No Phule Like An Old Phule (26 page)

“Aww, and I thought you were a real man,” said Toni, fixing him with her most seductive stare. Behind her, the croupier was getting ready to spin the wheel. Toni pointed to the betting layout. “Show me what you’re made of, big boy.”

“Well…” Ernie was torn between putting his chips back on the table and following Victor Phule toward the bank of thousand-dollar slots where he’d won his bankroll to begin with. He glanced at the wheel, the croupier stood there with the ball in his hand, smirking at Ernie, just asking to be taught a lesson. Ernie’s hand moved in the direction of his pocket, and he turned back toward the table, almost involuntarily.

But just as Ernie began to turn, a big man shoved his way into the space Ernie had vacated, plopping a small pile of ten-dollar chips on the table. Ernie looked around and quickly spotted another clear space, a few feet away. He stepped quickly forward, but just as he did, someone tapped him on the shoulder. He turned around to see a cocktail waitress with a tray full of glasses. “Bring you something to drink, sir?” she chirped. “It’s on the house.”

“Sorry, honey, nothing now,” said Ernie, forcing himself to smile. He quickly turned, only to find that the space he’d seen before was now occupied. But there was Toni at the far end of the table, beckoning him. He started forward, why were there so many people around the table all of a sudden?-and reached the open space beside Toni just in time to hear the croupier call, “Les jeux sont faits!” Toni shot him a disgusted look, but the wheel was already spinning. Resignedly, Ernie turned to watch the wheel. If it came up red again…

It spun, slowed, and after what seemed like hours came up on thirty-two black. Ernie had just missed losing all his winnings-and the rest of his bankroll, as well. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead as he realized how close he’d come.

After a moment of stunned silence, Ernie reached into his pocket and pulled out a chip. Without even looking at it, he handed it to the cocktail waitress who’d distracted him just at the crucial moment, then walked away in the direction Victor Phule had gone in.

The waitress stood openmouthed, staring at the hundred dollar chip in her hand. Before she could tuck it in her tip pocket, a hand touched her elbow. She looked up to see Toni, who’d been trying so hard to get Ernie to let his bets ride on red. “Don’t spend it all in one place, sister,” said the shill, with a tight-lipped smile. Seeing the worry on the waitress’s face, she added, “No, don’t worry-nobody’s going to take it away from you. But a word to the wise you just got really lucky. Most of the time, you’ll make better tips if you don’t stop the customers from playing. Now, you’d better get back to work. I know I have to.” Toni turned back to the roulette table, making it a point to squeeze up against the new big spender who’d taken Ernie’s place. Maybe she’d have better luck getting this one to let his chips ride until the odds caught up with him…

The Zenobian sun was just a hand’s breadth above the horizon as Phule stepped out into the parade ground of the Legion base for his morning run. The early morning desert air was crisp and cool, belying the furnace like temperatures Phule knew by now to expect by midday. The company’s prefabricated base module was climate-controlled, of course, and it had a thoroughly modem gym and spa built into it.

Phule would have accepted nothing less for his money. But he still felt a certain exhilaration when he did his running outside under the blue sky, with real planetary soil under the feet. If nothing else, it made him feel more in touch with the world he and Omega Company had come to help.

As was his habit, Phule turned and scanned the horizon in every direction. As usual, there was little to see that differed from what he’d seen the day before, or any of the other times he’d looked out on the landscape surrounding Zenobia Base. The small cluster of cirrus clouds to the west looked very much like the clouds that had been there yesterday morning, although he knew better than to believe they were actually the same. As much undue excitement as Phule had been through the last day or so, he was actually rather pleased to find at least one thing that was exactly as he expected. With Omega Company, that was the exception rather than the rule. Especially after last night’s debacle in the mess hall… Phule had just begun to stretch out his leg muscles when Lieutenant Armstrong emerged from the base module.

He and Phule had been keeping each other company during the morning run for several months now.

They were close enough in age and physical condition so that neither held the other back, and of course it was good policy to have a companion along in case the unexpected happened a sprain or some more serious injury was always possible, even in the controlled environment of the gym. Outdoors, in a desert environment, it would be foolhardy to risk it without help close at hand.

