No Phule Like an Old Phule Page 6

  Victor Phule was incredulous. "You're giving away a thousand dollars?"

  "Of course," said Marti. She managed somehow to whisper out of the comer of her mouth without losing her bright smile. "The players have to believe that they have a chance to win-and win big-if they're going to come here instead of one of the other casinos. On any given play, a player has a chance to win a jackpot of a hundred, a thousand, even ten thousand dollars-and when one of them does hit a jackpot, we give them the bells and lights so nobody can forget they have that chance."

  Victor Phule's expression was skeptical. "To tell you the truth, I've never understood why anybody would bet on anything but a sure winner," he said. "And when you're giving somebody a chance to take away a thousand dollars--or more, if what you say is right-then the casino is betting on a losing proposition. On top of that, we give them free drinks and free food-and entertainment at a bargain price, as well. Why aren't we charging a competitive price for that, when we're giving away money hand over fist in the casinos?"

  Marti's voice dropped even lower. "Because for every big jackpot, there are hundreds of losing bets, and that's the foundation of the business. Every single day of the year, as inevitably as taxes, the casino takes in many times what even the luckiest player can expect to win.. Over the long run, the casino comes out solidly in the black."

  "Solidly in the black is all right," said Victor Phule.

  "But I got my MBA at Rakeitin School of Business, and they taught us that any businessman worth his salt aims to maximize profits. I've built my arms business into the biggest in the galaxy by following that principle, and I can't see why it doesn't apply to this so-called business, as well."

  "You saw the books, Mr. Phule," said Marti, shrugging.

  Even now, the smile never left her face. "If you don't want to believe what you saw, there's not much I can do to change your mind. The odds are stacked in the house's favor, and always will be."

  Phule frowned. "There's a loophole somewhere," he said. "If the odds are so heavily stacked, none of these people would keep coming back to play. Yet I've already heard several of them say they're back for a fourth or fifth visit.

  There are obviously some consistent winners. That's what worries me. If one person can keep winning, then others can-and if enough learn how, they can put this place out of business."

  Marti shook her head. "It doesn't work that way, Mr. Phule," she said patiently. "There's no way around the odds. In the long run..."

  "Long run? Pfui!" said Victor Phule. "Your whole business principle is wrong, and I'm going to prove it. Where do I get tokens to play these machines?"

  "Right over there, Mr. Phule," said Marti, pointing. She smiled quietly. It wasn't the first time somebody had refused to believe the simple facts. Nor would it be the last.

  Every casino in the galaxy made its money because of people who didn't believe in the odds. It looked as if Victor Phule was about to find that out-the hard way.

  4

  Journal #664

  Excessive displays of zeal, should always be grounds for suspicion. The religious bigot, the superpatriot, and the zealous company man have in common an emotion-loyalty to something larger than their individual interest. Loyalty to the greater cause is an emotion that everyone shares to some degree, and that in due proportion ought to be considered a good thing. But the zealots carry it to such an extreme that any reasonable person would feel a degree of embarrassment. Even more than the fanatical fixity of their loyalties, it-is the lack of a sense of proportion that makes them suspect. Anyone with a balanced view of the world around him inevitably becomes to some degree a cynic:

  I consider myself to have an exceptionally well-balanced view of the world around me. In consequence I am frequently annoyed by the impositions of those less-balanced persons I find myself surrounded by...

  The shuttle settled down roughly a kilometer south of the Legion camp. Phule and Beeker watched the landing from within the camp perimeter, then-as the cloud of dust began to settle-Phule gave a signal to his driver, Gears.

  The hoverjeep moved forward toward the landing site.

  Ahead of them, the shuttle door was already open, and two men--presumably the hunters-were standing idly by, watching the crew piling luggage and equipment on a crawler. They'd evidently brought enough to last them twice as long as their little expedition was scheduled for-either that, or they'd assumed there wouldn't be laundry facilities at a Legion camp. Actually, thought Phule, fastidious visitors might have been advised not to trust their clothing to the mercies of a Legion field laundry-as much to avoid the likelihood of rough handling as on account of pilferage.

