A Phule and His Money
hand-to-hand fighters in the galaxy...
    "They may be Gambolts, but they're untrained Gambolts, Brandy," said Phule patiently. "You should know that training is the difference between a military force and a mob. We've made our reputation by making great legionnaires out of other outfits' rejects. Now we've finally got a chance to train our people from the ground up. Why don't we all get to work turning them into legionnaires?"
    "Yes, sir!" exclaimed Armstrong. His expression suggested that he disagreed with Phule's priorities, but he was too good an officer to say so out loud. Besides, Phule's decisions had a way of turning out right, despite the odds. He hoped the odds hadn't finally caught up with them...
    "Great Gazma, it is a pleasure your acquaintance to make again, Captain Clown!"
    Flight Leftenant Qual looked elegant in his custom-made black dress uniform. Except for his height-a bit under one meter tall-he might well have been a regular Legion officer. Of course, the Fat Chance Casino's four-star dining room had not had any trouble seating the diminutive alien. Their stock in trade was their ability to seat and feed a member of any known civilized race. Given that this was their first visit by a Zenobian, they had done remarkably well-a hammocklike device adapted one of their regular, armchairs to fit him very comfortably.
    "I have to admit it was a pleasant surprise when I learned that it was you who was being assigned to my unit as a military observer," said Phule. He did not normally eat at the casino's elite restaurant, although of course as majority owner it was his right-and would have cost him nothing. But Mess Sergeant Escrima was every bit as good a cook as the Fat Chance's master chef, and Phule could settle down to a meal of Escrima's cooking with far less fuss and expenditure of working time-he could sit there reading a report, or carry his plate over to another table to talk with his people without causing a disturbance. Nor was there any problem getting seconds...
    But tonight was a special occasion: Phule and his officers were formally welcoming the Zenobian visitor, and it seemed appropriate to put on a bit of extra formality. The gleaming silverware, snowy-white linen, bone china and twenty-page wine list might not impress Qual in the same way they would a human visitor, but the little alien could easily recognize that he was being given a first-class reception by his hosts.
    And, in fact, Qual was evidently enjoying himself. He sloshed a generous dollop of wasabi on a bit of tuna rolled in seaweed and popped it in his mouth. It had been agreed after a hasty conference that seeing the Zenobian bolting down live food-his race's normal fare-might disconcert the other customers (not to mention his tablemates). But the chef was resourceful, and Qual had been perfectly willing to compromise on raw fish for the occasion-"After all, a soldier must accustom himself to hardship," he had said, with what the translator chose to render as a chuckle. Noting Armstrong's struggles to get the food past his nose, Phule decided it was a chuckle. Lieutenant Armstrong was not an adventurous man, especially when it came to eating.
    "I hope you and, your troops have pardoned my little prank this afternoon," said Qual, his translated voice coming through with a remarkably polished accent for all its occasional bizarre word-choices. "One of the first things one would like to grasp about unfamiliar troops is their reaction to the unexpected, and immediately upon arrival, before anyone knows what is occurring, is a splendid opening to observe this."
    "Undoubtedly," said Lieutenant Armstrong, staring at his plate with the expression of a man who was wishing for a medium-rare deluxe plasmaburger with a side of vege-chips. "However, it would have been considerate to alert the commander as to your intentions, if no one else."
    "Captain Clown was notified that I was to be assigned to his company, is that not exact?" said Qual,

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