“Geez, Soosh, that’s a really scary idea,” said Do-Wop. “You think the captain’s in trouble?”

“I think maybe we’re all in trouble,” said Sushi. He turned around on the bicycle seat and grinned. “Not that that’s anything new, is it? Come on, let’s see if we can figure out what our next move’s going to be and make it before the bad guys realize that they’re in even worse trouble than we are!”

“Oh my God, the captain’s dead!” shouted Brick, who’d been caddying for General Blitzkrieg. She dropped the general’s golf bag and rushed over to the prostrate robot simulacrum of Phule, which lay apparently lifeless on the ground. Armstrong was already there, kneeling to feel the robot’s wrist in search of a pulse. Does an Andromatic robot have a pulse? he wondered, idly. Then he decided it didn’t matter; checking the pulse was what he’d have done if the robot had been the real captain, and for the moment, at least, he figured it was best to keep up the pretense that this was the real Captain Jester.

Meanwhile, General Blitzkrieg had rushed over to his golf bag, and was examining it for grass stains. For his part, Flight Leftenant Qual stood watching with lively curiosity, perhaps taking mental notes on human behavior for the Zenobian intelligence service.

“Captain! Speak to me!” said Armstrong.

There was a long and disconcerting silence from the robot. Armstrong had a sudden flash of terror, realizing that there might well be no one in Omega Company capable of repairing the robot if some component had been jarred loose when the golf ball struck it. They could hardly send it back to the factory-not with the general on base. As much as Blitzkrieg appeared to be enjoying the golf, he was beyond any doubt still ready to jump on any excuse to break up the Omega Mob and drum the captain out of the Legion-or at least, to send him someplace where he would never again have the opportunity to use his unique talents to overthrow military discipline.

Armstrong was ready to order the caddies to load the robot onto a golf cart and take it-where? Omega Company’s new medic Nightingale had gone off-planet, taking along Beeker, and the captain had followed them, which was why they were in this fix to begin with. All of a sudden, the robot opened its eyes and said, “Hell of a way to wake a fellow up. What can I do for you?”

Uh-oh, thought Armstrong. That wasn’t an encouraging response. “You just got beaned by a golf ball, Captain,” he explained, hoping to reorient the robot. “Do you feel all right?”

“I think so,” said the robot. “Let me try to get up.” Somewhat shakily, with Armstrong and Brick each holding on to one arm, the robot rose to its feet. “There, I think I’m fine-at least, there’s nothing wrong a good drink won’t fix. Who’s tending bar?”

“Uh-I guess I am, Captain,” said Brick. Timidly she added, “How about a cold drink of water until you figure out whether anything’s wrong?”

“Legionnaire, are you presuming to tell your CO he’s had enough to drink?” growled General Blitzkrieg.

“Uh, no sir, General Blitzkrieg, sir,” said Brick. It was undoubtedly the most “sirs” she’d gotten into one sentence since joining the Legion. Omega Company didn’t encourage ostentatious military etiquette.

“Not to worry, General,” said the robot, grinning broadly. “Let’s just play out the hole-as long as I can hit the ball straight, I guess I’m all right.”

“If you insist, Captain,” said Armstrong. “Uh, you’re away.”

“That’s right, Lieutenant,” said the robot Captain Jester. He stepped up to the ball, which had rebounded off his forehead and ended up perhaps six feet in front of the tee. “And that reminds me, General-I owe you ten dollars. Want to make it double or nothing I can’t outdrive Armstrong from where I lie?”

“You’re on!” said the general, sensing an easy win. Without a tee under the ball, it would be even harder for Jester to get the kind of distance he needed to best Armstrong’s tee shot. “I like a man who’s not afraid to put his money on the line!” In fact, the latter statement was true only if the fellow putting his money on the line then proceeded to lose it to the general. But for the moment, Blitzkrieg felt a glow of appreciation for his gallant if foolhardy opponent.

“All right, then,” said the robot, stepping up to the ball and waggling the driving iron. “Now I’ll show you how the goddamn game’s supposed to be played!”

There was something really wrong with that remark, thought Armstrong. But before he could place it, the robot had taken a mighty swing. The bystanders heard the distinctive ping of a ball caught precisely in the sweet spot of the club head. It took off straight as a laser beam down the middle of the fairway. When it finally came to rest, it was in the center of the green-some seventy yards past Armstrong’s tee shot.

“Wow, some shot,” said Brick. “Ain’t nothin‘ wrong with you, Captain.”

“A fine shot indeed,” said the general. “However, he does lie two. If our short game’s up to scratch, we’ve still got a fair chance to win the hole, eh, Lieutenant Armstrong?”

“I don’t plan to concede the hole, General,” said Armstrong, remembering whose partner he was supposed to be. He grabbed a short iron from his bag and the foursome set off down the course.

Armstrong was still trying to figure out what had bothered him when they got to the green and it became obvious to everyone-except perhaps the general-that something had gone seriously hay wire.

Phule’s instincts all told him something was wrong-very wrong. He found an empty bench in the garden of La Re-traite Rustique, sat down, and began trying to piece together what was bothering him.

First of all, he knew that Beeker and Nightingale were on the planet, probably even in the close neighborhood. He even had a pretty good idea what they were here for- unlike Cut ‘N’ Shoot, where he hadn’t learned about the main tourist attraction until the last day of his visit. He still didn’t have any idea what had possessed them to spend any of their vacation days on Rot’n‘art, one of the least interesting places he’d ever visited.

Here, at least, the Floribunda Festival was clearly the magnet drawing tourists from around the galaxy, although he couldn’t quite picture Beeker getting excited about flowers. Maybe Nightingale was the flower fancier. It didn’t seem like her, but how well did he know her, anyway?

But even knowing why they’d come to Hix’s World, he hadn’t managed to find them-not counting the one glimpse he’d gotten of Nightingale from his hotel window. Was it just bad luck, or was something else going on?

That brought him to the question of who’d been asking about him in the hotel. One way to figure out who was following him might be to let them catch up… but then, they might just turn out to be somebody he really was much better off not letting catch him. It was silly to pretend that he didn’t have enemies. He could think of several people who thought they had some reason or another to stick their noses into his business-some of them even had pretty legitimate reasons, if you granted their particular point of view.

Most likely, the people looking for him were just local newstapers who’d learned he was on-planet and wanted an interview. Not that he was going to give one and reveal his location to various people who would use the information for their advantage. General Blitzkrieg, for one, would consider Phule’s being away from his company’s base nothing short of a capital offense. Or whoever was currently in charge of the Lorelei crime syndicate might see this as an opportunity to eliminate their main competitor in the casino business. At least, Phule’s hotel had turned away the mysterious visitors… if only for the time being.

Phule stood up and stretched his muscles. In the absence of any real danger signs, his best bet was to go about his business, keeping an eye open for any suspicious characters in the vicinity. Considering that he was already keeping an eye open for Beeker, and one open for Nightingale, that was going to be a strain on his eyesight. But he’d cope. He always had.