  With its own state-of-the-art automatic laundry facility built into the encampment module, Omega Company was miles ahead of the normal Legion standard. But the visitors could be excused for not having known that in advance.

  Gears brought the hoverjeep to a halt next to the equipment crawler, and Phule leapt lightly to the ground. "Good afternoon, gentlemen," he said, holding out his hand. "I'm your host, Captain Jester. Welcome to Zenobia." The men had been staring at Jester during the hoverjeep's approach. Now one of them took the captain's offered hand and shook it.

  "Our host, eh?" he said. "Not quite the way most people describe a visit from us. But I'm glad you're taking it in good spirits, Captain. It'll make our work here a lot easier."

  Phule chuckled. "Work isn't exactly how I'd describe your visit, either," he said, heartily. "We've convinced the Zenobians to open up an area where no off-worlder has ever been-I'd call it virgin territory, gentlemen. It won't be exactly a weekend in the Waldorf, but I think you'll find it worth the effort. They tell me there are some spectacular beasts in there."

  "Opened up virgin territory?" It was a woman's voice that replied, and Phule turned automatically to face the speaker. She was tall, with sharp features under a bowl haircut, and was dressed in the same dull-colored jumpsuit as the men (phule now realized). The name tag on her breast read C. I. Snieff. "I certainly hope that's an exaggeration, Captain," she added, pursing her lips. "We want to keep this planet's indigenous territory unspoiled, wherever possible. Your company's presence is enough of a problem."

  Phule wrinkled his brow, slowly beginning to realize that there was something going on he didn't quite follow. "Excuse me," he began. Before he could finish the thought, a new creature emerged from the shuttle hatchway and made a beeline for the Legion hoverjeep, uttering a steady stream of angry barks.

  "What the hell?" said Gears, jumping back into the jeep to escape the agitated animal.

  "Hey there, big fellow," said Phule, going down on one knee and stretching out a hand to the dog. "What's your name, huh?" The dog, ignoring him, circled the hoverjeep, staring balefully at Gears and snarling.

  "Surely you recognize Barky, the famous Environmental Dog," said Snieff. "He's been on tri-vee allover the galaxy. Every schoolchild loves to watch him sniff out pollution and other dangers to the natural balance. Your hoverjeep's emissions must not be properly controlled."

  "I beg your pardon, ma'am," said Gears, who had climbed up on the seat to avoid the attentions of Barky. "I set this vehicle up myself and if it ain't totally up to spec, I'll eat it one piece at a time, without no/ketchup, neither.

  Hey, can you call your dog off?" he added, with a note of concern.

  "Barky is never wrong abut pollution." said Snieff.

  She turned to one of her companions, and said, "Inspector Slurry, please impound that vehicle until we can have it properly tested."

  "Woof!" said Barky, the Environmental Dog, his front paws up on the running board of the hoverjeep. It was not a friendly "woof." Gears cringed.

  "Wait a minute," said Phule, interposing himself between Snieff's two assistants and the hoverjeep. "That's a Legion vehicle. You can't impound that..."

  "We certainly can," said Snieff, haughtily. "Inspector Gardner, show him the subpoena." The third member of the team, a tall thin man with long reddish blond hair and a
goatee, grinned and handed Phule a folded envelope. On one side it was marked, "Recycled Paper."

  Phule turned it over to read the other side: "Alliance Ecological Interplanetary Observation Union: Inspection Order and Subpoena."

  "Subpoena?" asked Phule, blinking. "Inspection?"

  "Sir, I believe I understand the situation," said Beeker.

  "This is obviously not the party of, ah, visitors we were expecting. This is an Environmental Inspection team from the Alliance Ecological Interplanetary Observation Union. And I'm afraid, sir, that they are perfectly within their rights to impound any vehicle suspected of improper emissions. The laws are quite explicit on that subject, sir."

  "Alliance Ecological Interplanetary Observation Union?" Phule stared at the three inspectors, a puzzled look on his face. "But we shouldn't be under their jurisdiction. This planet has its own sovereign government. .."

