Other times, Blitzkrieg might have let his loss in the final golf match eat at him. But after stumbling upon the late-night demonstration of just how hopeless Omega Company was, the general was more than willing to postpone the chance to win back a few bucks. After all, he was well ahead of Jester and his officers if you looked at the whole series of games. A profit was a profit. And it was an even greater pleasure to know that Jester had the insuperable task of trying to bring his pack of misfits up to snuff. If he didn’t despise the pup so much, Blitzkrieg might even have felt sorry for him.
It was a bit gratifying that Jester had his whole company turned out for the farewell ceremony. OK, it was Omega Company, but it was hard not to appreciate that they’d made some effort to do things right. Especially now that Blitzkrieg could see what kind of insubordination, incompetence, and downright idiocy Jester had to deal with, day in and day out. No wonder the fellow spent so much of his time on the golf course…
“General, I’m glad you got the chance to see what we’re doing here on Zenobia,” said Jester, dressed for once in his Legion dress blacks. “It’s a very unusual opportunity, and I only hope we’re giving the natives a good impression of the Alliance.”
“I hope you’ll make the most of the opportunity, Captain,” growled Blitzkrieg. He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “And keep an eye on that infernal machine they’ve got out by your perimeter, will you? The damned thing worries me.”
“We’ve got it under surveillance, sir,” said Jester, in the same lowered voice. He put a hand up, shielding his mouth, and added, “Fact is, we’ve got a pretty good idea what the lizards are trying to do-and the joke’s on them. It’ll never work!”
Blitzkrieg considered for a moment, then said, “Send me a report on it, Jester. I expect you’re right, but I want the intelligence boys to give it the eyeball before I make up my mind.“ He somehow resisted adding, And I hope the damned natives’ intelligence boys can’t tell how screwed up Omega Company is. If they get the idea the whole Alliance is like this outfit, they’ll be making plans to take us over.
Ordinarily, that might not be an entirely bad thing. For a moment, Blitzkrieg had a fantasy of the little lizards wiping out Jester and his pack of incompetents-thereby eliminating the Legion’s biggest headache. But with Jester’s uncanny luck, not to forget his ability to convince politicos and newstapers that he was actually a competent officer, the pup was likely to come out of it covered with undeserved glory. On balance, it was probably better for the Legion-and particularly for Blitzkrieg-if Zenobia stayed peaceful.
On the whole, as Sparrowhawk had pointed out, the mission to Zenobia had been a success. Blitzkrieg had come here planning to cashier Jester, then break up Omega Company and disperse its members throughout the Legion. But after seeing the company with his own eyes, he realized that the only safe thing was for Omega Company and its commander to stay right here-permanently, if possible. He couldn’t risk the possibility that Legionnaire Ma-hatma and his ilk might spread to other companies. No, let them stay here; let poor Jester try to whip them into shape-for all the good that was doing them, or Jester, either. It was beginning to look like a classic case of the punishment fitting the crime! Almost involuntarily, Blitzkrieg chuckled.
If Jester had been the kind of lazybones Blitzkrieg had always thought he was, Omega Company would have been a dream assignment. But now that Blitzkrieg had seen that the poor deluded nincompoop actually thought he could make these misfits into a crack unit, he knew that Jester would be miserable for the rest of his days in the Legion. A failure even by his own lights! Nobody could shape up this pack of total losers. Now Blitzkrieg could cherish the memory of Jester’s hopeless midnight exercise. He chuckled again, relishing the irony.
“Did you say something, sir?” Jester asked.
“Yes, Jester,” said the general, gruffly. “This base is a disaster.” He paused a beat, then said, “Next time I come out here, I’ll want to see a full nine-hole course, you understand?” He punched Jester in the biceps-a little too hard to be entirely friendly, but of course there was no way for Jester to take offense.
“Consider it done, sir!” said Jester, grinning idiotically.
Blitzkrieg smiled. Then he added, in a harder voice, “And as for the discipline-you’ve got to keep at it, Captain! A hard job, but time well spent, say I! Don’t let it slide an inch, do you hear me?”
“Yes, sir,” said Jester, grinning just as enthusiastically as before. “It’ll be my top priority.”
“Good, we’ll expect to see your reports, then,” said the general. He grinned again, and ducked his head to get into the shuttle; Major Sparrowhawk was already strapped in, waiting.
“That ought to hold them,” said the general, sliding in next to his adjutant.
“Yes, sir,” said Sparrowhawk. “One question, if you don’t mind?” The general nodded, and she continued, “It seems to me you let them off pretty easily. What am I missing, sir?”
“The good old double bind,” said Blitzkrieg. “The poor idiot will work his tail off trying to get that golf course in shape, and at the same time try to whip some discipline into those oafs. He may get the golf course playable, but the discipline’s a lost cause. It’ll drive him crazy. Heh-heh. Just what I want.”
“Very good, sir, very good,” said Sparrowhawk. Then the shuttle’s engines began warming up, putting an end to any semblance of casual talk.
Meanwhile, outside, just as soon as the shuttle door closed, Lieutenant Rembrandt reached to a special point at the back of the robot’s neck, activating a switch, and spoke a code word, quietly. Without changing its posture or expression, the robot went instantly into standby mode. It would take no more independent action until it was reactivated-after a long and painstaking overhaul.
And for the first time since the shuttle’s arrival, everyone on Zenobia took a deep breath and relaxed.
“So that’s who’s behind it!” said Phule. “I’d never have thought she had any power beyond Lorelei…”
It was barely an hour after the rescue, and Phule’s head was still spinning with all that he had learned. At least, he’d gotten Nightingale to promise that she’d tell Beeker to give him the Port-a-Brain. Then he could relax-and let the two lovebirds make their way back to Zenobia at their own rate.
“Maxine’s plan was very nasty,” said Pitti da Phule, filling his nephew in on the kidnap plot. “She spread a rumor that the Space Legion-the boys in black, she called them-were spying on tax evaders and smugglers. If she’d had a little longer to work on it, half the population of the planet would have been ready to stuff you into the nearest garbage disintegrator. You’re lucky I found out about it before it got that far.”
“I’m glad you found out about it,” said Phule, raising a glass in Pitti’s direction. “But how did you find me in that place they had me hidden? That’s a pretty impressive piece of detective work.”
Pitti smiled. “Not so hard to do, with what you told me about your computer. Your father told me about that security program it has. It doesn’t just send out a signal when the stasis field is working. If you know what to look for, the signal’s there all the time, capisce? Your father told me…”
“Say no more,” said Phule, suddenly realizing that his father had put a permanent tracer on him. The old rascal had always worried whether Phule could handle himself in a tricky situation, but this was taking it a bit too far. Still, it had saved his bacon, this time. Best to accept it for what it was worth.