uniform was a regulation plastic name tag that read agt. g. c. fox. To Phule’s surprise, the agent snatched his passport as if he suspected it of being contraband. “State your reason for coming to Old Earth,” he said, sharply. His tone suggested that describing the afternoon as “good” was the height of impertinence.
“I’m here on personal business,” said Phule, keeping his face neutral.
Fox alternately stared at the passport and tapped a small keyboard attached to the computer screen on his desktop. After an uncomfortably long interval, he snapped his gaze back to Phule. “Planet of residence,” he barked. “Zenobia,” said Phule. “I’m stationed there with…”
“Just answer the questions I ask,” said Fox. “Zenobia…” He tapped a key, looked at his screen, then glared at Phule. “There’s no listing for a planet Zenobia in my database.”
“They’re independent allies,” said Phule. “I’m stationed there with…”
“You already said that,” Fox scolded. He looked back at his screen, taking his time. Abruptly he pointed at Phule and barked, “Are you importing any prohibited organic substances?”
“Of course not,” said Phule, standing up straighten “I am an officer of the Space Legion!”
Agent Fox snorted. Then Phule noticed, a short distance away, a stern-faced man in the same blue uniform as Fox, watching him. The man’s name tag read supervisor l. hawkridge. Suddenly aware of Phule’s gaze, the man gave a stiff nod toward Fox, then moved on to survey another part of the entry concourse.
“As if that made any difference,” said Fox, visibly relaxing as the supervisor walked away. “With what the Legion pays, a little income on the side looks pretty good to most officers.” The customs agent looked at Phule’s passport again, then leaned forward on his desk and lowered his voice. “Sure you’re not importing anything prohibited? There’s people I know that might be interested.”
“Yes, interested enough to throw me in the cooler for a few years,“ said Phule. ”If I were bringing in anything illegal, do you think I’d tell a customs officer?“
“Hey, ya never know,” said Fox, shrugging. “In this business, a guy’s gotta take whatever comes along. If a smuggler’s dumb enough to tell me he’s bringing something in, I’d be crazy not to take advantage.” He slid Phule’s passport back across the counter.
Phule noticed that Fox hadn’t made it exactly clear whether “take advantage” meant arresting the smuggler or taking a cut of the proceeds in return for letting him through. It might be very useful to know which he meant- just in case, as Chocolate Harry might have put it. He turned a knowing smile on the agent, and said, “Well, how do you catch the smart ones?”
Fox stroked his moustache with a thumb and index finger. “Well, we’ve got our tricks, and I probably shouldn’t give them away. To tell the truth, we probably don’t catch the really smart ones, but not everybody’s as smart as they think they are. You’d be surprised how many people think they can just give the agent a couple of bucks to turn a blind eye, right in front of everybody…”
Phule shrugged. “Some people never learn how to handle things discreetly.” He tucked his passport back into his pocket, not bothering to look whether the hundred-credit note he’d folded inside it was still there. He had a pretty good idea, though. If he needed help with immigration matters in the future, he was pretty sure he could turn to Agent Fox.
As Phule went away, Fox quickly noted down the name and hotel address from the captain’s passport. He was pretty sure he recognized the name from somewhere-he was the kind of person who kept track of such things. And if the captain was who Fox thought he was, certain people would be very interested in knowing he’d come to Old Earth. In any case, as Fox had learned, it never hurt to keep an eye open.
“I’ll be damned,” said General Blitzkrieg. “Right in the middle of an Alliance base…”
He was staring at a strange machine, tended by a group of the native Zenobians, all wearing what he assumed were local military uniforms. Just what the machine was, he couldn’t quite make out. But he knew an infringement on Legion prerogatives when he saw one. And he was just mad enough to go ahead and call the damned lizards on it.
“See here, what’s this all about?” he bellowed, striding forward in his most intimidating manner. Even dressed in his golf shorts and cap, he could summon up a galaxy-class bluster. “I demand an explanation!”
The lizards turned and looked at him, their expressions bright and curious. One of them-evidently the group leader-stepped forward. It was wearing a translator, which intoned, “Salutings, alien creature! Is it not that you are the General Flashbang? Flight Leftenant Qual has reported all to us.”
Confused, the general reverted to his tried-and-true strategy: bellowing louder. “I’m General Blitzkrieg, and I want to know what the hell you’re doing here on a Legion base!”
Another Zenobian answered him. “We faithfully regulate the sklern,” it said, in a nasal monotone.
“Regulate?” stormed Blitzkrieg. “I’ll show you regulate-and I mean Legion regulations! This entire base is three hundred sixty-five degrees out of regulations, and this infernal device is just the tip of the ice cube! I’ll have every one of you in the brig for espionage!” Blitzkrieg paused for breath, but he was interrupted before he could crank his tirade into a higher gear.
“Evenin‘, General,” came a drawling voice from behind him.
The general turned; there stood Rev, the preposterous chaplain of this preposterous company. “What the hell are you doing here?“ said Blitzkrieg. ”Better scurry back to your chapel before you find yourself in more trouble than your King can get you out of!“
“With the King on my side, I can handle a heap of trouble,” said Rev. “But there’s no sense lookin‘ for trouble where there ain’t any. What’s your problem with these fellers?”
Blitzkrieg waved a hand. “Why, it’s obvious! These damned foreigners are using a Legion ”base to spy on the Alliance! And Jester’s letting them do it, without blinking an eye!“
Rev scratched his head. “Beggin‘ your pardon, General- it don’t seem quite right to call these fellers foreigners. They’re the ones who live here, and they invited us in…”
“This is still a Legion base,” countered Blitzkrieg, in a full roar. “Not as if anybody here seems to act like it. Look around-you’d think there wasn’t any such thing as regulations…”
“We regulate the sklern,” chorused all three of the Zenobians, in slightly different mechanical voices.
“Who the hell asked you?” Blitzkrieg bellowed, loud enough to rattle windows on the other side of the camp.
The three Zenobians stood there unperturbed, baring their carnosaur grins at the general. After a moment, one said, “We take self-regard that you inquire of our tasking, oh mighty Flashbang.” The others nodded and clapped their miniature hands.
“There y’go, General,” murmured Rev. “Little fellers just love to work.”