Phule's Paradise Part 8

"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 a.s.signment 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 pa.s.sed to Mother. In the meantime, I'll get busy and do a detailed check on one Huey Martin."

"What if it turns out that he is crooked, sir?" Armstrong said. "Him and the people he's been hiring?"

"Then we lower the boom on him," Phule said grimly. "But not until just before the grand opening. If he is a part of a bigger scheme, we'll let him think it's working, then pull the rug out when it's too late to switch to an alternate plan."

"But we can't wait that long to dump everybody on the list," Rembrandt protested. "The casino couldn't find that many replacements on such short notice."

"They can't, but we can," the commander responded with a grimace. "It's going to hurt a little, though. I'll have to reopen negotiations with Tullie for him and his instructors to stay on as a stopgap reserve-and I just gave him a rough time for the sake of a cheap laugh." He shook his head ruefully. "I just love negotiating contracts with someone who's already annoyed at me."

"Maybe you could wait to talk to him, sir," Armstrong suggested. "Maybe it would be easier after he's had a chance to forget about the last round ... and you've had a chance to get some sleep."

"It's a tempting thought," Phule said, rising to his feet, "but I'd better try to catch up with him now. I don't think I could sleep, anyway, with this hanging over our heads."

A casual stroll through the s.h.i.+p's more popular gathering spots failed to locate Tullie Bascom, so Phule began a more careful search through the less frequented areas.

"Excuse me ... Gabriel, isn't it?" he said to a Legionnaire he found sitting alone in one of the smaller lounges.

"Sir?" the man responded, rising to his feet.

"As you were," Phule said, waving him back to his chair. "I was just wondering if you had seen Tullie Bascom recently."

"I think I heard him come by a while ago," the Legionnaire reported. "I didn't look around, but he was telling someone that he was going to his cabin to get some sleep."

"Okay. Thanks." The commander sighed and headed off down the corridor toward his own quarters.

So much for that idea. Maybe it was just as well. He should probably do a little more checking as to the actual necessity for contracting Tullie's crew for backups before beginning negotiations. Besides, his lieutenants were right-he could use a bit of sleep to clear his mind. Maybe he could get Beeker to ...

Phule suddenly halted in his tracks as realization struck him.

The Legionnaire, Gabriel, had been sitting alone in the lounge.

While Phule and Tusk-anini weren't the only night owls in the company, the Legionnaires by and large were social animals, tending to gather together in their off hours, and to his knowledge Gabriel was no exception. Rather than being at one of the normal s.h.i.+p hangouts, however, the Legionnaire had been sitting alone, without a book or work in sight-not even a deck of cards.

Abandoning his plan for sleep, the commander retraced his steps back to the lounge.

Gabriel was still sitting there, sprawled in an easy chair with his head tipped back, staring at the ceiling.

"Are you feeling all right, Gabriel?" the commander said, speaking gently.

While some of the Legionnaires were borderline hypochondriacs, others were more like children, hiding it when they felt ill rather than reporting to the s.h.i.+p's doctor.

"What? Oh. No, I feel fine, sir," Gabriel said, suddenly aware that he was no longer alone with his thoughts.

"Is there something bothering you?" Phule pressed. "Anything you'd like to talk about?"

The Legionnaire hesitated. "It's ... well ... I'm afraid, sir. Of this."

He made a vague gesture, encompa.s.sing the air in front of him.

"I ... I'm not sure I understand." Phule frowned. "What is it you're afraid of? The new a.s.signment?"

"No ... this," the man said, repeating his gesture. "You know ... s.p.a.ce travel."

"I see," the commander said. He had encountered nervous travelers in the past, but not recently, and he tended to a.s.sume that everyone was as accustomed to s.p.a.ce travel as he was. "Haven't you ever been on a s.h.i.+p before?"

"Sure," the Legionnaire said. "A couple of times. But it always affects me the same way. I keep thinking about what will happen if anything goes wrong. Life pods may be effective for interplanetary travel, but for interstellar, we wouldn't stand a chance. The only choice would be between dying fast or slow."

Phule thought for a moment, then heaved a sigh.

"Sorry, Gabriel," he said. "I can't help you with that one."

"That's okay, sir," the Legionnaire said, hanging his head slightly. "I guess it's a silly fear, anyway, in this day and age."

"I didn't say that!" the commander snapped, then ran a hand across his eyes. "Don't put words in my mouth, Gabriel, please. I soak up enough grief over what I do say."

"Sorry, sir."

"There are no silly fears," the captain continued. "If you're afraid of something, it's real, and it affects your thinking and performance no matter how invalid or valid someone else thinks it is. It's like there's no minor pain when it's yours. If it hurts, it hurts. What you got to do is figure out how to deal with it, not use up your energies trying to decide if it's real or not."

Phule leaned against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest until he was almost hugging himself.

