Phule's Paradise (12 page)

     
"What if it turns out that he is crooked, sir?" Armstrong said. "Him and the people he's been hiring?"

     
"Then we lower the boom on him," Phule said grimly. "But not until just before the grand opening. If he is a part of a bigger scheme, we'll let him think it's working, then pull the rug out when it's too late to switch to an alternate plan."

     
"But we can't wait that long to dump everybody on the list," Rembrandt protested. "The casino couldn't find that many replacements on such short notice."

     
"They can't, but we can," the commander responded with a grimace. "It's going to hurt a little, though. I'll have to reopen negotiations with Tullie for him and his instructors to stay on as a stopgap reserve-and I just gave him a rough time for the sake of a cheap laugh." He shook his head ruefully. "I just love negotiating contracts with someone who's already annoyed at me."

     
"Maybe you could wait to talk to him, sir," Armstrong suggested. "Maybe it would be easier after he's had a chance to forget about the last round ... and you've had a chance to get some sleep."

     
"It's a tempting thought," Phule said, rising to his feet, "but I'd better try to catch up with him now. I don't think I could sleep, anyway, with this hanging over our heads."

A casual stroll through the ship's more popular gathering spots failed to locate Tullie Bascom, so Phule began a more careful search through the less frequented areas.

     
"Excuse me ... Gabriel, isn't it?" he said to a Legionnaire he found sitting alone in one of the smaller lounges.

     
"Sir?" the man responded, rising to his feet.

     
"As you were," Phule said, waving him back to his chair. "I was just wondering if you had seen Tullie Bascom recently."

     
"I think I heard him come by a while ago," the Legionnaire reported. "I didn't look around, but he was telling someone that he was going to his cabin to get some sleep."

     
"Okay. Thanks." The commander sighed and headed off down the corridor toward his own quarters.

     
So much for that idea. Maybe it was just as well. He should probably do a little more checking as to the actual necessity for contracting Tullie's crew for backups before beginning negotiations. Besides, his lieutenants were right-he could use a bit of sleep to clear his mind. Maybe he could get Beeker to ...

     
Phule suddenly halted in his tracks as realization struck him.

     
The Legionnaire, Gabriel, had been sitting alone in the lounge.

     
While Phule and Tusk-anini weren't the only night owls in the company, the Legionnaires by and large were social animals, tending to gather together in their off hours, and to his knowledge Gabriel was no exception. Rather than being at one of the normal ship hangouts, however, the Legionnaire had been sitting alone, without a book or work in sight-not even a deck of cards.

     
Abandoning his plan for sleep, the commander retraced his steps back to the lounge.

     
Gabriel was still sitting there, sprawled in an easy chair with his head tipped back, staring at the ceiling.

     
"Are you feeling all right, Gabriel?" the commander said, speaking gently.

     
While some of the Legionnaires were borderline hypochondriacs, others were more like children, hiding it when they felt ill rather than reporting to the ship's doctor.

     
"What? Oh. No, I feel fine, sir," Gabriel said, suddenly aware that he was no longer alone with his thoughts.

     
"Is there something bothering you?" Phule pressed. "Anything you'd like to talk about?"

     
The Legionnaire hesitated. "It's ... well ... I'm afraid, sir. Of this."

     
He made a vague gesture, encompassing the air in front of him.

     
"I ... I'm not sure I understand." Phule frowned. "What is it you're afraid of? The new assignment?"

     
"No ... this," the man said, repeating his gesture. "You know ... space travel."

     
"I see," the commander said. He had encountered nervous travelers in the past, but not recently, and he tended to assume that everyone was as accustomed to space travel as he was. "Haven't you ever been on a ship before?"

     
"Sure," the Legionnaire said. "A couple of times. But it always affects me the same way. I keep thinking about what will happen if anything goes wrong. Life pods may be effective for interplanetary travel, but for interstellar, we wouldn't stand a chance. The only choice would be between dying fast or slow."

     
Phule thought for a moment, then heaved a sigh.

     
"Sorry, Gabriel," he said. "I can't help you with that one."

     
"That's okay, sir," the Legionnaire said, hanging his head slightly. "I guess it's a silly fear, anyway, in this day and age."

     
"I didn't say that!" the commander snapped, then ran a hand across his eyes. "Don't put words in my mouth, Gabriel, please. I soak up enough grief over what I do say."

     
"Sorry, sir."

     
"There are no silly fears," the captain continued. "If you're afraid of something, it's real, and it affects your thinking and performance no matter how invalid or valid someone else thinks it is. It's like there's no minor pain when it's yours. If it hurts, it hurts. What you got to do is figure out how to deal with it, not use up your energies trying to decide if it's real or not."

     
Phule leaned against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest until he was almost hugging himself.

     
"All I meant to say was, I can't do or say anything to set your mind at ease. Telling you not to be afraid doesn't change anything. I can tell you there's no danger, but we both know that things can go wrong, and there's nothing I can do to lessen the danger that hasn't already been done. I could cite the low accident stats on space travel, but you're already aware of those yourself, and it hasn't made any difference. Realizing that, about the only thing I can do is beat a hasty retreat-for my own protection."

     
"Your own protection, sir?"

