“Say, Bombest! Could you send someone to open up the pool area? I think the crew is going to want to play a bit, and it’s probably better for all of us if they do it in the pool instead of the bar and the restaurant.”
The manager did not even try to keep the look of horror off his face this time. If it hadn’t spoken, Bombest would never have recognized the mud-encrusted figure before him as Phule. His mind flatly refused to accept that anyone of Phule’s social standing and training would stoop to wallowing in the muck with the common troops.
“The pool?” he echoed weakly, unable to tear his eyes away from the commander’s soiled condition.
Phule caught his look, but misinterpreted it.
“Don’t worry, Bombest.” He grinned. “I’m sure everyone will shower before hitting the pool.” He gestured at the newspaper-littered lobby. “If they’re too cheap to pay to have the carpet vacuumed, they sure aren’t about to spring to have a ring around the pool scrubbed off.”
“I suppose not.”
“Oh, and could you have room service send about three trolleys of beer to each of our floors? On my bill, of course.”
“It’s all on your bill, Mr. Phule,” Bombest commented, beginning to recover his composure.
The commander had been starting to turn away, but instead he leaned on the desk, chatty in his enthusiasm.
“I know, Bombest, but this is special. Be sure they’re told that it’s with the commander’s compliments. I’ll tell you, I wish you could have seen them today. I’ll have to check on it, but I don’t think any outfit has run the confidence course in less time than they did.”