Phule's Company Part 5

"He means he won't blab what you say, either."

"Right. Well, Mr. . . . All I want to know, Beeker, is if that guy's for real. I mean, he talks a good line and all, but how much of it's hot air? That's it, plain and simple . . . and I'd want you to try 'n' lay off the big words while you answer so's I can understand without havin' it translated."

"I see," Beeker said, tapping his finger against his leg thoughtfully. "If I understand correctly, you're asking if my employer . . . your commander . . . can be trusted. To the best of my knowledge, he's always been scrupulously-excuse me, painfully-fair in all his dealings, both business and personal. As to his reliability . . . well, I don't think it's breaking any confidence to point out what the most casual observer would note in short order: that he's seriously unbalanced."

For a moment, the Legionnaires in the limo were shocked into silence by the butler's statement. It was the top sergeant who found her voice first.

"What do you mean 'unbalanced,' Beeker? Are you saying the captain's loony?"

"Oh, I don't mean to say that he's dangerously insane or anything," the butler corrected hastily. "Perhaps I chose the wrong word in my efforts to keep my vocabulary simple. My employer is unbalanced only in the way that many successful businessmen and women are, in that he has a tendency toward the obsessive. It's not a matter of judging how his work fits into his life. His work is his life, and he views everything else in the universe in relation to that. This company of the Legion is his current pet project, and all his energies and resources are focused on advancing and defending it. Frankly it's my belief that you're all quite fortunate to be at the right place at the right time to be a part of his efforts. My experience has been that he rarely, if ever, fails once he sets his mind on something."

"Excuse me, Beeker," Brandy drawled, "but I can't help but notice you specifically said his current pet project. What happens to us if he gets distracted by some other shiny toy?"

"Oh, I doubt very much that would happen. He's remarkably tenacious once he undertakes an endeavor. Unless, of course . . ."

Beeker let the sentence hang in the air.

"Unless what?"

"Well . . . your commander has near limitless energy and a drive that will sweep you along in its wake, even if you only choose to be pa.s.sive to his plans and exercises. To discourage him-the only thing I can think of that might make him give up-would be active opposition from within the company on a ma.s.sive scale. You Legionnaires would have to be adamant in your efforts to maintain your current images, individually and collectively."

"I don't get it."

"He means we'd have to work at being foul-ups before the commander would give up on us. Isn't that right, Brandy?"

"Hmmm? Oh. Right. No sweat there, Beeker. We may be a bit discouraged now, but we're at least going to try to keep up with your boy wonder . . . and anyone who doesn't is going to have to answer to me personally."

In the spirited discussion that followed, no one noticed that the butler, though silent, was smiling.

The Plaza Hotel, though it had seen better days and tended to be upstaged by its newer, more modern brethren, still maintained an air of aloof dignity and elegance. The fountain in the park across the street was adorned with the graffiti of countless pa.s.sing junior terrorists, and the park itself had long since been abandoned except for the street urchins who used its walks and benches for their daredevil glide-board antics by day and for their territorial disputes by night, but the hotel itself seemed to stoically ignore what was going on around it, like a harried mother of seven during summer vacation.

This beleaguered calm was shattered, however, as the first of the hover limos eased into the loading zone in front of the Plaza and disgorged its cargo of Legionnaires and luggage. Phule was in the lead vehicle, and left his charges to struggle with their personal gear as he descended on the front desk.

"May I help you, sir?" the desk clerk said, nervously eyeing the gathering mob visible through the front door.

"Yes. I'm Willard Phule. I believe you have a reservation for me . . . a hundred rooms and the penthouse?"

The desk clerk hesitated for a moment, then moved to his computer terminal . . . coincidentally placing himself farther from Phule's reach.

"Yes, sir. I have it here. Willard Phule . . . the penthouse."

"And a hundred rooms."

"I . . . I'm sorry, sir. My records only show the penthouse."

The commander's smile tightened slightly, but aside from that he showed no annoyance.

"Could you check again? I made the reservation a week ago."

"Yes. I remember it coming in. It seems to have been canceled."

"Canceled?" Phule's voice hardened. "By whom?"

"You'll have to speak with the manager about that, sir. If you'll wait just a moment, I'll get him."

Without waiting for a reply, the clerk bolted through the door behind the desk, leaving Phule to fidget impatiently as the lobby behind him began to fill with Legionnaires.

Lawrence (never Larry) Bombest might be younger than most wielding his t.i.tle and power, but early in his career it was apparent that he was a born hotel manager. He ruled the Plaza with an iron fist, and though the employees chafed under his tyranny, they were nonetheless grateful of his unshakable certainty when crisis struck, as so often happens in the hotel business, and, as now, were quick to duck behind him in times of trouble. Many a wave of tired, angry traveler had broken against this rock without moving or altering it in the slightest, and he brought the sureness of a veteran with him as he emerged from his office and took in the situation at a glance.