“Good morning, Captain,” said Armstrong, nodding.

Before Phule could reply, a series of loud sounds came from the desert east of the base. Pop pop pop! Pop pop! Armstrong turned his head that way and said, “What the devil…?”

“That’s gunfire, Lieutenant,” said Phule, suddenly alert. “And unless I’m completely turned around, it’s coming from the direction of the hunting party. What do they think they’re doing?”

“Well, sir, I suspect they think they’re hunting,” said Armstrong. “The sport does involve shooting guns, you know…”

Phule peered at his lieutenant. “You haven’t been taking sarcasm lessons from Beeker, have you?” he asked. Then he shook his head. “No, that would require a sense of humor. The point is, as far as they’re concerned, neither we nor the Zenobians have given them permission to fire any weapons yet. And I wasn’t about to give them that permission until we got them someplace where our AEIOU friends can’t hear them banging away. Come on, Lieutenant, let’s go read them the riot act. It’s just far enough to make a good run.”

“Yes, sir,” said Armstrong, catching up with his captain, who had already taken off at a steady pace.

“Uh-shouldn’t we have some backup, sir? I mean, those people are shooting…”

“Yes, Armstrong, and we’re going to tell them to stop,” said Phule, looking back and grinning: “We’re the Legion, remember? We can handle it. In fact, it’s our job to handle it. And if we get there quickly, there’s still some chance that Inspector Snieff and her friends haven’t noticed the noise.”

“What if they have, sir?” Armstrong still, looked worried.

“We’ll just have to convince them that we were the ones doing the shooting,” said Phule, skipping over a small dry streambed in the way. “That shouldn’t be too hard. After all, we are a military unit. It’s our business to fire our weapons every so often.”

“Snieff will start quoting some regulation we’re breaking,” said Armstrong, doing his best to stay abreast with Phule. They were now out of the cleared area immediately around the base, and the ground had become rougher.

“Sure,” said Phule, dodging around a low, bushlike native plant. “One thing you find out in the business world, Lieutenant. You can’t do anything without breaking one regulation or another. That’s how the game is played. What makes the difference between success and failure is figuring out how to get your job done with as little interference as possible from the people who want to enforce the regulations. And that’s what we’re going to do here.”

“Yes, sir,” said Armstrong. He jumped over a low rock and kept moving in pace with his captain.

Up ahead, another loud report broke through the ‘calm morning air. Phule gritted his teeth. Whoever was doing the shooting, he hoped they had enough sense to make sure what was in the line of sight before they pulled the trigger.

He hoped he wasn’t going to find out he was wrong the hard way…

Hurrying a bit more than was comfortable, Ernie caught up with Victor Phule just at the entrance to the High Rollers’ Lounge, where the thousand-dollar slots had been installed. He slowed down the last few steps to give himself a chance to appear unruffled and relaxed. “Hey, how’s it going, buddy?” he said, as if greeting someone he’d known since childhood. “Any luck today?” Eddie Grossman took a quick step forward, glaring at Ernie through narrowed eyes, but Victor Phule raised his hand, and said, “Relax, Eddie-you don’t need to worry about this fellow.”

“Mr. Phule, you’re paying me to worry about this fellow, and everybody like him,” growled the bodyguard, but when his boss shot him an exasperated look, Grossman shrugged and stood back. Still, he kept his eyes focused on Ernie, ready to move in case of trouble. Victor Phule had the right to give him orders, but he was prepared to ignore those orders if it looked as if he was about to lose his client-not to mention his job.

Ernie, who had an excellent idea what was likely to happen if he made the wrong move, grinned broadly.

He intended to be very careful not to do anything that the bodyguard might decide to interpret as unfriendly.

“It looks like I’m on a hot streak today,” he said. “Been cleaning up over at the roulette table all morning.”

“Good for you,” said Victor Phule. “The owners don’t know it, but they’re giving money away hand over fist. My idiot son thinks the way to run a casino is to give the best odds on the station. I’m trying to show him the error of his ways. A few lucky customers taking home big jackpots ought to put the icing on the cake.”

“Well, I’m all for that,” said Ernie. “Can’t let these young whippersnappers think they know everything,” he added, as if he were somehow old enough to be entitled to the sentiment.

