Phule's Paradise (11 page)

     
"That's what people tell me," the commander said, smiling back to show he hadn't really expected the instructor to cut his profits. "Well, unless there are any further questions, I think we've pretty much covered everything."

     
He glanced at his lieutenants for confirmation, but it was Tullie who spoke.

     
"If you don't mind, Mr. Phule, I've got a question myself."

     
"What's that, Tullie?"

     
"Well, like I said, your boys have picked up a lot of information about gambling scams during this flight, and part of our deal was that none of my school's records would show them as students, right?"

     
"That's right." Phule nodded. "What's the point?"

     
"So how can you be sure you haven't just footed the bill for my training up a new pack of grifters? What's to keep them from taking what they've learned and going into business for themselves once they get out of the Legion? And I don't mean by opening a training school, either."

     
"Mr. Bascom," Phule said carefully, "we also train our troops to use firearms despite the fact they could use that same training to be maniacal killers in civilian life. We give them the training in the skills they need to stand duty in the Space Legion, and beyond that we have to trust them not to misuse that training once their enlistment's over."

     
"Trust them? That bunch of crooks?"

     
Armstrong dropped his notepad and glanced fearfully at his commander, who was staring fixedly at the gambling instructor.

     
"Excuse me," Phule said in a dangerously soft voice."I didn't quite hear that."

     
Tullie shrugged. "I just meant that I've never seen so many blatant or potential criminals assembled in one-"

     
"I think what the captain means, Mr. Bascom," Rembrandt interrupted hastily, "is ... if you could, perhaps, rephrase your statement?"

     
The instructor finally caught the warning in her voice. The Space Legion commander doubtlessly already knew the caliber of the troops under his command, but they were still his troops, and derogatory comments about them, however true, were ill advised.

     
"I ... umm ... just meant that your boys seem to show a real ... flair for larceny," Bascom said, backpedaling hastily. "I was just a little worried ... Well, there's always a chance that they might be tempted to misuse what I've been teaching them. That's all."

     
"I trust them," Phule intoned in a voice that would have sounded more in place coming from a burning bush. "End of subject. Do you have any other questions?"

     
"No. I ... no," Tullie said. "That covers everything."

     
"Very well," the commander said. "Then, if you'll excuse us, there are a few things I have to go over with the lieutenants. Again, thank you for your work with the company. Be sure to relay my thanks and appreciation to your instructors."

     
"I'll do that," Bascom said, and fled gratefully from the meeting.

     
"Do you believe that?" Phule huffed after Tullie's departure. "The man suspects our troops may be less than upstanding citizens!"

     
The three officers looked at each other for a moment, then exploded into laughter.

     
There was an edge of hysteria to their gaiety, not surprisingly like people who had been too long without sleep and under pressure who finally found an outlet for their tension.

     
"Guess he's never worked with the Space Legion before," Armstrong gasped, trying to catch his breath.

     
"Well, certainly not with our crew, that's for sure," Rembrandt agreed, wiping a laugh tear from one eye.

     
"Seriously, though," the commander said, bringing himself under control at last, "Tullie does have a point. Be sure to brace the company about keeping their hands in their pockets, at least until this assignment's over. No showing off, and no grifting for pocket-change pots. We're supposed to be the guards on this caper, and it wouldn't do to have anyone get busted for the exact same thing we're policing the casino for. That kind of media coverage we don't need. Besides, I think it would be tactically sound not to let on how much we do or don't know just yet."

     
"Gotcha, boss," Rembrandt said, flipping an index-finger salute at him. "You want us to tell them as a group or as individuals?"

     
"Both," Phule said firmly. "A general announcement should do for most of them, but I think some of them would benefit from a personal reminder that we're watching them and won't tolerate any nonsense this time around."

     
"So what else have you got for us, Captain?" Armstrong said, picking up his notepad.

     
"Nothing, really," Phule said, stretching his arms. "I just thought I'd give you two a chance to ask any questions that Tullie shouldn't be hearing. I figure I'll give you some time to review your notes before we get down to the final shift assignments-that and get some sleep. You two have been pushing yourselves awfully hard on this trip so far."

     
Rembrandt gave out a snort.

     
"Look at who's talking," she said. "You'd better get some sleep yourself, Captain, or Beeker's going to sneak something into your food."

     
"Beeker never thinks I get enough sleep." Phule shrugged, dismissing the subject. "You get used to his grumbling after a while. So, anything either of you want to go over just now? Anything at all, not just Tullie's report."

     
"Not that I can think of, sir," Armstrong said, giving his notes one last glance. "As near as I can tell, we've got everything covered."

     
The commander nodded. "I know. And to be honest with you, that worries me a little."

     
"How so?"

     
"Well, there's an old saying in business," Phule said with a rueful smile. "If you think you've got everything covered, it means there's something you're overlooking."

     
"Cheerful thought," Rembrandt observed wryly, then glanced at the commander with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. "As a matter of fact, I have one question for you, sir-if you're really throwing the floor open."

     
"Shoot."

     
Rembrandt sneaked a wink at her partner. "I was just wondering, how are you doing at staving off the Red Menace?"

