“The possibility exists,” admitted Thumper. “It does appear to have the potential for amusement. But if you do not object, I wish to consider it a little more-and get the advice of a trusted acquaintance-before giving you a final answer.“
“Utterly reasonable,” said Qual. “And now, if it is not in conflict with your assigned Legion duties, I would appreciate your continued advice on my mode of striking the ball. Please be absolutely candid-it is to my benefit.”
“With enthusiasm,” the translator said, after Thumper had spoken. “Attempt a number of swings, and I will determine if I can detect anything of use.”
“Very well,” said Qual, stepping up to address the ball again. “Be alert! Anything might well occur!” He took a powerful swing, and again the ball flew on its way down-range…
“What the hell’s that up ahead, Soosh?” Do-Wop asked, peering into the darkness that had fallen over the trail. It was clear what he was asking about; some distance away, there was a flickering of light, not quite steady enough to be artificial. They’d been following directions the general storekeeper in town had given them; but it had been dark for some time, and it was anybody’s guess if they were still on the trail.
“I think those are fires,” said Sushi, in a low voice. “If our map’s right, that ought to be the Indian camp they told us about back in town. I think we’re on the right track.”
“Fires, huh?” said Do-Wop. He pointed to his wrist comm. “You think we oughta call the fire department, then? There must be half a dozen of ‘em up there, burning away. Somebody might get hurt…”
Sushi shook his head. “Don’t bother,” he said. “I think they’re supposed to be part of the Authentic Western Experience of Cut ‘N’ Shoot. From what I remember, they used to use open fires all the time on Old Earth, for cooking and light, and to keep wild animals away at night.”
“Lousy way to run a planet,” said Do-Wop. “Authentic Western Experience or not, I bet the Italians didn’t do it that way.”
“How do you think they did it?” said Sushi, hunkering down to peer ahead. “Porta-range furnaces? Pocket microwaves?”
“Sure,” said Do-Wop, nonchalantly. “We invented everything else any good. Ice cream, pizza, beer…”
Sushi rolled his eyes. “Right,” he said. “Maybe I’d believe you if I thought you knew enough history to find Italy on a map, which would surprise me no end, considering you can’t find the Legion base on a map of Zenobia.”
“Hey, I can read a map just as good as you can,” said Do-Wop. “Besides, you’re just jealous. Italians invented the mob, too, which your guys only got a stoopid-sounding copy of. What’s it called, Yazooka? Is ‘at some kinda chewin’ gum, or what?”
“Yakusa,” said Sushi. “Which to me, at least, doesn’t sound any stupider than Mafia, if you want to know the truth.”
“Yeah, huh? You call my uncle Nunzio stupid, you gonna find out whether you can walk wit‘ the fishes…”
“I thought it was sleeping with the fishes I was supposed to be worried about,” said Sushi. “Y’know, if you’re going to try to scare people, you ought to at least try to make a threat that makes sense.”
“Ahh, that shows how much you know,” said Do-Wop, poking his finger at Sushi’s chest. “When I make a farkin‘ threat…”
“You make-um heap big noise,” came a deep voice from out of the dark. “Heard you both a long way off, bump and crash like drum roll-um downhill. You lucky no wild animals here look-um for nice rump of paleface for supper.”
“Who said that?” said Do-Wop, jumping. He peered out into the dark but could see nothing.
“I think the Indians just found us” said Sushi, standing up. “Hello, whoever you are. Can you take us to your leader?”
“What, you think we in some bad movie?” said the deep voice again. A towering figure glided forward from the shadows, its facial features still obscured by the darkness.
“What’s a movie?” asked Do-Wop, moving up alongside Sushi. Almost without thinking about it, he assumed a fighting stance.
“Like a tri-vee, only flat,” said Sushi, absentmindedly. He put his weight on the balls of his feet, not in as aggressive a stance as Do-Wop, but still ready to respond if the stranger made a hostile move.
“You paleface boys look like you get ready kick-um ass,” said the stranger, amusement in his voice. “Why you don’t come smoke-um peace pipe instead? We talk, eat some good food, maybe do some business…”
“Food?” said Sushi, suddenly aware of his nearly empty stomach. “Gee, I guess I could use a bite to eat.”
“Peace pipe?” said Do-Wop. “Yo, man, lead the way.”
7
Journal #793-
A man of fixed habits is thought by many to be unflappable, impossible to upset. As a man whom many would consider to be a prime example of that description, I can tell you frankly that the popular perception is only partly correct.
Granted, a regular routine is one of the best ways to prevent disturbance in one’s life. If one knows that the mail arrives at ten o ‘clock, and that dinner is served at six, such events serve as anchors for the day’s activities. Even when the mail is delayed, or when some family member is detained at work until past the dinner hour, one knows that these are aberrations. One adjusts to the variation, secure in the confidence that routine will reassert itself in due course. Indeed, this is one of the appeals of the military life-one of the few, I should add.
But there is an infallible way to disconcert a man of fixed habits, and that this is to deprive him of any routine whatsoever. The most insidious way to do this is to send him off on vacation…
Lieutenant Armstrong gritted his teeth, staring out into the Zenobian desert. There was a plume of dust rapidly approaching the camp across the arid landscape. General Blitzkrieg was here. And that meant that, for the foreseeable future, Omega Company was about to get some long-deferred experience in the ugly, side of life in the Legion.
Well, Armstrong had done his share of brownnosing and kowtowing to irrational brass; he could undoubtedly fall back into the routine if he had to. He’d never been particularly good at it, which is why he’d ended up in Omega Company instead of in some more desirable posting. That was before Captain Jester had come; back when Omega Company was the rathole of the Legion, the catchall for incorrigibles and incompetents no other unit wanted. Considering that the Space Legion was widely recognized as the rathole of the Alliance military, that was saying a lot.
It was well-known that General Blitzkrieg still looked at Omega Company as a rathole. In fact, he apparently preferred it that way. There had to be someplace so bad it could be used to threaten anyone who got out of line or failed to come up to the mark. As far as Armstrong could figure it out, the general considered Omega Company his personal property, and soundly resented Captain Jester’s turning it into the best outfit in the Legion.
It rarely occurred to Armstrong to question the wisdom of a superior officer, let alone that of a general of the Legion. But when it came to Omega Company, he’d seen the before and after versions with his own eyes and knew which was better. In his considered opinion, General Blitzkrieg was full of…well, “hot air” was one of the more genteel expressions that came to Armstrong’s mind.
Almost every member of Omega Company had a similarly low opinion of the general. That meant that Lieutenant Armstrong was going to have his hands full preventing the incident that the general had undoubtedly come here intending to provoke. And with the captain off-base- no, worse than that, completely out of reach-it was going to be a major chore to neutralize the general, even with Omega Company’s officers babysitting him for the entire length of his visit. Even with the help of the entire command cadre, there was bound to be somebody who snapped. It might be Sergeant Escrima; it might be one of the recent recruits; it might even be the usually phlegmatic Tusk-anini. The problem was that nobody knew exactly who the general was going to go after, or how, and that meant that nobody could completely prepare for it.