"I am the hotel manager. What seems to be the trouble, sir?"

The commander squinted briefly at the manager's bra.s.s name badge.

"Yes, Mr. Bombast. My name is Willard Phule and I'd like to know who canceled my reservation for a hundred rooms."

Safely out of the line of fire and sight, the desk clerk struggled to hide a smile. Phule had inadvertently hit upon the staff's nickname for Bombest . . . Bombast . . . though, until now, no one had uttered it to his face.

"That's Bombest, sir . . . and I canceled that reservation myself. "

"May I ask why?"

"Certainly. I a.s.sumed there had been a typographical error on the part of whoever placed the reservation. It was done by computer rather than through our staff, and I've found that such errors are commonplace." The manager gave a smug smile, which was not returned. "Realizing the cost of a hundred of our rooms for a period of several weeks would be, shall we say, prohibitive, and, not being sure if the actual request was for one or ten rooms, I canceled the reservation as a courtesy. At the time, I felt we could accommodate you on site according to your actual needs."

"I see. I don't suppose you bothered to run a check on the credit card number that accompanied the reservation?"

"That is correct. As I said, the cost would be prohibitive."

Phule made a magician's pa.s.s with his hand and dropped his credit card on the desk in front of the manager.

"I think that should settle the question of prohibitive cost." To Bombest's credit, he neither gaped nor cringed at the sight of the card, but rather made a show of turning it over to examine the signature on the back. It was a Dilithium Express card, reserved for the ultra-rich in the galaxy and normally only used to expedite the buying and selling of companies. Despite his outward calm, the manager began to experience a vague niggle of fear that he had bitten off more than he could chew.

"I see," he said slowly.

"And now that I'm on site, as you put it, shall we proceed with accommodating my needs? What I need is the hundred rooms I reserved . . . as you can see."

The commander indicated the now full lobby with a jerk of his head.

Bombest was fully aware of the crowd. Since seeing the Dilithium Express card, he had been weighing the potential windfall of business against the horror of admitting a full company of Legionnaires to his domain. Realizing that his salary would not be affected one way or the other, he reached his decision.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Phule. At this time, we don't have enough rooms available to grant your request. If you'd like, I could a.s.sist you in finding other accommodations more . . . appropriate to your party."

The manager was fully prepared for the burst of anger that an announcement such as this invariably drew. He was, however, taken by surprise when Phule responded instead with a lazy smile.

"I don't want to argue with you on this, Bombast . . ."

"Bombest. "

". . . since, you see, the same computer I used to place that reservation told me that of your hundred and fifty rooms, barely a dozen are currently occupied. Instead, I'll point out that there are three possible solutions to our little impa.s.se. First, I could bring a complaint against you and the hotel under the law which states you can't refuse lodging to anyone on a basis of race, religion, s.e.x, or occupation . . . but that's a lengthy, annoying process and doesn't satisfy my immediate need for rooms. Second, you can start handing out the keys like a good fellow. Third . . . "

The commander's smile broadened slightly .

". . . I can buy this hotel and have you replaced with someone who exercises better judgment when it comes to protecting the owner's interests."

The casual reference to his legal vulnerabilities unnerved Bombest slightly, but he was also aware of the obvious lack of knowledge behind the third solution Phule had voiced, and rallied gamely behind that.

"What I meant, sir, was that, due to the low occupancy you referenced, we are currently understaffed to accommodate a party of your size in the manner the Plaza is famous for, and, rather than tarnish that reputation, I would suggest you would be happier at another hotel. As to the possibility of your actually purchasing the Plaza"-the manager allowed himself a slight smile-"I'm afraid that's a rather hollow threat. You don't seem to be aware that we are not singly owned, but a part of a chain of hotels, which is, in turn, owned by a rather large conglomerate. I doubt you could interest them in entering into negotiations over a single unit."

Phule shook his head in slow dismay.

"Actually Bombast . . ."

"Bombest. "

". . . I'm afraid it's you that's not fully aware of the situation. Your chain is owned by the Webber Combine, and Reggie Page is the CEO-that's chief executive officer-at least until the next meeting of the board of directors, which happens to be in three weeks. Now, he's in a spot because he's already stretched the combine's credit to the limit for their new resort complex on Parna II, and the contractors have just gone on strike. That's the third disaster they've had in the last quarter, and if he doesn't come up with some ready cash to buy them off fast, the whole project, not to mention his own job, will go down the toilet. That's why I think he'd be interested if I offered to take this place off his hands."

Bombest could feel his forehead growing damp, but Phule wasn't finished.

"I want to point out, though, that my mentioning this option wasn't a threat. Now, I could buy this place, but the paperwork involved would take at least twenty-four hours, which would mean that I'd have to move my people into another hotel until the deal was finalized. The problem there is that I've already told them that they'll be staying here, and if I have to go back on that, if I get embarra.s.sed in front of my new command because of your silly-a.s.s games, then, after you're fired, I'll not only see to it that you never work on this planet again by purchasing any company you apply at, I'll block your leaving even if it means buying up every seat on every outbound ship for the next year. That's a threat. See the difference?"

