Phule’s Paradise by Robert Asprin

“You mean Dee Dee Watkins?” Armstrong frowned. “Do you think she’d go along with it?”

“Leave her to me.” Lex winked. “Remember, I speak the language. It might cost a little, though.”

“Set it up, Lex,” Rembrandt said, reaching her decision. “In fact, I’ll put the whole diversion in your hands, since you know more about this sort of thing than any of us. If anyone gives you any flak, tell them I’ve given you a battlefield promotion to the rank of acting sergeant for the duration of this operation.”

She glanced at Battleax, who nodded her approval.

“Yes, sir,” Lex said, snapped off a salute, and started to turn away, then hesitated. “What about the owner … whazizname … Gunther? Should I clear this with him as well?”

“If you want, Remmie, I’ll handle that,” Armstrong offered. “I’ve gotten the impression that Mr. Rafael is afraid of me, for some reason.”

“Do that, Lieutenant,” Rembrandt said. “But remember to ask nice.”

Armstrong frowned. “I hadn’t planned to ask … just inform him of what we were going to do.”

“That’s what I meant.” Rembrandt smiled sweetly. “Carry on, Lieutenant. You, too, Sergeant.”

The actor moved a few steps away and triggered his wrist communicator.

“Lex, you rascal,” came Mother’s voice. “How many times have I got to tell you no before you stop tying up the airwaves? You’re a gorgeous hunk of man, but I just ain’t interested. Okay?”

The actor flushed slightly at the snickers that erupted from the Legionnaires standing close enough to hear, but pressed on with his new duty.