Robert Asprin - Phule's Errand

“I think the general’s in total shock,” said Armstrong. “It’s the only explanation for why he didn’t instantly smell a rat when the robot started driving the ball four hundred yards and knocking in putts as if the green was a big funnel.”

“But he’s going to figure out something’s wrong,” said Brandy. “That man’s not so dumb he won’t notice a complete SNAFU, and that’s what this sounds like to me.”

Armstrong nodded. “That’s the problem. Maybe we can pass today off as an aberration, but if the robot starts playing killer golf again tomorrow, the general’s going to have us all on the carpet.“

Escrima was not impressed. “Ahh, what’s he gonna do, send us to Omega Company? I’m not afraid of him.”

“There are now a lot of things worse than Omega Company,” said Rembrandt. “Captain Jester’s done right by us, you know. Do you want to find out what a Legion detention barracks is like?”

Nobody said anything for a moment. Then Chocolate Harry broke the silence. “OK, here’s an idea,” he said. “We lock the ‘bot up someplace, tell the general the captain’s had a delayed reaction to bein’ hit on the head. Somebody else can show the general around, maybe Armstrong can play golf with him, and meanwhile maybe Gears can try to fix the problem.”

“Yeah, that might work for a couple of days,” said Brandy. “But do you think Gears can fix the robot? It’s a whole lot more complicated than a hoverjeep…”

“If we had Sushi here, I’d be a lot happier,” said Rembrandt. “He might not be a roboticist, but he could probably figure something out just on general knowledge. As it is, we’ll have to let Gears give it his best shot.”

“I don’t know,” said Armstrong. He took a couple of paces, then spun around to face the group. “The thing is, the general really did come here looking for trouble. When he got into the golf matches with the robot, that distracted him from looking at everything else that’s going on around here. I’m afraid that if he isn’t playing the captain, and winning just often enough to give him the satisfaction of beating a hated rival, he’s going to go looking for trouble again. And I guarantee you, he’s going to find it. None of us are going to like that.”

“I don’t like the situation we’ve got now,” said Rembrandt, frowning. “We’ve got to have something ready to go tomorrow morning, though.” She mused a moment, then turned to Armstrong. “All right, you’ve spent as much time with the general as anybody, this time around. Do you think you can jolly him along for at least one day if the official explanation is that the captain’s recovering from a concussion?“

“I can try,” said Armstrong. “As long as he’s willing to stick to golf and doesn’t want to start poking his nose into other stuff…”

“Good,” said Rembrandt. “Harry, you’ll get Gears and anybody else with mechanical know-how to work on the robot-maybe put a call in to the Andromatic factory-and see if we can get it back in shape by the next day. And meanwhile, everybody try to think of alternative plans in case things don’t work out.”

“Got it, Remmie,” said Chocolate Harry. “I’ll have Gears get to work on the ‘bot-say, where is it, anyway?”

Rembrandt and Armstrong looked at each other, their eyes growing wider.

“Did you… ?”

“I thought you were going to-”

“No, didn’t you-?”

“Well, where the…”

“Oh, damnl” they both cried together, leaping to their feet. The room emptied in something like ten seconds as the entire command cadre of Omega Company rushed out into the night to find the missing Andromatic robot.

The crowd on the streets of Rome, one of the major cities of Old Earth, seemed to be made up of two elements: off-worlders gaping at the wonders of the oldest of all human worlds and natives seeking to separate them from their money.

Phule had more urgent business than either group. He’d spent far too much time in his search for Beeker and Nightingale. He had no idea how Omega Company was doing in his absence, although surely he’d have heard before now if any real crisis had arisen. The Omega Mob was an ongoing crisis in and of itself, but that was a different story.

Today he was on his way to visit a local branch of his family, one with access to various unorthodox sources of information. The address he had seemed plain enough, although the streets of Rome were filled with rubble and the house number he had was nowhere to be seen. He stopped half a dozen times to ask directions, but everyone he asked either glared at him, then replied with a rapid-fire burst of Italian, or smiled and said, “Sorry, I’m a tourist, too.”

At last he approached a hulking fellow who leaned against the corner of a building, hands stuffed in his pockets and a fearsome scowl on his face. “Excuse me,” he said. “I’m looking for 45 Via Poco Lente-I thought it was near here, but I can’t seem to find it.”

“Aha!” The man’s voice was a basso rumble, but unlike most of the street Italians in the area, he spoke Standard almost without an accent. “You looking for Pitti da Phule, no?”

“That’s right, how’d you know?”

“He gave you that address, he wants to see you,” said the man, with a shrug. “Good thing you find Hugo, I know just where to take you. Most people around here-they don’t want nothing to do with da Phule.”

“Well then, Hugo, I’m glad I met you,” said Phule. “How do I get to Via Poco Lente?”

“You don’t,” said Hugo. “Most people don’t want nothing to do with da Phule, and he don’t want nothing to do with them, either. That’s a password, not an address. You ask the right guy-which today happens to be me-and I take you to da Phule.”

“I guess I’ve already found out what happens if you ask the wrong guy,” said Phule. “What if you don’t find the right guy?”

“Then you don’t want to see Pitti da Phule bad enough.” said Hugo, spreading his arms wide, with palms upward. “Come on, I take you there.”

Phule followed his guide down a series of narrow, winding streets, turning seemingly at random; indeed, at least twice he thought they’d passed a house he’d seen a few turns previously. But after perhaps twenty minutes, they came to a graffiti-covered stretch of stone wall, nine or ten feet high, at one end of which was a wooden gate with peeling green paint. Hugo pushed it open and waved Phule forward. “This is the place,” he said, grinning broadly. “You go in, I wait for you here.”

The circuitous route and his guide’s mysterious behavior had put Phule on his guard. “Why don’t you go first?” he said, taking the other man firmly by the elbow. He added, as Hugo showed signs of balking, “Really, I insist.”

“Smart of you,” said a smooth baritone voice from just inside the door. A slim middle-aged man stepped forward, holding a wineglass in one hand. Around his neck were several thick gold chains. “Smart, but not necessary this time around. Hugo’s a condottieri at heart, but he knows not to fool with anybody who has my password. You must be Cousin Victor’s boy-last I heard, you were the only family member in any kind of uniform.”

“Uncle Pitti?” said Phule, stepping forward to shake the older man’s hand. “I remember meeting you years ago, at somebody’s wedding…”

“That must have been Stella Phule,” said Pitti da Phule, nodding. “She married Juan Feryou, out on Tau Ceti Four. A really big affair. I think they’re still talking about the Phule-Feryou wedding out there…”

Phule grinned. “Right, I spent the afternoon hanging out with the groom’s younger brother…”

“Right, Nomarr Feryou,” said Pitti. “He was a little hell-raiser, back then. So were you, if memory serves me right. That doesn’t look as if it’s held you back, Captain?‘ Pitti punched Phule in the arm, playfully, then raised a finger to his lips. “But I’m not being much of a host, am I? We’ll get you a glass of vino and something to eat with it, and then we can talk business.”