Do-Wop cut him short. “Ahhh, you think you know everything, but you don’t know how women shop,” he scoffed. “Woman goes shoppin‘ for soap, she’s gotta look at every bar of soap in three different stores. Not just look at it-she’s gotta smell it, and heft it, and look at the color, and read the label, and compare the price, and talk to five, six other people about what kinda soap they like, and then go back to all the other stores again to look at their soap. Me, I’d grab the cheapest soap in the store and go home and wash my hands before she even figured out how much it cost.”
“Hmmm, maybe you’re right,” said Sushi. “I didn’t see her carrying anything, so she probably hadn’t been shopping. Which means instead of following her, we should just wait for her to come back.”
“Good thinkin‘,” said Do-Wop, standing up. “I say we both go find a good spot and hang out there and see if she comes past.”
“All right, that makes as much sense as anything,” said Sushi, rising to join his partner. “But we’d better keep our eyes and ears open while we’re walking, just in case she comes back this way.”
“Nothin‘ to worry about, Soosh,” said Do-Wop, with a grin. “I’m all eyes.”
“Yeah, well keep ‘em open-I’d hate to miss her,” said Sushi. After a moment he said, “I wonder what she’s doing going out without Beeker. I hope they’re still together-if they’re not, we’re totally wasting our time.”
“Aw, man, Beeker might be old, but he ain’t stupid.”
“That’s what I’m worried about,” said Sushi. “Why isn’t he out riding with her? What if she had some kind of accident?”
“Yeah, them two-wheel thingies look dangerous as hell to me,” said Do-Wop.
“Bicycling’s supposed to be good exercise,” said Sushi, with a shrug. “It’s fun, too-I used to ride one at summer camp, out on Earpsalot. But there could be other reasons Beeker’s not with her this morning. Maybe he had some shopping of his own to do…”
“No way Beeker’s gonna spend all morning on that. I bet there’s somethin‘ fishy goin’ on…”
“What is it with you, anyway?” said Sushi. He stopped walking and turned to point a finger at his partner. “Two minutes ago you were saying Beeker wasn’t out with Nightingale because he didn’t want to ride a bicycle, now you say there’s something fishy because he isn’t. Don’t you listen to yourself? Or do you just like to contradict people for the sake of argument?”
“What the hell you talkin‘ about? I never contradict nobody,” said Do-Wop, his hands on his hips.
“You do it all the time,” said Sushi. “Especially me, and I’m getting tired of it.”
“Oh, yeah?” said Do-Wop. “Listen up, wise guy…”
They were still arguing hotly when Nightingale gently honked her horn and zipped past them on her bicycle, headed back to Crumpton.
Lieutenant Armstrong took a deep breath. Everything was going according to plan-so far, at least. Barring some disaster, General Blitzkrieg would be happily occupied during his stay, out of the company’s hair, and blissfully unaware that Captain Jester was off-planet. The essence of the plan was for Blitzkrieg to win-ideally, by a narrow enough margin to keep the general from walking off with a significant bundle of Omega Company’s cash. Just to be on the safe side, Armstrong had instructed the caddies to make certain the general always had a good lie, and that the flor-bigs left his ball alone, and that his drink was never empty. To Armstrong’s great relief, the general had taken to Omega Company’s new golf course like a Zenobian Realtor to virgin swampland. Ana the Andromatic robot duplicate of Captain Jester-originally built to impersonate Phule in his capacity as owner of the Fat Chance Casino-evidently had the general completely fooled. The robot was custom-built to escort rich customers around a gambling resort. So the robot “Phule” came from the factory programmed to play a respectable golf game-automatically modulating its game to play just a couple of strokes worse than the opponent.
Flight Leftenant Qual had been briefed on the plan, of course. Armstrong wasn’t entirely sure just how much Qual understood, or whether the Zenobian was sufficiently in command of his game to play his part without mishaps. The little Zenobian’s style was completely unorthodox, with both feet usually coming off the ground when he swung. Qual got excellent distance off the tee with his cut-down clubs, but his shots seemed to have a near-magnetic attraction to the deep rough and the bunkers. That should have resulted in a horrible score; but despite spending most of his time in the hazards, Qual had pulled off some near miracles with his short irons and putter, and shot a very respectable thirty-nine on the first nine. Armstrong had had to sink a couple of fifteen-foot putts to keep Qual and the robot from taking the lead. He did his best not to think of what the general’s mood might be if he’d missed them…
But after nine holes, the score was just where it ought to be: The general and Armstrong were one up against Qual and the robot. General Blitzkrieg had hit something over a hundred balls, but by incredibly selective scorekeeping, had managed to put only forty-two strokes down on his scorecard. It was his custom to hit as many as four drives- “Just getting a feel for the course,” he’d say-then play whichever ball happened to lie best. “This is the one I hit first, right?” If an approach shot went astray, he’d take another mulligan or two. What was most astonishing to Armstrong was that Blitzkrieg appeared to have no notion whatsoever that his score for the front nine was in any way questionable.
In any case, General Blitzkrieg was in the lead, and in a good mood. The florbigs had left his ball entirely alone, he’d had a long cool G&T after the front nine, and now he was gleefully rehashing every good shot he’d made-some of them completely imaginary, but not even Qual was clueless enough to challenge him on that point.
Armstrong had won the last hole with a par four; the other three players had holed out in five, with Qual and the robot “Captain Jester” both missing tough six-footers. True to form, General Blitzkrieg had picked up his thirty-foot uphill putt once Armstrong’s ball was in the hole, saying “that one’s a gimme, now.” In any case, Armstrong had the honors, and responded by thumping a number two wood straight down the middle, with a clean shot at the fat of the green. “Great golf shot,” said Captain Jester, with a broad grin. It was uncanny how much the robot resembled its prototype, right down to the nuances of behavior; it was exactly the way the real captain would have responded.
Qual and the general followed, and for once both somehow managed to keep the ball in the fairway, though short of Armstrong’s drive. Now the robot was up, waggling a driving iron at the teed ball. “Let’s see if I can put this one past you, Armstrong,” it said, shading its eyes to peer down the fairway.
The general said, “Ten dollars says you can’t.” He’d made three or four similar side bets, and lost all but one of them, but if he had any memory of his losses, it didn’t deter him. Maybe it was his way of putting pressure on an opponent.
“Like taking candy from a baby,” said the robot. “You’re on, General-watch this!” It took a long back-swing, then brought the club head down on the ball with frightening velocity. The ball streaked off down the center of the course, seemingly inches off the ground.
Whether by sheer blind luck, or as a cleverly disguised way to let the general win another hole, the robot’s drive was aimed directly at a low, flat rock perhaps forty yards down the course. If it had hit at almost any random angle, it would have bounced off in some unpredictable direction- most likely, into the deep rough. But, as luck would have it, the ball hit square on almost the only face of the rock perpendicular to its line of flight, and before anyone could say a word, it had rebounded directly back to the tee and struck the robot square in the forehead with a sickening thunk. As three horrified golfers, and four openmouthed caddies, looked on, the robot crumpled to the ground-seemingly lifeless.