“Who dis come to see de Mon?” he asked in a penetrating voice-surprisingly, a clear melodic tenor instead of the basso profundo Phule would have expected from someone of his bulk.

Rita had already told Phule to let her do the talking. “Dis be Captain Jester, from de Space Legion,” she said. “He lookin‘ for some frens. Somebody tell he dey be wit’ de Indians, so he come looking. I an‘ I fetch he here.”

De Mon turned to Phule. “You frens-what dey look like?”

Phule said, “I wish they were easier to describe. One’s an older man, very dignified-looking-he’s actually my butler, but I doubt he’d be wearing his usual outfit for a vacation. The other’s a woman-younger, maybe thirty? Thin, dark-skinned, short hair, usually very serious. I don’t know what she’s wearing now, but the last time I saw her, she was in Legion uniform-a black jumpsuit like this one. Needless to say, there’d be a reward for anyone who can help me find them.“

Several of de Mon’s circle frowned. “What he say?” murmured one of the robots. “He talk so funny…”

De Mon glared at his companions until they fell silent, then nodded, and said, “Huh.” He fixed Phule with his piercing gaze. Phule looked back, frankly, for a long moment. Apparently satisfied with what he saw, de Mon turned to the others around him. “Anybody see dose people?”

“Sure, dey been to de tourist trap day ‘fore yestaday,” said one woman, who wore huge golden earrings and at least a dozen bangles on her wrists. “De woman buyin’ lots o‘ books, some jewelry-lots o’ pretty stuff. Her mon, he jes look and shake he head.”

“Do you know where they went next?” asked Phule. “I’m very anxious to find them.”

“Dat your money dey be spendin‘?” asked de Mon, with a sly grin. Then he held up a hand and said to the woman who’d spoken before, “You see dem leave?”

“Dey go to de food court,” said the woman. “I don’t know where dey go after, but dey talkin‘ bout de roundup. I bet dey done gone dere.”

“Dat makes sense,” said de Mon, nodding. “All de tourist, dey wants to see de roundup. Dat’s why dey run it six time ev’ry year.”

“Where would they go to see the roundup?” asked Phule, eagerly. Maybe he was finally making progress. It seemed as if he’d walked or ridden over half the planet to learn this much about his fugitive butler.

“De main place is de Pretty Good Corral in Skilletville-dey bring in de robocows down de streets, whoopin‘ and hollerin’, folk shootin‘ off de guns. It ’spose to be a stirrin‘ sight,“ said de Mon. ”You go dere, mos’ like you finds dese people you look for.“

“Thank you,” said Phule. “If someone will tell me how to get there, I’ll be greatly in your debt.”

“You come’t‘rough with de reward, dat take care of de debt mighty quick,” said de Mon, dryly. “Bes’ way to go, you ride east till you past de hills, den swing sout’ to de big river…”

Half an hour later, Phule was on his way. The weather was clear and warm, and his robosteed made good time along the well-marked trail. He met nobody on the way, although perhaps three or four times he saw the dust cloud raised by some distant rider, and once he spotted a stagecoach on a road parallel to his trail.

As the West Indians had predicted, he was in Skilletville well before dark. And while all the hotels and rooming houses were full of tourists, he applied his Dilithium Express card to the problem and soon had an acceptable, if not really luxurious, room. He dumped his luggage on the bed, splashed some water on his face to wash off the trail dust, and went out looking for Beeker.

Major Sparrowhawk took one long last sip of her coffee- the best she’d ever had in a Legion mess hall, and that included the Staff Officer’s mess at Headquarters. And the selection of pastries, and the butter and jam, were of a quality unheard of in most of the restaurants she was in the habit of frequenting. The story that had made the rounds back at Headquarters, about Jester’s having brought in a cordon bleu chef to feed Omega Company (and himself, of course), was beginning to seem credible now that she’d had breakfast in their mess.

It was sorely tempting to fill the cup up one more time and have just one more croissant. But no-the general expected her to spy for him, while he went out and socialized with the officers and enjoyed whatever amenities the base had to offer. She’d been through the routine dozens of times over the years since her assignment as Blitzkrieg’s adjutant. Time to do it again. She stood up, carried her empty tray over to the window where dirty dishes were deposited, and turned to head out to the parade ground. If luck was on her side, somewhere out there she’d find trouble.

“Good morning, Major,” said a voice behind her. She turned automatically to see who’d spoken. It was a youngish woman with lieutenant’s insignia on the shoulders of her Legion jumpsuit, wearing a broad smile on her face.

Lieutenant Rembrandt, Sparrowhawk recalled. Nominally second-in-command of Omega Company-to the extent that means anything at all. But why was she smiling? Most of the time, on General Blitzkrieg’s inspection tours, every member of the general’s party was considered an enemy… with excellent reason. Was Rembrandt so naive that she didn’t that know Sparrowhawk’s job entailed finding out whatever dirt she could, to report back to the general? Or did she have some ulterior motive-possibly orders from her CO to keep an eye on the visiting officers? It didn’t really matter. Quite possibly this fresh-faced junior officer would lead her to exactly the kind of dirt she was looking for.

“Good morning, Lieutenant,” said Sparrowhawk, conjuring up a smile of her own. “I’m headed for an after-breakfast walk. Would you have time to join me?” She made a point of phrasing it in such a way that the lieutenant could interpret it either as an order or a friendly invitation.

Rembrandt’s smile grew even broader. “Why, I’d be glad to make the time, Major. The very least I can do is show you where things are so you won’t feel lost on this unfamiliar base.”

Right, thought Sparrowhawk. That clinched it; Captain Jester must have detailed his lieutenant to shepherd the general’s adjutant and steer her away from whatever Omega Company was trying to hide. Well, Sparrowhawk had gotten the runaround more than once before. In fact, she considered it a useful time-saver. Once she’d figured out what parts of the base Rembrandt was trying to keep her from seeing, she’d have a short list of all the major trouble spots to look at on her own. Better yet, the guided tour would take her to all the really interesting spots in camp, so she could actually enjoy it while she was making her little list. “Lead on, Lieutenant,” she said, with a predatory smile. This was going to be far too easy…

Rembrandt brightened up. “Oh, great! Captain Jester’s done some really neat things here, and I think you’ll enjoy seeing them, Major. Although you’ve probably seen every base in the Alliance…” The two of them headed down an outside corridor toward the main exit from the giant prefabricated building that was the central structure of Zeno-bia Base.

“Oh, I’m not quite that ancient,” said Sparrowhawk, with a conspiratorial wink. “And why don’t we just let our hair down and forget about rank, OK? My Legion name’s Sparrowhawk… and can I call you Rembrandt?”

“Sure, Maj- Sparrowhawk,” said Rembrandt. She smiled and held open a door leading out to the parade ground. Like a lamb to the slaughter, thought Sparrowhawk, stepping out into the sunlight.

She didn’t stop to reflect that the phrase might equally apply both ways…

Skilletville was filled wall to wall with people, apparently about fifty tourists for every local-and a fair number of the locals were “Injun” robots. Among the tourists, most of the men were wearing clearly freshly bought “Western” outfits: broad-brimmed hats, unbuttoned vests, blue jeans, boots with fancy toolwork, and some kind of gun belt. The women’s outfits showed more variety, from a feminized version of the hat-jeans-and-boots ensemble to full skirts, parasols, high necklines, and somewhat less practical hats. Most of them looked extremely uncomfortable. On the other hand, Phule’s Legion jumpsuit got more than its share of curious glances-which might have made him even more uncomfortable, if he’d been prone to second-guessing himself.