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Phule’s Paradise by Robert Asprin

“Good … good,” Phule said, and started to turn away. “Lieutenant Armstrong has told me you’re doing a fine job. Just keep up the good work and we’ll get through this opening yet.”

The manager beamed. “Thank you, Mr. Phule. I trust my handling of the reporter was satisfactory?”

The commander paused and cocked his head curiously. “The what?”

“The reporter,” Bombest repeated. “The one from Haskin’s Planet that you used to date when you were stationed there.”

“Jennie Higgens? She’s here?”

Phule’s interest was no longer casual.

“Why, yes … I thought you knew,” the manager said. “I recognized her when she was checking in along with her cameraman, and it occurred to me that she could identify some of your troops-the ones under cover, I mean-so I reported it to your communications person with my wrist communicator. I … I assumed you had been informed.”

“No … but I think I’m about to be,” the commander said grimly, looking hard at Armstrong, who was avoiding meeting his eye. “Lieutenant Armstrong … if I might have a word with you?”

“Is there something wrong?” Bombest said in a worried tone.

“Not that I know of.” Phule smiled. “Why do you ask?”

“Well . . for a moment there, you seemed upset … and I thought I had done something wrong.”

“Quite the contrary,” the commander insisted, his smile growing even broader. “I couldn’t be happier with your work. Lieutenant, why don’t you tell Mr. Bombest what a fine job he’d doing?”

“You’re doing a fine job, Mr. Bombest,” Armstrong recited obediently. “In fact, the whole company owes you a debt for what you’ve done.”

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