"All I meant to say was, I can't do or say anything to set your mind at ease. Telling you not to be afraid doesn't change anything. I can tell you there's no danger, but we both know that things can go wrong, and there's nothing I can do to lessen the danger that hasn't already been done. I could cite the low accident stats on s.p.a.ce travel, but you're already aware of those yourself, and it hasn't made any difference. Realizing that, about the only thing I can do is beat a hasty retreat-for my own protection."

"Your own protection, sir?"

"Fear is contagious," the commander explained with a shrug. "If I tried to compare notes with you on the dangers of s.p.a.ce travel, there's a chance that all I'd do is start worrying myself, and I can't afford that. You see, Gabriel, there are lots of dangers in our lives that we can't do a thing about-traffic accidents, bad food-dangers that have a low probability rating, but that if they hit will be devastating. All I can do-all anyone can do-is to do my best to put them out of my mind. It may seem like a head-in-the-sand approach to fear, but the only option I see is letting the worries eat you alive-paralyze you to a point where you cease to function. To my thinking, that means you're dead, whether you're still breathing or not. I'd rather try to focus on things I can do something about. I can't danger-proof the universe, or even guarantee my own personal safety. I have no way of telling for sure exactly how long my life is going to be, but I'm determined that while I'm alive, I'm going to be a doer, a worker-not a do-nothing worrier."

He broke off, realizing that his fatigue was making him prattle.

"Anyway," he said, forcing a conclusion, "I'm sorry I can't help you with your problem, Gabriel, but frankly it's out of my league."

"Actually you have, Captain." The Legionnaire smiled.

"I have?"

"Well, at the very least you've given me something to think about. Thank you, sir."

Strangely enough, of all the problems that had beleaguered him that day, it was the final conversation with Gabriel that haunted Phule's thoughts and kept him from dozing off when he finally tried to sleep. Despite the Legionnaire's claims that the commander's talk had helped him, Phule felt that his help and advice had been inadequate.

Group dynamics, personal image, military strategy, and, of course, finances-all these things the commander felt qualified in helping and training the people under his command. But deeper problems? Matters of the soul?

With a flash of insight, Phule decided to do what he had always done when confronted with a problem beyond his personal abilities: find an expert. Sliding out of his bunk, he marched over to his desk, fired up his Port-A-Brain computer, and blearily composed a personnel request to Legion Headquarters. If his Legionnaires needed spiritual guidance, then, by G.o.d, he'd get them a spiritual expert. A chaplain!

There was an almost tangible load lifted from his mind as he hit the Send key, but close on its heels came the crus.h.i.+ng weight of exhaustion. Staggering back across his cabin, Phule toppled into his bunk and fell into a deep, dreamless slumber.

CHAPTER SIX.

Journal #209.

The in-flight cla.s.ses and lectures arranged by my employer had given the company every confidence that they were ready for their new a.s.signment. This belief was, of course, encouraged by their commander and his officers, who made a point of keeping their own fears and suspicions from their troops. Thus it was that upon their arrival, the Legionnaires were eager to begin their duties, while the company's leaders.h.i.+p was already suffering from a lack of sleep due to their anxieties.

Nothing in the briefings, tapes, or brochures, however, succeeded in preparing them for the total impact of Lorelei itself.

The s.p.a.ce station known throughout the galaxy as "Lorelei" was officially an antique. One of the first privately owned s.p.a.ce stations, it was originally named "the Oasis," constructed on the old spoked-wheel design, and had been built as an outpost to supply the far-flung colonies and outbound explorer s.h.i.+ps-an expensive outpost to be sure, as there was no compet.i.tion to keep their prices down.

As civilization pushed outward, however, the so-called frontier moved on, leaving the station to compete with an ever-increasing number of s.p.a.ceports and supply depots places with newer designs and, therefore, lower maintenance expenses. Only one thing saved the station from extinction during that period: its reputation and tradition of being a "safe haven" or a "liberty port." That is, even though people lived and worked at other colonies and s.p.a.ceports, when they wanted to play or vacation, they headed for the Oasis.

The owner, not government, made the rules at the Oasis, and little was forbidden or outlawed that might generate revenue for the station's coffers. Not surprising, one of the main pastimes that was not only allowed but encouraged was gambling.

Eventually a combine of investors recognized the station's potential and bought it away from the original owner's estate. Hundreds of millions were put into renovating and remodeling the station, not to mention an extensive advertising campaign to change the station's image to that of the ultimate resort and family vacation spot, and the station was renamed "Lorelei."

The new name was due, in part, to the station's beacon, which was said to be strong enough to cause interference in neighboring solar systems. If the ever-present advertising was not enough, the beacon made sure no one pa.s.sed through that sector of s.p.a.ce without hearing of Lorelei's lures and charms. "Once you visit Lorelei," the catchy slogan ran, "you'll never want to leave!"

The reality was a little grimmer: Once you visit Lorelei, you might not be able to leave. Not that there was physical danger, mind you ... it would be bad publicity to hurt a tourist. The real danger on Lorelei was its famous, vampiric casinos.

