“Problem?” the commander said. “What makes you think there’s a problem, sir?”
“Maybe because the only time you call me is when you’re in some kind of a scrape,” his father pointed out. “It wouldn’t kill you to write once in a while, you know.”
“As I recall,” the commander said testily, “the last time I called you was on that weapons deal with the Zenobians. That didn’t turn out too bad for you, did it? An exclusive on a new weapons design in exchange for some worthless swampland?”
“A deal you closed before you had the swampland under contract, as I recall,” the elder Phule defended. “I’ll concede the point, though. Sorry if I’m a bit touchy. This meeting is a lot rougher than I thought it would be, and it’s getting under my skin. The irritating part is that what I’m offering is better than what they’re asking for, but they won’t budge. It’s tempting to just let them have their way, but you know what will happen down the road if I do.”
“They’ll claim you set them up,” the younger Phule supplied. “Gee, that’s tough, Dad.”
“Whatever,” Victor Phule said. “That’s my problem, and I shouldn’t let it interfere with us. So why did you call?”
From Beeker’s vantage point, he could see his employer wince just a bit before answering as he realized he had inadvertently painted himself into a corner.
“I’ll keep this short, realizing you’re in the middle of a meeting,” the commander said. “Basically, Dad, I need to borrow your Bug Squad. Rent them, actually.”
It is to the elder Phule’s credit that he did not indulge in any “I told you so’s” at his son’s expense, but instead simply addressed the problem at hand.