From the waist-or, in some cases, the armpits-up, they were recognizable as the hotel’s latest guests. From the “disaster line” down, however, any familiar detail of individual or uniform was lost in a coating of gray-green muck. As sticky as it looked, Bombest noted that the coating seemed to lack sufficient adhesion to fully remain on its hosts, disturbing quantities of it falling in flakes and globs onto the sidewalk and, with apparent inevitability, the lobby carpet.
“Hold it right there!”
The voice of the Legionnaires’ commander, or, as Bombest tended to think of him, the Leader of the Pack, cracked like-a whip, bringing the mud-encrusted figures to a complete, if puzzled, halt on the lobby’s threshold.
The hotel manager watched with some astonishment as Phule, his uniform displaying the same dubious collection of swamp mire as his followers, squeezed through the front ranks and advanced on the registration desk with the cautious tread of one trying to ease over a mine field.
“Good afternoon, Bombest,” the commander said pleasantly upon reaching his destination. “Could you call housekeeping for me and see if they have … Never mind. These will do nicely.”
So saying, he scooped up two of the stacks of the day’s newspapers from the desk, the hard copies still preferred by many, piling them on top of each other, then slipping an arm under them as he fished some bills from the relatively clean shirt pocket of his uniform.
“Here … this should cover it. Oh, and Bombest?”
“Yes, Mr. Phule?” the manager responded absently as he tried to figure out how to count the money without soiling his hands. Delegation seemed the only answer.