Robert Asprin - Phules Paradise

"You're working crew?" Dee Dee said incredulously.

Lex's smile tightened slightly.

"I'm managing the crew," he corrected, "but I've worked with them long enough that I feel confident they can handle it."

"I didn't know you knew anything about the techie side of theater."

"I've worked a few summer-stock tours," the actor said with a shrug. "In that situation, you do a bit of everything. One week you're playing the lead, the next week you're working lights-"

"Sorry to interrupt this reunion," the commander broke in, "but there are still a lot of things we have to cover in our meeting. If there are no further questions, Ms. Watkins?"

"Can I be excused from the rest of the meeting, Captain?" Lex said. "We've already covered the stuff that concerns me, and there are a few things I'd like to go over with Dee Dee while she's free ...

"Go on ahead," Phule said, sinking onto the sofa once more. "But report back to me when you're finished. I want to be sure to be kept apprised of any modifications in your original plan."

The actor nodded his agreement and left, relishing the envious looks he gathered from the other men in the room.

"Sorry for the interruption," Phule said, as if he were responsible for the disruption caused by the singer. "Now then ... back to business. I want you to pass the word through the company that I'm going to need the services of a forger. I repeat, a forger, not a counterfeiter ..."

"Excuse me ... Mr. Beeker ... sir?"

Reluctant to let anything intrude on his rare off-duty time, the butler nonetheless paused at the hail, to find Bombest hastily emerging from behind the front desk.

"It's simply 'Beeker,' sir," he said.

"Yes, of course," the manager replied absently. "I was wondering if I might speak with you for a moment?"

"In regards to what, sir?"

"Well"-Bombest glanced around as if he were afraid of eavesdroppers-"I've been going over the reservations-manually, as Mr. Phule suggested-and I'm afraid we're going to need an extra hundred rooms for the opening."

"Why?"

The manager shrugged. "I can only assume computer error. Most of the reservations were entered correctly, but they don't seem to appear on any-"

"I meant why are you bringing this to my attention ... sir?" Beeker said. "I have no authority in these matters. Surely you were provided with a procedure by which you could report any irregularities through normal channels."

"I was," the manager admitted, "but ... well, frankly I've been reluctant to speak with Mr. Phule directly. He seems quite preoccupied with the arrangements for the opening, and I hate to interrupt him unless it's important."

"I'm sure he would feel it was important enough to warrant interruption," the butler said. "After all, he felt it was important enough to import you specifically for the task, didn't he?"

"I ... I guess so," Bombest said hesitantly. "I've barely spoken with him since my arrival, though. I didn't expect a brass band, mind you, but my lack of contact has left me feeling that there are higher priorities than my work occupying his mind."

"More likely it's a tribute to his confidence in you, Mr. Bombest," Beeker said easily, long accustomed to soothing the ruffled feathers and bruised feelings which invariably followed in his employer's wake. "He doubtless feels that you are able to carry out your duties with minimal guidance or input from him."

The manager's posture, never sloppy, improved noticeably at these words.

"I never thought of it that way," he said.

"If, however, you still feel uncomfortable dealing directly with my employer," the butler continued smoothly, "might I suggest you speak with one of his officers? Lieutenant Armstrong or Lieutenant Rembrandt? I notice you're wearing one of the company's wrist communicators. I'm sure Mother will be able to put you in touch with them or relay your message if they're unavailable."

Bombest glanced at the communicator on his wrist as if seeing it for the first time, then grimaced slightly.

"I suppose that's the only way to handle it," he said. "You know, Beeker, this is part of the problem." He tapped the communicator with his forefinger. "When Mr. Phule contacted me for this job, I was prepared to work as a hotel manager, but at times I feel more like a secret agent. Between the wrist radios and the intrigue-undercover people I'm not supposed to admit knowing, not saying anything to the casino manager-I keep feeling I've gotten in over my head ... in something I'd normally avoid like the plague."

Beeker allowed himself a small smile.

"If it's any comfort to you, sir, that feeling is not at all uncommon among those employed by Mr. Phule. He has a tendency to get carried away with things, and has the charisma to carry others right along with him. I'm sure you'll do fine once the initial shock has worn off."

"How do you do it?"

"Sir?"

"You're a fairly ordinary guy, not at all like Mr. Phule or the uniformed fanatics he's associating with. How do you do your job?"

"Very well, sir."

"Excuse me?"

The butler shook his head. "Forgive me. It was my effort at a small joke-something a magician once told me when I asked how he did a particular trick, or `effect,' as he called it."

The manager blinked, then flashed a brief smile. "Oh. Yes. I see. Very funny."

"As to your question," Beeker continued, "I imagine that my position is not unlike your own, in that since it is not high-profile, headline-quality work, people tend to assume that it's easy. The truth is that our work is extremely difficult. A special type of individual is required to merely survive, much less thrive, on the stressful decisions we must make daily. One must strike a balance between boldness and caution, theatrics and sincerity, all the while maintaining the open-mindedness and creativity necessary to deal with unforeseen situations. As you know, Mr. Bombest, there are no instruction manuals or college curriculums offered for our type of work. We each have to write our own book of rules from our personal experiences, then stand ready to break those rules should circumstances require it."

"You're right, Beeker," the manager said thoughtfully. "I guess I've known that all along, though not in those precise words. I just forget from time to time. Thanks for reminding me."

He thrust out his hand, and, after the briefest of pauses, the butler accepted it with a firm handshake.

Beeker reflected on his conversation with the hotel manager as he wandered into one of the casino's coffee shops.

It was occasionally difficult to recall, working as closely with his employer as he did, how intimidating most people found the name, much less the presence, of Willard Phule. A special effort had to be made to put such people at their ease before they could function at peak efficiency, and Bombest was a typical example.

Fortunately Phule had a simple formula for dealing with such situations. He sincerely believed that each person was special, though more often than not they were inclined to overlook their own assets. All he had to do was to point out what to him was obvious and express his appreciation, and the individual would respond with puppylike enthusiasm.

The butler helped himself to a cup of coffee, waving at the waitress, who returned his gesture with a smile. He was known here, and by now it was common knowledge among the help that serving himself would not be deducted from his tip.

It had been no major feat for Beeker to provide the necessary strokes for the hotel manager. Though he didn't completely embrace his employer's philosophy about the value of each individual, he was familiar enough with it and had witnessed its application often enough that he could easily play the part when it was necessary. What concerned him at the moment was that it should not have been necessary.