Robert Asprin - Phule's Errand

Fox frowned. “Intelligence branch of the Legion? This is the first I’ve ever heard of it.”

“Well, that just goes to show how top secret it is,” said Sushi, with a wink. “I’m sure we can trust you to keep it under your hat, Agent Fox.”

“Oh, I’m very discreet,” said Fox, nodding. “And I certainly understand how an intelligence operation needs to be kept quiet.” He paused, looking first at Do-Wop, then at Sushi. “The only thing is, I’ve been doing this job so long that I have a pretty good nose for a scam. And if this isn’t the biggest scam I’ve seen this month, I’m going to put in for early retirement. Not that that’s a bad idea anyhow. So-one more time: What’s your business here? And if I don’t like your answer this time, I’ll introduce you to the fellows in the back room. They’ve got suspicious minds and disgustingly long fingers.”

“Hey, we ain’t done noth… OW!” said Do-Wop. He began hopping around, holding his injured foot in both hands.

“Well, Agent Fox, the truth is…” Sushi began. Then he caught a glimpse of the customs agent’s face and did an instant revision of his comment. “The truth is, we’re trying to find our commanding officer. He’s needed back at the base, and our last report had him on the way to Old Earth. His name is…”

“That’s enough-I don’t need his name,” said Fox. “The question is, even if I believed you, why should I tell you anything?”

Sushi’s eyes lit up. “Not only do you believe me, you know just who we’re looking for, don’t you? He must have come through here…”

“Now, don’t be hasty,” said Fox, wagging his finger. “I may or may not have seen a Legion officer come through-they’re not common hereabouts, you know.”

“That means that if you did see our captain, you’d probably remember him,” said Sushi. He reached in his pocket and extracted a ten-dollar piece. He put it on the counter near his passport. “Does this help your memory?”

“Maybe…” Fox looked at the passport for a moment, then looked back at the coin, before adding, “Two of ‘em might make my memory even better.”

Sushi sighed, then turned to Do-Wop, who had recovered his balance and stood glaring at the two of them. “OK, buddy, your turn to chip in. Let’s see what the man knows.”

“How come I gotta chip in?” said Do-Wop.

“You want to chip in, or you want to see the guys with long fingers?” said Sushi.

Do-Wop dug into his pocket. A moment later, Agent Fox was filling them in on a few-but by no means all-of the things he’d learned from Phule upon his arrival on Old Earth. They didn’t notice that, at the same time, he was skillfully getting them to tell him far more than he was telling them. “Give a little, get a lot,” was Fox’s motto. He was really very good at it.

Do-Wop gaped at the Roman cityscape, amazement written plainly on his face. “Jeez!” he said, after a moment. “Here I am in Italy-I never thought I’d see the place!”

“Yeah, it’s pretty quaint,” said Sushi, eyeing the odd juxtaposition of hypermodern tourist traps and ruins dating to an age before space travel. “Could use a bit of maintenance, if you want my opinion.”

“Ahh, you wouldn’t understand class if it bit you in the ass,” said Do-Wop, scoffing.

“Y’know, I don’t think anybody with real class would be interested in that,” said Sushi. “Don’t go quoting me, though-I don’t want people to think I’m provincial or anything.”

It would have been hard for either of the two legionnaires to look much more provincial than the tourists thronging the streets around them. The dress code appeared to require some sort of garish locally purchased T-shirt. They were visible everywhere, with cryptic slogans ranging from vini, vidi, vici, and illegitimate non carborundum, to straight advertisements, one of the most popular being singh’s pizza-you’ve tried the rest, now try the best! In contrast, the two black-uniformed legionnaires were practically the definition of class.

On the other hand, to judge from the looks some of the passersby shot at them, the class they represented was not in particular favor locally. Even Do-Wop sensed the undercurrent as they walked through the Forum. When the stares continued, he eventually turned to Sushi, and said, “What’s up, Soosh? Some of these civvies are lookin‘ at us like we’re farting in their lifeboat.”

“I feel it, too,” said Sushi. “And I heard one of them muttering about spies. I don’t know what it means, but I think we need to find out before we get in some kind of trouble.”

“Hey, I ain’t gonna ran away from-OW!” said Do-Wop, as Sushi grabbed him by the ear and hustled him away from the open Forum. A short distance away, the crowd thinned out and the two legionnaires found themselves in the shadow of a dilapidated building. Do-Wop glared at Sushi. “What the hell was that for?”

“Something fishy’s going on here, and I don’t mean anchovy pizza,” said Sushi, in a voice just above a whisper. “Those people are mad at the Legion for some reason. I think we need to get some civilian outfits before we get in real trouble. For now, a couple of T-shirts will probably do the job.”

They found a tourist trap, not half a block away, with a full display of garish overpriced T-shirts. If the sophont behind the counter had anything against their Legion uniforms, he kept it to himself and pocketed their money with a smile and a very credible “Grazie, signori!” His Italian was good enough that he could have passed for a native Roman, if he hadn’t been seven and a half feet tall with bluish green skin, bright pink hair, and eyes on stalks. As they left the shop, Sushi wondered briefly whether the salesbeing was a genetically altered human or a member of some nonhuman species he hadn’t met before.

Back on the street, the two of them passed almost unnoticed in the crowd. “I guess that just goes to show the value of camouflage,” said Sushi, in an exasperated tone. After a moment he added, “I think it’s the locals, not the tourists, who’re staring at us-which is weird. If that customs agent is right, they don’t see very many legionnaires on Old Earth. There’s no reason they’d be mad…”

Do-Wop stopped in his tracks. “Y‘ know what I think? Somebody’s been goin’ around bad-mouthin‘ the Legion. That’s the only thing makes sense. Question is, who? And why?”

“Partner, you just asked the gigabuck question,” said Sushi. “I don’t know the answer-but I bet when we find it out, it’ll have something to do with the captain.”

“I don’t think I’m gonna take that bet,” said Do-Wop.

Late that night, behind closed doors, the leaders of Omega Company assembled. In the wake of the Andromatic robot’s golf accident, Rembrandt had called the command cadre to an emergency meeting. Ironically, nobody was quite sure what the emergency was, although they all agreed it had to be tackled at once.

“The robot’s damaged, that’s the main problem,” said Armstrong, who’d been on hand to witness the event. “A hard shot smack in the middle of the forehead-I don’t know what kinds of circuits are up there, but they must be important.“

“Well, I’m sure not a roboticist,” said Rembrandt. “But from what you tell me, the main problem was that the robot captain started to play much better than before. I wouldn’t take that as automatic evidence of damage.”

“How much do you know about golf?” said Armstrong. “What if I told you the robot shot a twenty-four on the back nine?”

“That’s pretty good, isn’t it?” Rembrandt asked.

Chocolate Harry answered her. “Shee-it, that ain’t just good, it’s scary. Machine that can do that can do anything. I don’t even want’t‘think about it.” There was genuine awe in the Supply sergeant’s voice.