“You don’t have to tell me about it, sister,” said Mother. “I’ve seen every message from Headquarters since the captain put me in charge of comms. You don’t have to read between the bytes to know that, if Blitzkrieg had his way, Captain Jester would be fighting off the geefle bugs and breaking up rocks in the rottenest military prison in the known galaxy.”

“Maybe the captain can get back in time,” said Rembrandt, hopefully.

“Not a chance, sweetie,” said Mother. “He’s already left Lorelei-even if I sent a priority message right now, he couldn’t be back in less than two weeks. Meanwhile, the minute Blitzkrieg sees that the captain’s off premises, he’ll send for one of his brownnosers to run the company for him. Remember that Major Botchup he tried to stick us with?”

Rembrandt made a gagging noise. “Ghu’s toenails, who could forget? I thought we were going to be stuck with him forever.”

“Lucky for us the captain came back,” said Mother. “And that robot he had made to run the casino while he was gone kept Botchup from getting too suspicious until he did.”

“Sure did,” said Rembrandt, chuckling. “We’ll be lucky to get off that easily this time. Any word how soon the general’s going to be here?“

“Nothing solid,” said Mother. “He could be on the next shuttle out, which would put him here some time tomorrow. More likely, he’ll stop and inspect a few of the casinos and the golf courses first. I hear tell the old blowhard spends a lot of time out on the links. Anyhow, my source will tell me when Blitzkrieg ships out. That’ll give us just under a day’s notice. The captain’s in hyperspace, so, it’ll be a few days before I can get an intersystem message to him. And depending on where he is when he gets it, it may be as much as a week before he could get back to base.”

“I don’t think we can justify an intersystem message,” said Rembrandt, dubiously. “You know what those things cost? We’re supposed to use them for military emergencies only, and even then they better be pretty serious…”

“And General Blitzkrieg’s not a first-class emergency?” asked Mother. “Hey, sis, play it your way… I’m not the one who’s going to have to kiss up to him.”

“I know, I know,” said Rembrandt. She sighed. “If the captain can’t get back before the general gets here, there’s no point worrying him with messages. Tell the command cadre to meet me in the captain’s office in fifteen minutes. Let ‘em know what’s happening, and tell ’em we’ve got no more than a couple of days to get ready for the old buzzard. Tell ‘em we’re going to need every trick in the book. I don’t know what we can do to pull the wool over the general’s eyes, but we’re going to have to do our best. You remember how things were before the captain came…”

“Yeah, nobody wants to go back to that,” said Mother. Rembrandt could almost hear her shudder over the comm. Then her voice turned bright again, and she added, “Don’t worry, though, Remmie. If Omega Company can’t outsmart that miserable excuse for a general, we’re even dumber than he thinks.”

“I hope you’re right,” said Lieutenant Rembrandt. She cut the connection and stared at the papers on the desk in front of her. After a long moment, she shook her head and sat up straight. Well, kid, you knew the job was dangerous when you took it, she thought. And if you’re still crazy enough to want it, you’d better do something about saving it…

“Stranger, yer problems is solved,” said the man sitting at the table. His chair was leaned back, and his boots were on the otherwise empty tabletop, giving a good view of his wooly chaps and oversize spurs. His hat was wide-brimmed and tall-crowned, and his moustache drooped nearly to his chin.

“I certainly hope so,” said Phule. “I’m Captain Jester, by the way. And you are… ?”

“Buck Short,” said the man. “Put ‘er thar, Cap’n!” He extended a meaty hand for Phule to shake.

“Uh, pleased to meet you,” said Phule. “I’m looking for a man…”

“Gotcha,” said Short, nodding. “Summbitch is good as dead. Jes’ tell me what he looks like…”

“No, no, I don’t want him killed,” said Phule. “This fellow used to work for me, and he’s run off with a woman…”

“Oh, hell, that’s different,” said Short. He peered at Phule for a moment, then said, “Zit yer woman he’s run off with?”

“Hardly,” said Phule, somewhat taken aback at the notion. Then he shrugged, and said, “But if she wants to come back with him, that’s fine, too.”

‘Wow you’re talkin’!“ said Short. He sat forward and slammed a fist onto the tabletop. ”How’s about a drink, then? 01‘ Ned’s got a pert’ good line of red-eye here.“

“Red-eye? Oh, you mean the whisky,” said Phule. “Sure, why not? But what…”

Short cut him off. “Hey, Bill!” he shouted. “You heard the cap’n! Bring over that thar bottle-the good stuff, mind ye, none of yer usual banth sweat-and a couple glasses, too!“

The bartender-a slightly decrepit Andromatic robot with a face Phule recognized as that of a popular Old Earth actor from the days before tri-vee-brought over the bottle and glasses, and favored Phule with the enigmatic line, “This’ll put hair on yer chest!” before trundling back behind the bar.

“Ol‘ Bill always says stuff like that,” confided Buck Short. He grabbed the bottle and sloshed some of the contents into the two glasses, then picked one up. “Wai, here’s mud in yer eye!”

“Right-o,” said Phule, and took a sip. He nearly spit it out-the “red-eye” seemed to be predominantly fusel oil with other less palatable congeners. He sputtered a moment, then managed to ask, “This is the good stuff?”

“Best we got,” said Short, setting down his empty glass. “Hey, this is Cut ‘N’ Shoot, pardner. You warn’t ex-pectin‘ one of those fizzy drinks with little um-brel-lies, was you?”

“I guess not,” said Phule, shaking his head to clear it. “By the way, did you say you had a plan for finding my man Beeker?”

Short nodded. “Well, we rents you a hoss, and then I saddles up ol‘ Dale-8…”

“Day late?” asked Phule, puzzled.

“Dale-8-that’s my trusty steed,” said Short. “Always liked the name ‘Dale’-that’s what I calls all my trusty steeds. First seven of ‘em done gone plumb busted, but this one’s a real peach. Jes’ keeps on runnin’-can’t hardly wear ‘im out.”

“I see,” said Phule. “But what do we need him for?”

“Why, we gotta go find yer man-and the lady,” said Short. “I reckon they’s run off to Injun territory…”

“Injun territory?”

“Hey, watch it,” said the bartender. “Them’s folks, too-don’t go slurrin‘ on ’em.”

Short gave a derisive snort. “Folks? Hell, Bill, don’t go givin‘ ’em airs-they’s lots of ‘em robots, same as you.”

“Robots? I don’t get it,” said Phule.

“Well, didn’t nobody else much want the job,” confided Short. “Ain’t too many folks wants to give up a spot in a nice civilized world to live out in a drafty tent without no runnin‘ water or ’lectricity or even tri-vee, and everybody’s hand set against you. Oh, we got some real Injuns, all right-had to have a few jes’ to set the right tone. But we couldn’t get too many, and had to get robots for the rest, which was hard enough, seein‘ what prices is nowadays. But I reckon it jes’ wouldn’t be Cut ’N‘ Shoot without Injuns.”

“If you say so,” said Phule, shaking his head. “I guess you’re the local expert. So when do you think we can start?”

“Let me have another toot, and we’ll hop right to it,” said Buck Short. He poured another glass and offered the bottle to Phule, who declined, with a shudder. Short shrugged and drank it down, then put his fingers to his lips and gave a shrill whistle. “Hi-yoh Dale!” he shouted.

A clattering noise came from the front of the building, and Phule turned in time to see a large metallic shape barge through the swinging doors. “Here I am, boss,” said the ro-bosteed, in a voice that carried just a hint of a whinny.