  "That may be so, Captain," said Snieff. "But we certainly aren't about to take your word for it. All the preliminary reports indicate that we might just be in time to prevent an environmental disaster. And nothing I've seen so, far suggests anything to the contrary. Beginning with your driving a vehicle out to our landing site. Are you Legionnaires so lazy you can't use your own feet? Have you forgotten how to march?"

  "Wh-what?" sputtered Phule. "I don't understand..."

  "Sir, I think we'd best get out of the inspectors' way and let them do their work," said Beeker. "And next time you receive an environmental impact questionnaire, I suggest you give it to someone other than Tusk-anini to fill out."

  Phule nodded, understanding at last "In that case, I think we'd best head back to camp. Inspector Snieff..."

  "Chief Inspector Snieff, thank you," said the woman.

  "Yes, of course, Chief Inspector," said Phule. "If there's anything you need from my people, please let me know. We'll be happy to cooperate."

  "I certainly hope so," said Chief Inspector Snieff. "The law provides very hefty penalties for obstruction of an environmental inspection."

  "We don't have anything to hide," said Phule. "You'll see when you arrive at our guest quarters..." .

  "Oh, no," said Snieff. "Regulations prohibit us from accepting accommodations with a suspected violator. We'll be setting up our own camp, Captain. I think you'll find it an instructive example of a minimal-impact inhabitation.

  Now, if you'll excuse us, we have to finish unloading."

  "Of course," said Phule.

  "Excuse me, ma'am," came Gears's voice. "If you'll just call off your dog..." Snieff ignored him as she plastered a bright orange sticker to the door of the hoverjeep. It said in block letters, "IMPOUNDED FOR POLLUTION."

  "Woof!" said Barky, the Environmental Dog. "Woof woof, woof woof woof!"

  Legion boot camp was like nothing Thumper (as Zigger now called himself) had ever seen before. For one thing, the population was predominantly made up of humans although there were enough members -of other species to keep him from feeling completely outnumbered. "He was the only Lepoid on the base, though, at least the only one he'd seen in his bewilderingly rapid trip through the initial processing area.

  That had been an experience he'd just as soon forget.

  Luckily, it had gone quickly enough that it seemed to be over almost before it started. But not before he'd been poked and prodded by doctors, and the autodoc had jabbed his arm with at least a dozen inoculations for diseases the Legion thought his race might be susceptible to on distant planets. (The doctors had spent a good half hour looking him up on the base's medical expert system before deciding which inoculations he was likely to need and which were likely to be more danger than help. He'd still been woozy most of the next day-maybe a reaction to the shots, maybe something else.) All the humans were given ultrashort regulation haircuts. Being of a short-furred species, Thumper was spared that indignity, at least. But he was issued a black Legion jumpsuit at least three sizes too large, and combat boots that no imaginable breaking-in would ever make comfortable for his elongated feet. He was all ready to protest this treatment, but he realized that none of the other new recruits' uniforms were the right size, either. Half an hour of searching and trading found him a jumpsuit that fit him better, and his was the almost right size for another recruit...-a lanky, bespectacled human who had adopted the Legion name "Spider." Nobody in the outfit had a pair of boots that fit Thumper. Since appearing without boots was defined as being out of uniform, a serious offense against Legion discipline, that was going to be a problem.

  But Thumper had - plenty of other problems to distract him from the boots. Prime among these was his drill instructor, Sergeant Pitbull, who seemed to be of primarily human origin, although there were whispers that he was at least part something else. Exactly what that something else might be, none of the recruits was willing to say-at least not where the sergeant might hear it, which was apparently everywhere in the barracks. At least, the sergeant had an uncanny ability to storm into a room immediately after one of the recruits had said something mildly critical of Legion discipline and to chew out the offender in terms none of them had dreamed of before they had joined the Legion.

  It was on their third night of training that Thumper and his new comrades simultaneously realized that the Legion recruiters had actually told them the truth about one thing: Legion boot camp wasn't going to be easy. "By St. Elrod and all powers, I never knew there were so many places I could hurt," said Sharley, lying flat on his bunk, just after lights out.