     
"Fear is contagious," the commander explained with a shrug. "If I tried to compare notes with you on the dangers of space travel, there's a chance that all I'd do is start worrying myself, and I can't afford that. You see, Gabriel, there are lots of dangers in our lives that we can't do a thing about-traffic accidents, bad food-dangers that have a low probability rating, but that if they hit will be devastating. All I can do-all anyone can do-is to do my best to put them out of my mind. It may seem like a head-in-the-sand approach to fear, but the only option I see is letting the worries eat you alive-paralyze you to a point where you cease to function. To my thinking, that means you're dead, whether you're still breathing or not. I'd rather try to focus on things I can do something about. I can't danger-proof the universe, or even guarantee my own personal safety. I have no way of telling for sure exactly how long my life is going to be, but I'm determined that while I'm alive, I'm going to be a doer, a worker-not a do-nothing worrier."

     
He broke off, realizing that his fatigue was making him prattle.

     
"Anyway," he said, forcing a conclusion, "I'm sorry I can't help you with your problem, Gabriel, but frankly it's out of my league."

     
"Actually you have, Captain." The Legionnaire smiled.

     
"I have?"

     
"Well, at the very least you've given me something to think about. Thank you, sir."

     
Strangely enough, of all the problems that had beleaguered him that day, it was the final conversation with Gabriel that haunted Phule's thoughts and kept him from dozing off when he finally tried to sleep. Despite the Legionnaire's claims that the commander's talk had helped him, Phule felt that his help and advice had been inadequate.

     
Group dynamics, personal image, military strategy, and, of course, finances-all these things the commander felt qualified in helping and training the people under his command. But deeper problems? Matters of the soul?

     
With a flash of insight, Phule decided to do what he had always done when confronted with a problem beyond his personal abilities: find an expert. Sliding out of his bunk, he marched over to his desk, fired up his Port-A-Brain computer, and blearily composed a personnel request to Legion Headquarters. If his Legionnaires needed spiritual guidance, then, by God, he'd get them a spiritual expert. A chaplain!

     
There was an almost tangible load lifted from his mind as he hit the Send key, but close on its heels came the crushing weight of exhaustion. Staggering back across his cabin, Phule toppled into his bunk and fell into a deep, dreamless slumber.

CHAPTER SIX

Journal #209

The in-flight classes and lectures arranged by my employer had given the company every confidence that they were ready for their new assignment. This belief was, of course, encouraged by their commander and his officers, who made a point of keeping their own fears and suspicions from their troops. Thus it was that upon their arrival, the Legionnaires were eager to begin their duties, while the company's leadership was already suffering from a lack of sleep due to their anxieties.

     
Nothing in the briefings, tapes, or brochures, however, succeeded in preparing them for the total impact of Lorelei itself.

The space station known throughout the galaxy as "Lorelei" was officially an antique. One of the first privately owned space stations, it was originally named "the Oasis," constructed on the old spoked-wheel design, and had been built as an outpost to supply the far-flung colonies and outbound explorer ships-an expensive outpost to be sure, as there was no competition to keep their prices down.

     
As civilization pushed outward, however, the so-called frontier moved on, leaving the station to compete with an ever-increasing number of spaceports and supply depots places with newer designs and, therefore, lower maintenance expenses. Only one thing saved the station from extinction during that period: its reputation and tradition of being a "safe haven" or a "liberty port." That is, even though people lived and worked at other colonies and spaceports, when they wanted to play or vacation, they headed for the Oasis.

     
The owner, not government, made the rules at the Oasis, and little was forbidden or outlawed that might generate revenue for the station's coffers. Not surprising, one of the main pastimes that was not only allowed but encouraged was gambling.

     
Eventually a combine of investors recognized the station's potential and bought it away from the original owner's estate. Hundreds of millions were put into renovating and remodeling the station, not to mention an extensive advertising campaign to change the station's image to that of the ultimate resort and family vacation spot, and the station was renamed "Lorelei."

     
The new name was due, in part, to the station's beacon, which was said to be strong enough to cause interference in neighboring solar systems. If the ever-present advertising was not enough, the beacon made sure no one passed through that sector of space without hearing of Lorelei's lures and charms. "Once you visit Lorelei," the catchy slogan ran, "you'll never want to leave!"

     
The reality was a little grimmer: Once you visit Lorelei, you might not be able to leave. Not that there was physical danger, mind you ... it would be bad publicity to hurt a tourist. The real danger on Lorelei was its famous, vampiric casinos.

     
The inside of the space station's wheel design had been filled in and painted to look like a massive roulette wheel, which, while it was eye-catching to those in ships with view points, had a practical function as well. The surface of the wheel was actually a massive solar energy cell, endlessly gathering power from the stars and feeding it to the casinos ... and they needed it!

     
The casinos were dazzling to the point of being awe-inspiring, each trying to outshine, outglitz its neighbors. Though there was no "sunlight" on the station, the massive, circular main corridor needed no streetlights, nor did the electric shuttle vehicles moving tourists from destination to destination require headlights. The same artificial gravity which kept the buildings to four stories or less, forcing the casinos to spread out rather than up, was actually a boon to designing their exterior light displays. Freed of the physics of engineering, by the abruptly lessening gravity above the buildings, the casinos' light displays were spectacular, as they almost floated in the "air," fighting for the attention of passing tourists. These displays around "the Strip" kept the station's interior lit to near-daylight brightness-near daylight as the wattage was carefully controlled to create an illusion of darkness above the casinos, thus enhancing the effectiveness of the light shows. There was no day or night on Lorelei, only a perpetual twilight through which the tourists, vacationers, and, of course, gamblers walked, rode, or, eventually, staggered in their pursuit of pleasure. The only concession to normality was that the rooms in the casino hotels all had blackout curtains, so that one could shut out the light when, and if, one wanted to sleep.