The inside of the s.p.a.ce station's wheel design had been filled in and painted to look like a ma.s.sive roulette wheel, which, while it was eye-catching to those in s.h.i.+ps with view points, had a practical function as well. The surface of the wheel was actually a ma.s.sive solar energy cell, endlessly gathering power from the stars and feeding it to the casinos ... and they needed it!

The casinos were dazzling to the point of being awe-inspiring, each trying to outs.h.i.+ne, outglitz its neighbors. Though there was no "sunlight" on the station, the ma.s.sive, circular main corridor needed no streetlights, nor did the electric shuttle vehicles moving tourists from destination to destination require headlights. The same artificial gravity which kept the buildings to four stories or less, forcing the casinos to spread out rather than up, was actually a boon to designing their exterior light displays. Freed of the physics of engineering, by the abruptly lessening gravity above the buildings, the casinos' light displays were spectacular, as they almost floated in the "air," fighting for the attention of pa.s.sing tourists. These displays around "the Strip" kept the station's interior lit to near-daylight brightness-near daylight as the wattage was carefully controlled to create an illusion of darkness above the casinos, thus enhancing the effectiveness of the light shows. There was no day or night on Lorelei, only a perpetual twilight through which the tourists, vacationers, and, of course, gamblers walked, rode, or, eventually, staggered in their pursuit of pleasure. The only concession to normality was that the rooms in the casino hotels all had blackout curtains, so that one could shut out the light when, and if, one wanted to sleep.

Of course, the carefully maintained illusion on Lorelei was that no one slept. The casinos never closed, and neither did the restaurants or shops. Entertainment booked to lure people into one casino or another was simply advertised as "every three hours" rather than specific showtimes.

In short, there was a studied sense of timelessness which permeated Lorelei-for a specific reason. The longer people gambled, the better it was for the casinos. While there might be the occasional "lucky hit" or "hot run," if the players kept betting long enough, the house odds would catch up with them, and all their winnings, plus whatever they were willing to lose of what they brought with them, ended up in the casino vaults.

This was the real trap of the Lorelei's song, and many who arrived by private s.h.i.+p left by public transport. Others, who could no longer afford even public transport, were absorbed into the station's work force until they could raise enough money to leave, which rarely happened, as they would usually succ.u.mb to the temptation of the tables once more, trying desperately to "build a stake" while the house yawned and raked in their savings. Those that did manage to escape, vowing never to return again, were quickly replaced by the next s.h.i.+pload of eager faces and fat wallets, each planning to have a good time and maybe win an instant fortune on a lucky roll or turn of a card.

There was a seemingly endless supply of these replacements, as the publicity machine of Lorelei was mercilessly effective, and unceasing in its quest to find yet one more way to keep the lure of Lorelei in front of the public. Thus, it was no surprise to insiders that the media had been alerted and was waiting when the Omega Mob arrived on Lorelei.

"Excuse me, Mr. Phule?"

The Legionnaire commander halted, not ten paces from stepping off the gangplank, and blinked in surprise at the figure blocking his way. The pudgy man was wearing a fluorescent-green jumpsuit with a large blue bow tie, leaving one with the quick impression of being confronted by a prize-winning frog.

"Actually it's 'Captain Jester' when I'm on duty," he corrected gently.

"But you are Willard Phule? The megamillionaire turned soldier?"

Phule flinched a bit, as he always did when publicly confronted with his wealth-generated fame, and shot a quick glance at the company. The Legionnaires were ambling off the s.h.i.+p, some gawking at the casino light displays while others started to crowd close to see what was happening with their commander.

"That's correct," he said levelly.

"Great!" the man exclaimed, seizing Phule's hand and giving it a hurried pump. "Jake Herkamer, here. I was wondering if we could have a few minutes of your time for a quick interview on your new a.s.signment?"

As he spoke, he made a magician's pa.s.s, and a microphone appeared in his hand. Simultaneously the portable floodlights came on, alerting Phule to the presence of holo cameras, which, until then, had been undetected.

"Umm ... could this wait until I get my troops settled in the hotel?" Phule hedged.

"Good point! Hey, guys! Get some shots of the soldiers before we lose them in the hotel!"

Phule felt his muscles tighten as the camera crew obediently began to pan over the gathering Legionnaires, who mugged or glowered for the cameras depending upon their individual inclination. While he had known all along that this a.s.signment would put his force in the public eye more than ever before, he also knew that there were several Legionnaires who had joined up specifically to escape from their earlier lives, and were therefore quite nervous about having their pictures and current location broadcast by the media.

"Rembrandt ... Armstrong!"

"Sir!"

"Here, sir!"

The two lieutenants materialized at his side.

"Form the company up, over there, while I take care of this. If it runs more than a couple minutes, move them out to the hotel. Get them away from these cameras."