“Yes, interested enough to throw me in the cooler for a few years,“ said Phule. ”If I were bringing in anything illegal, do you think I’d tell a customs officer?“

“Hey, ya never know,” said Fox, shrugging. “In this business, a guy’s gotta take whatever comes along. If a smuggler’s dumb enough to tell me he’s bringing something in, I’d be crazy not to take advantage.” He slid Phule’s passport back across the counter.

Phule noticed that Fox hadn’t made it exactly clear whether “take advantage” meant arresting the smuggler or taking a cut of the proceeds in return for letting him through. It might be very useful to know which he meant- just in case, as Chocolate Harry might have put it. He turned a knowing smile on the agent, and said, “Well, how do you catch the smart ones?”

Fox stroked his moustache with a thumb and index finger. “Well, we’ve got our tricks, and I probably shouldn’t give them away. To tell the truth, we probably don’t catch the really smart ones, but not everybody’s as smart as they think they are. You’d be surprised how many people think they can just give the agent a couple of bucks to turn a blind eye, right in front of everybody…”

Phule shrugged. “Some people never learn how to handle things discreetly.” He tucked his passport back into his pocket, not bothering to look whether the hundred-credit note he’d folded inside it was still there. He had a pretty good idea, though. If he needed help with immigration matters in the future, he was pretty sure he could turn to Agent Fox.

As Phule went away, Fox quickly noted down the name and hotel address from the captain’s passport. He was pretty sure he recognized the name from somewhere-he was the kind of person who kept track of such things. And if the captain was who Fox thought he was, certain people would be very interested in knowing he’d come to Old Earth. In any case, as Fox had learned, it never hurt to keep an eye open.

“I’ll be damned,” said General Blitzkrieg. “Right in the middle of an Alliance base…”

He was staring at a strange machine, tended by a group of the native Zenobians, all wearing what he assumed were local military uniforms. Just what the machine was, he couldn’t quite make out. But he knew an infringement on Legion prerogatives when he saw one. And he was just mad enough to go ahead and call the damned lizards on it.

“See here, what’s this all about?” he bellowed, striding forward in his most intimidating manner. Even dressed in his golf shorts and cap, he could summon up a galaxy-class bluster. “I demand an explanation!”

The lizards turned and looked at him, their expressions bright and curious. One of them-evidently the group leader-stepped forward. It was wearing a translator, which intoned, “Salutings, alien creature! Is it not that you are the General Flashbang? Flight Leftenant Qual has reported all to us.”

Confused, the general reverted to his tried-and-true strategy: bellowing louder. “I’m General Blitzkrieg, and I want to know what the hell you’re doing here on a Legion base!”

Another Zenobian answered him. “We faithfully regulate the sklern,” it said, in a nasal monotone.

“Regulate?” stormed Blitzkrieg. “I’ll show you regulate-and I mean Legion regulations! This entire base is three hundred sixty-five degrees out of regulations, and this infernal device is just the tip of the ice cube! I’ll have every one of you in the brig for espionage!” Blitzkrieg paused for breath, but he was interrupted before he could crank his tirade into a higher gear.

“Evenin‘, General,” came a drawling voice from behind him.

The general turned; there stood Rev, the preposterous chaplain of this preposterous company. “What the hell are you doing here?“ said Blitzkrieg. ”Better scurry back to your chapel before you find yourself in more trouble than your King can get you out of!“

“With the King on my side, I can handle a heap of trouble,” said Rev. “But there’s no sense lookin‘ for trouble where there ain’t any. What’s your problem with these fellers?”

Blitzkrieg waved a hand. “Why, it’s obvious! These damned foreigners are using a Legion ”base to spy on the Alliance! And Jester’s letting them do it, without blinking an eye!“

Rev scratched his head. “Beggin‘ your pardon, General- it don’t seem quite right to call these fellers foreigners. They’re the ones who live here, and they invited us in…”

“This is still a Legion base,” countered Blitzkrieg, in a full roar. “Not as if anybody here seems to act like it. Look around-you’d think there wasn’t any such thing as regulations…”

“We regulate the sklern,” chorused all three of the Zenobians, in slightly different mechanical voices.

“Who the hell asked you?” Blitzkrieg bellowed, loud enough to rattle windows on the other side of the camp.

The three Zenobians stood there unperturbed, baring their carnosaur grins at the general. After a moment, one said, “We take self-regard that you inquire of our tasking, oh mighty Flashbang.” The others nodded and clapped their miniature hands.

“There y’go, General,” murmured Rev. “Little fellers just love to work.”

“They’re spying!” shouted Blitzkrieg. “I don’t know what this machine does, but…”

“We shall gleefully elucidate, oh mighty one,” said the Zenobian with the nasal translator. “Engage the revealing rings, my hearty fellows!” The others fell instantly to work, throwing foot-long toggle switches and adjusting knobs the size of dinner plates.

“What the hell are they doing?” said Blitzkrieg. “I don’t like the looks of this…”

“All will be transparent in a small fraction of a time unit,” said another Zenobian. Out in the desert beyond the edge of the camp, something purple hovered in the air. “Ho, Svip! Retreat the dexter node, lest it overwarm!”

“Dexter node withdrawn,” said Svip. “Reification proceeding.” The purple something became clearer, and perhaps a bit closer.

“Aw, this looks like one of their real good ones,” said Rev, staring at the purple. “I don’t understand jes’ how this thing works, but it sure does beat anything else I’ve seen…”

Just as he’d said this, the purple shape coalesced into a life-size gryff, one of the large herbivores native to the fertile plains that covered much of the continent west of the desert in which the Legion camp lay. It appeared to be munching on a thick cud of greenery, staring complacently into space, perhaps a dozen yards beyond the base’s perimeter.

“What the devil is that thing?” said Blitzkrieg.

“Some kind of critter,” said Rev, looking at it with mild curiosity. “That might be the kind they call a grip-they claim it won’t bother you if you keep your distance. The locals say they’ve kilt off all the dangerous ones. They didn’t get all the ones that like to nibble on people, though.”

“The sklern performs exemplarily!” said Svip, the monotone of the translator not entirely suppressing his enthusiasm.

“I don’t like the way that damned thing’s looking at me,” muttered Blitzkrieg, drawing back a bit from the perimeter.

“Aw, it can’t hurt nobody, General,” said Rev. “It’s jes’ an…”

At this point the gryff let out a roar and tossed its head, its eyes-which were about the size of grapefruits- apparently fixed on Blitzkrieg. The general withdrew another step, and even Rev seemed startled by the sudden noise. The gryff raised one foreleg and began pawing at the ground-it would have taken a keen, cold-blooded observer to note that the claws of its pawing foot were disturbing neither the dirt nor the vegetation through which they passed.

Give Blitzkrieg some credit for courage, in any case. It wasn’t until the gryff let out another snort, tossed its head, and broke into a full charge in the general’s direction that he broke and ran.

It wasn’t until he was nearly back to the base module that he stopped to determine that it hadn’t followed him; indeed, it was nowhere to be seen.