     
The Red Menace was the nickname the Legionnaires had assigned to Tiffany, mostly due to her blatant and obvious efforts to herd Phule into her bed. Of course, to her face, the moniker was shortened to just "Red."

     
"Isn't that question a bit personal, Lieutenant?" the commander growled in mock severity.

     
"Yes and no, sir," Armstrong chimed in with a grin. "You see, the crew is giving odds as to your holding out, so you might say it affects the morale of the whole company, which, as you keep telling us, is our business."

     
"Really?" Phule said. "What odds?"

     
Armstrong blinked and glanced at Rembrandt, who admitted her own ignorance with a shrug.

     
"I ... I don't actually know, sir," he sputtered. "It's just something I've heard. Why? Is it important?"

     
"Well, if the payback's big enough, I just might put some money down myself, then rake in the whole pot-if you know what I mean," Phule said through a yawn.

     
There was no response, and he glanced at his lieutenants, only to find them staring at him.

     
"Hey! It's a joke. Okay?" he clarified. "You know I don't fool around with women under my command-or you should know it by now."

     
His junior officers rallied gamely, though their late laughter was a little forced.

     
"Of course"-Rembrandt grinned-"as one of the subcontractees, it could be argued that Big Red isn't really under your command."

     
"For the duration of this assignment she is," Phule said grimly, "and if she wants to do any chasing after that-"

     
A knock at the door interrupted them, and they looked up to find Tusk-anini framed in the doorway.

     
"Excuse, Captain," the giant Voltron rumbled. "Must talk to you ... soon."

     
Phule waved. "Come on in, Tusk. We were just finishing up here. Say, how's your new partner-what's her name-Melissa working out?"

     
"Nice girl. Very smart," the Legionnaire said. "But not fighter like Super Gnat. Not worry, Captain. I watch out for her."

     
"I'm sure you will," the commander said. "So what brings you calling? Is it all right if the lieutenants hear it, or is it personal?"

     
"Not personal ... company business."

     
"Okay. What have you got?"

     
The Voltron raised the small stack of paper he was holding into view.

     
"You ask me ... look at records for casino employees? See where they hired from?"

     
"That's right."

     
Tusk-anini was a closet insomniac and a rabid reader, and Phule had utilized this by making him into a company clerk, reviewing the massive paperwork necessary to run a company and interface with Headquarters. More recently, as part of the plan to infiltrate the casino with undercover Legionnaires, the commander had asked the Voltron to go through the employment records of the existing casino employees, making a list of the various employment agencies they had been hired through. With that information, it would be a relatively easy matter to engineer a computerized break-in, sneaking carefully prepared resumes and references into the appropriate files.

     
"You look at this, Captain," the Voltron said, passing the stack to Phule. "All these hired from same service. Golden Employment Agency."

     
"All right," the commander said, idly leafing through the sheets. He had every confidence in Tusk-anini and if the Voltron said they were all from the same source, he was sure they would be. "So what's the problem?"

     
"It not exist. No such agency."

     
Phule sat bolt upright as if someone had just plugged in his chair.

     
"Are you sure?" he said, staring at the pages as if they would talk to him themselves.

     
"Yes, Captain. Otherwise not bother you. Check many times. No such agency ... ever."

     
"I don't get it, sir." Rembrandt frowned. "How could so many employees use the same fake reference?"

     
"It means we aren't the only one sneaking people onto the staff," the commander growled. "That's the trouble with being impressed with your own cleverness. You tend to forget that there are other people out there just as clever."

     
"All have same person approve reference check. Huey Mar-tin," Tusk-anini supplied, stumbling a little over the name.

     
"The new casino manager," Phule said grimly. "If he's bent, we could have an uphill fight on our hands. Great work, Tusk-anini! If you hadn't caught this, we could have walked into a swinging door."

     
"Thank you, Captain," the giant said, drawing himself up proudly to an even greater height.

     
"We'll take it from here ... and Tusk? Don't say anything to anyone else about this. Okay?"

     
"Can keep secret, Captain. Not worry."

     
The officers sat in silence for a few minutes after Tusk-anini had left.

     
Finally Phule heaved a sigh.

     
"Remember what I was saying about thinking everything was in hand?" he said.

     
"This assignment just keeps getting better and better," Armstrong spat bitterly. "If you don't mind my saying so, sir, Headquarters' idea of an easy job in paradise leaves a lot to be desired!"

     
"What are we going to do, Captain?" Rembrandt asked, ignoring her partner's irritation. "Should we alert the owner that he's got a rat in the woodpile?"

     
"Not just yet," Phule said thoughtfully. "First of all, we don't know for sure what Br'er Huey is up to. He might just be indulging in a little feather-bedding."

     
"Feather-bedding, sir?"

     
"Filling the roster with friends and family members," Armstrong explained.

     
"We're going to hold off sounding the alarm until we've had a chance to check things out firsthand," the commander continued, almost to himself. "Fortunately Tusk-anini's alertness has provided us with a list of exactly who we have to be watching." He tapped the stack of records with a smile. "Lieutenant Rembrandt, be sure this entire list and the complete files of everyone on the list get passed to Mother. In the meantime, I'll get busy and do a detailed check on one Huey Martin."