CHAPTER SIX

Journal File #024

I will not attempt to capture the true feeling of what it was like for the company to stand guard duty in a swamp, though my employer's impressions of the duty the first day he joined them in that task would doubtless be of interest to some. This is not so much a lack of willingness or ability on my part to impart such details, but rather a simple lack of data, as I never actually accompanied the company into the swamp--a fact I became particularly appreciative of when I observed the condition of their uniforms at the end of the day.

Bombest had nearly resigned himself to the Legionnaires' presence in his hotel. There was no denying the welcome influx of rental monies during a normally slack period, and the troops themselves had proved to be far less raucous and destructive than he originally feared. He even made an honest effort to muster a certain amount of enthusiasm in his mind for their residence. What progress he had made along those lines, however, faded rapidly as he observed the Legionnaires' transports pull up to the front door late in the afternoon, disgorging what could only be described as "mudmen" onto the sidewalk.

From the waist-or, in some cases, the armpits-up, they were recognizable as the hotel's latest guests. From the "disaster line" down, however, any familiar detail of individual or uniform was lost in a coating of gray-green muck. As sticky as it looked, Bombest noted that the coating seemed to lack sufficient adhesion to fully remain on its hosts, disturbing quantities of it falling in flakes and globs onto the sidewalk and, with apparent inevitability, the lobby carpet.

"Hold it right there!"

The voice of the Legionnaires' commander, or, as Bombest tended to think of him, the Leader of the Pack, cracked like-a whip, bringing the mud-encrusted figures to a complete, if puzzled, halt on the lobby's threshold.

The hotel manager watched with some astonishment as Phule, his uniform displaying the same dubious collection of swamp mire as his followers, squeezed through the front ranks and advanced on the registration desk with the cautious tread of one trying to ease over a mine field.

"Good afternoon, Bombest," the commander said pleasantly upon reaching his destination. "Could you call housekeeping for me and see if they have... Never mind. These will do nicely."

So saying, he scooped up two of the stacks of the day's newspapers from the desk, the hard copies still preferred by many, piling them on top of each other, then slipping an arm under them as he fished some bills from the relatively clean shirt pocket of his uniform.

"Here... this should cover it. Oh, and Bombest?"

"Yes, Mr. Phule?" the manager responded absently as he tried to figure out how to count the money without soiling his hands. Delegation seemed the only answer.

"Do you know if everything's set up in the main ballroom?"

"In a way, sir. Yes. One of your sergeants thought it best if we erected the divider to allow some privacy between the men and women, and it was necessary to open one of the adjoining meeting rooms for additional space-"

"Yes, yes," Phule interrupted. "But they're set to go?"

"Yes, sir. If you wish, I'll inform them you've arrived."

"No need, Bombest. Thanks, anyway," the commander said as he began to retrace his steps toward the door.

"Okay! Listen up!"

The waiting Legionnaires lapsed into silence.

"I want the troops on point to take these papers and spread them out on the carpet between the door and the elevators. The rest of you move slow and stay on the path as much as possible. Any extra papers are to be left by the elevators, and I want you to grab a handful to spread ahead of you as you hit your floors. Let's try to keep the mess to a minimum until we get cleaned up. Understand?"

"YES, SIR!"

"What's wrong with room service?"

The catcall from the rear was greeted with laughter and a few scattered rude replies until Phule waved the company into silence once more.

"Let me answer that question once and for all," he announced. "While we're guests at this hotel, there is a housekeeping service as well as a laundry service at our disposal. I have also contracted similar services for us once we move into our new barracks."

A wave of enthusiastic cheers was cut short with another gesture.

"However, I remind you that this is a privilege, and it is not to be abused. If it comes to my attention that the personnel of these services are being forced to deal with any unnecessary unpleasantness or are putting in extra hours due to any laziness or inconsideration of anyone under my command, several things will happen. First, they will be paid a bonus commensurate to the work required. Second, the bonus will be deducted from your paychecks rather than included in the normal expenses I am covering personally. Finally, those services will be canceled and their work distributed among the company as additional duty until such time as I am convinced that you appreciate their efforts sufficiently to conduct yourselves with the appropriate courtesy and consideration. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir!"

"All right! I want you all to get upstairs and clean up, then report to the main ballroom for-"

A new eruption of catcalls interrupted the commander, though it was apparent that he was not the focus. Breaking off his briefing, he turned to see what had captured the company's attention.

"Hoooo-eeee!"

"Ain't that purdy?"

"Look out, girls!"

"How 'bout a kiss, Slick?"

Chocolate Harry stood framed in the hotel door, though "stood" scarcely embraced the picture he presented. He was ramrod straight, despite his inflated-pear stature, and wore the smug smile of a rich baron surveying his peasants. The obvious reason for his self-pleasure, and the target of the catcalls, was his uniform.

In place of his normal faded and frayed uniform, Harry glowed in a velveteen jumpsuit of the purest midnight black. The change from his usual rough-and-tumble look was stunning, and the contrast between him and his mud-caked admirers made him look like he just stepped off a recruiting poster. Calf-high boots of what looked to be the supplest suede with low, broad heels added to his height as he drew himself up and fired a parade-ground salute at his company commander.

"Ready in the main ballroom, sir!"

Any annoyance Phule might have felt over his supply sergeant upstaging his announcement was quickly crowded aside by his amusement at Harry's obvious pleasure with the uniform. It was clear that the sergeant had been unable to resist the temptation to show off his new outfit, and had seized on the excuse of reporting in to parade it in front of the rest of the company. Stifling his smile, Phule returned the salute.

"Thank you, C.H. We'll be along momentarily. Tell everyone to stand by."

"Yes, sir!"

Again the flashy salute, which the commander was obliged to return before turning back to the company.

"As I was saying, once you're cleaned up, report to the main ballroom. As you may have noticed, your new uniforms have arrived today, and there are tailors waiting for your final fittings. Carry on."

His final words were nearly drowned out by a loud whoop of enthusiasm as the Legionnaires surged forward into the hotel, barely remembering their commander's order regarding the newspapers.

Following in their wake, Phule saw Chocolate Harry surrounded by a knot of Legionnaires admiring his uniform while waiting their turn at the elevators.

"Sergeant?"

"Yes, sir?"

The supply sergeant broke away from his admirers and hurried to Phule's side.

"Relax, C.H. The uniform looks great on you."