“His biggest mistake was running off and joining the Legion instead of settling down to business,” growled Phule, only half-listening. “Now he thinks he can run a business from halfway across the Galaxy. Well, I won’t say it can’t be done, but you need some real experience under your belt, real business experience. None of this rah-rah save-the-universe crap.”

Ernie, whose business experience consisted almost entirely of scams and petty theft, nodded sagely. “No substitute for knuckling down and getting your hands dirty,” he said. “Not a job for weak sisters.”

“Just so,” said Victor Phule. “Say, how’d you like to take another crack at the slots? If you’re on a lucky streak, you’re just the man I need. If you win a big jackpot, it’ll show the boy the consequences of setting the odds too much in favor of the customers.”

“Sure, why not?” said Ernie. He was enough ahead of the game that he could afford to throw a few tokens into the slots and still have a little nest egg so that he (and Lola) could afford another couple of weeks on Lorelei. By then, he hoped, they’d have made some kind of breakthrough. If not… well, as usual, he’d deal with the problem when his other choices ran out.

He followed Phule into the elephants’ lounge. As usual, nobody was playing the thousand-dollar slots.

Even the most well heeled bettors generally considered it foolish to drop that much on such a low-return bet. Other than Phule and Ernie, there hadn’t been more than the occasional dabbler, who typically put in one or two tokens, then went on to play something that delivered better odds. Which was almost everything else in the Fat Chance Casino.

“All right,” said Ernie, fishing in his pocket for the thousand-dollar chips. He had ten of them, now. He picked a likely-looking machine—not that there was any noticeable difference among them-and put a chip into the slot. He grabbed the handle, then turned to Phule. “Say, by the way-what’s a partner’s share of the casino stock actually worth? Must be pretty valuable, considering they’re charging a thousand bucks for a chance to win it.”

“I guess it’s valuable enough, if you want that kind of property,” said Victor Phule. “Probably fifty or sixty million, if I were going to guesstimate.”

“I see,” said Ernie. All of a sudden his palms began to sweat. He looked at the machine he’d just pumped a thousand dollars into. Fifty or sixty million, Victor Phule had said. Of course he’d dreamed of having that kind of money, but actually having it had never been remotely probable. Fifty or sixty million… He pulled the handle and the machine display became a whirl of rapidly changing symbols. .

He eased up on the handle, and one of the electronic “wheels” stopped on a golden bar that framed the words “FAT CHANCE” in bright blue letters. The other symbols continued to change rapidly. He waited, trying to feel the right moment, then gave the handle a little jiggle and watched a second “FAT CHANCE” golden bar appear. All right! he thought. Now, any symbol but a lemon would give him a decent return for his play. The machine was of course carefully calibrated not to turn up another gold bar.

The first two were supposed to make him think he’d just missed, and pump another token—or a dozen or more into the machine. But a bell or a cherry or a rocket ship were always possible… He gave the handle a little pull toward him, then released it. The final wheel came to a stop.

It was a third golden bar, with the words “FAT CHANCE” in bright blue letters. A bell started ringing somewhere very close, and, after a pause, tokens began pouring out of the machine.

Victor Phule stood openmouthed, speechless. But he was nowhere near as surprised as Ernie, as a loud siren added its noise to the bell, and happy music began playing.

In front of his face, a sign was flashing off and on:

“SUPER JACKPOT!!!” That was echoed in the back of his mind by a little voice saying, Fifty or sixty million, over and over and over…

Journal #723

The fascination of some men-it is invariably men-with implements of destruction never ceases to amaze me. While all collectors are by definition fanatics, the connoisseur of weapons takes this quality to an extreme. Even if one grants in principle the historical, and (I will even grant) the artistic appeal of certain weapons, surely no civilized person can entirely forget their gruesome purpose.

I find it particularly paradoxical that these aesthetes of destruction insist on having the finest weapons possible at their command. As if the victims would somehow be insulted to learn that their demise had been brought about by bargain-basement artillery, with secondhand ammunition!

Phule and Armstrong came in sight of the hunters’ camp just as another loud explosion shook the air.