"Y-yes, sir. "

Phule's smile returned to its original, relaxed dimensions.

"So, now that we've had our little chat, I'm sure you'll agree that the wisest course for everyone is for you to release those rooms to us, then see what you can do about bringing the staff up to the proper levels."

Pompous and stubborn though he might be, Bombest was not stupid. Even a rock had to survive, and it was clear that it would not be in his-that is, the hotel's-best interest to enter into a personal feud with a megamillionaire. Making a quick management decision, he turned to the hovering desk clerk.

"We're going to need a hundred registration cards here, and two keys for each room . . . filling from the top floor down and bypa.s.sing the poolside units. Only issue the room keys after each card is filled out so that we have doc.u.mentation on file as to who is occupying each room."

He turned back to Phule.

"Will there be anything else, sir?"

"As a matter of fact, there is . . . if you'll just wait a moment. Armstrong! Rembrandt!"

The lieutenants elbowed their way through the crowd of Legionnaires to his side.

"Pair them off and oversee the room a.s.signments. I want you and the cadre in the rooms nearest the penthouse . . . I'll be using that as a headquarters and operations while we're here. Make a list for our use as to who's where, but tell everyone not to unpack completely. We'll be changing the room a.s.signments as partners are a.s.signed."

"Yes, sir."

"Beeker!"

"Sir?"

The butler had already been standing by, being more familiar with Phule's operational habits.

"Deal with the valet before he faints. He is to show our people to their rooms, but he is not-I repeat, not-to help them with their gear other than to make any baggage carts available for their use. And Beek . . . be sure he's tipped adequately. Got it?"

"Very good, sir."

"Now then, Bombest, we're going to need another hundred registration cards to fill out once our room a.s.signments are finalized. "

"Ah . . . perhaps it would be easiest if we simply held off filling the original cards until you've had a chance to sort things out, Mr. Phule. "

"I appreciate the thought, Bombest, but that might take a week. No sense botching up your system just because we're still getting organized, is there?"

"No . . . I mean, yes . . . I mean, thank you, sir."

"While I've got you here, though, there is one more thing. The park across the street . . . that belongs to the hotel, doesn't it?"

"Well, yes . . . but it's open to the public."

"Good. I'm figuring we'll be using it from time to time for exercises and lessons. Could you hire someone to clean up the fountain . . . and charge it to my bill?"

"Certainly, sir . . . and, if I might add, that's very generous of you."

Bombest was recovering his equilibrium now. Though still a bit shaken by their earlier confrontation, he was pleasantly surprised to find that the Legion commander was quite graceful, not to mention generous, in his triumph. Perhaps the occupation by this dangerous-looking group wouldn't be so bad after . . .

"Mister Bombest!"

The manager looked up to find Vincent, the restaurant's chef, striding across the lobby toward the desk, his face stormy.

"Please, Vincent! Keep your voice down. Now, what seems to be the-"

"There is a . . . man poking about in my kitchen! Dressed like one of these!" The chef shook an accusing finger at the uniformed Legionnaires who were cl.u.s.tered about in curiosity. "I demand he be removed at once! I cannot work with strangers getting underfoot!"

Bombest felt suddenly trapped. He didn't want another fight with Phule so soon after their last clash, but he couldn't afford to offend the chef, either.

"Ah . . . Mr. Phule. Perhaps you could . . ."

"Please. I'm afraid there's been a misunderstanding," the commander said, holding up a quieting hand. "I told our mess sergeant that I wanted him to improve our food . . . but I meant once we had returned to our own base. Let me speak with him and explain . . ."

"Excuse me . . . please?"

The small group turned to discover that Sergeant Escrima had materialized in their midst.

"I wish to . . . how you say . . . apologize. I wanted only to see how kitchen was laid out here. Would have asked, but cook was not in the room. Please. Is my fault. Should not go into kitchen without asking cook first. Must apologize."

"There. You see?" Bombest beamed, clapping his chef on the shoulder. "No harm done. The sergeant apologizes."

"I should think so," Vincent sniffed haughtily. "Imagine . . . a no-talent Army Mixmaster . . . in my kitchen. "

Escrima's eyes glittered momentarily, but he held his smile. "Please. Accept my . . .

"Just a moment. " Phule was suddenly between the two men, his face hard. "Sergeant Escrima was out of line, and he apologized. I don't think, however, that gives you any call or right to insult his ability as a cook. He may not be as skilled as you are, sir, but he certainly is not a no-talent bottle washer . . . nor is he in the Army. He's a Legionnaire. Might I suggest, sir, that you owe him an apology in return for your remarks?"

Bombest tried to catch the chef's eye, but Vincent still had his sails set.