  "That ain't nothing," said Spider. "I never knew there were so many different wrong ways to wear a uniform. Seems like I jes' can't do it right, nohow." Thumper nodded. Even having found a uniform that fit - properly, he was still having trouble getting it to look right-or so the sergeants seemed to think. "I guess they want us to pay attention to all the details;" he said. "When you're in a hostile environment, one little detail could make the difference..."

  "Oh, bull," said Spider. "Tell me what difference it gonna make how I fasten my sleeve button!"

  "That's not what I mean," said Thumper. "The point is, they want to train us so we don't overlook anything. Then, when you're in a combat situation, you're less likely to overlook something that could kill you..."

  "Ain't nobody ever been killed by a sleeve button that I heard of," insisted Spider.

  Thumper was about to try his explanation again when somebody hissed "Pitbull!" and the entire bunkroom fell silent in fear of the sergeant's wrath. For once the sergeant - didn't materialize; but by the time the recruits realized it was a false alarm, half of them were asleep, and nobody else seemed inclined to take up the thread.

  The one part of Legion life that Thumber found congenial was the healthy dose of physical activity: drill; exercise, hard labor, and more drill. Perhaps this was because he had come to the Legion not as a last chance to escape from an intolerable existence back home; but as an actual lifelong goal. Running, marching, and doing endless calisthenics shouldn't bother someone who had kept himself in good physical condition, he kept telling his buddies. Most of the time, they were too exhausted to answer him. But the looks they shot in his direction were eloquent, had he only been able to read them.

  At last, even his friend Sharky, whom he'd met on the space liner that brought them to Legion boot camp, warned him that he was getting "too gung ho." They'd ended up in the same recruit platoon by the simple expedient of showing up at the processing center at the same time.

  "What's wrong with being gung ho ?" asked Thumper.

  "You're making the other guys look bad," said Sharky.

  "We're all in this together, you know. It ain't good if you show up your buddies."

  "I'm not trying to show anybody up," Thumper protested. "I've always wanted to be a legionnaire. Now that I am one, why shouldn't I try to be a good one?"

  "Cause you make things harder for the rest of us," Sharky explained. "If most of us want to punk out after a hundred push-ups and you keep on going, the sarge is going to get on our asses to keep up w
ith you."

  "Gee, I never thought of that," said Thumper. "But don't you want to be all that you can be? If you do more pushups, you'll get stronger. That could be important when the crunch comes..."

  "Crunch? What crunch?" Sharky scoffed. "The Alliance hasn't been in a real war since my grandpa was a kid."

  "No, but that doesn't mean it won't happen..."

  "Against who?" Sharky demanded. "Every time we meet a new race, they want to join up with us on account of the trade advantages. Like those lizards out on Zenobia." Thumper shook his head.

  "There was a civil war on Landoor..."

  "Sure, and that wasn't much more than a food fight, from what I hear tell," said Sharky. "Nobody except the locals got hurt. All the Legion did was go in to mop up, and they spent more time lying on the beach than anything else.

  So why make things any tougher than you have to?"

  "You can't assume just because things have been easy lately that it's always going to be like that," insisted Thumper.

  "Hey, I'm just trying to give you a clue," said. Sharky. "If you play along with the other guys, everybody's happy. Make too many waves, nobody's gonna be happy-and they're gonna know whose fault it is."

  "All right, I understand you," said Thumper, with a nod and a smile. He didn't say what he was thinking. He didn't have to. His actions would do the talking for him, when the time came.

  "The slots, huh?" Tullie Bascomb shook his head in disbelief at what the security monitors were showing. "Most of the guys who think they can beat the house by playing some kind of homemade system go for blackjack," he said.

  "Or poker, if they think they can win steady enough to cover the house percentage."

  Doc grinned. "That's for sure. Only suckers play the quantum slots-they're the worst bet in the joint. You showed us that, back when the captain first brought us to Lorelei."

  "Yeah," said Bascomb. "I guess the captain-didn't tell his old man that, though. look at him pumping the tokens into into those machines!"