"What are you going to do with us, Sergeant?" Henry said, eyeing the assemblage.
"Nothing to worry about, sir," Moustache said, flashing another quick smile. "After we've collected a few more, you'll all be loaded into a shuttle bus and given a lift back to the space terminal."
"You mean, we're being forcibly deported?"
"Not at all," the sergeant said. "It's more a courtesy service ... assuming, of course, that you're planning to leave. If you'd prefer to stay on Lorelei, that's your prerogative. As long as you stay out of the Fat Chance."
A vision flashed through Henry's mind, of he and his wife accepting tickets and seed money from Maxine Pruet, then trying to work their scams at one of her casinos instead of the one they had been instructed to hit. He quickly brought the mental picture to a halt before it reached its graphically unpleasant conclusion.
"No, we'll take the ride," he said hastily. "I suspect our reception at the other casinos would be roughly the same as here ... except, perhaps, less polite. My compliments, by the way. Of all the times we've been barred from or asked to leave a casino, this is far and away the most civilized handling of an awkward situation we've encountered ... wouldn't you say, dear?"
His wife nodded brusquely, but failed to smile or otherwise join him in his enthusiasm.
"It's the captain's idea, really," Moustache said, "but I'll be sure to tell him you appreciate it. Now, if you'll just have a seat. There are drinks and doughnuts available while you wait, or, if you're interested, there's a blackjack table set up in back so you can at least do a little playing before you go."
"At normal house odds?" the wife snapped, breaking her silence. "Don't be silly, young man. We aren't gamblers. Do we look stupid?"
"No, ma'am. Sorry, ma'am."
"Lieutenant Armstrong!"
Emerging from the elevator, Armstrong glanced around at the hail to find the company commander walking toward him. Without hesitation, he snapped into a stiff, parade-ground position of attention and fired off his best salute.
"Yes, sir!"
When the captain had taken over the company, one of his main projects had been to get Armstrong to "loosen up" a little, to be more human and less a recruiting-poster caricature. Now it had become a standing joke between the two men. This time, however, the commander seemed distracted, simply returning the salute with a vague wave rather than either smiling or rolling his eyes as had become the norm.
"Anything to report?" he said, scanning the lobby uneasily. "How is everything going so far?"
"No problems, sir," the lieutenant said, relaxing on his own now that his attempt at humor had been ignored. "We've sent four busloads back to the space terminal so far and are just about ready to wave goodbye to a fifth."
"Good," Phule said, walking slowly with his head canted slightly down, staring at the floor as he concentrated on his junior officer's report. "How about the showroom? Should I be expecting another visit from Ms. Watkins?"
"The first show went off without a hitch," Armstrong said, falling in step beside his captain. "In fact, word is she got a standing ovation and three encores."
"No problems at all, then," the commander said. "That's a relief."
"Well ... not with the show itself, anyway."
Phule's head came up with a snap.
"What's that supposed to mean?" he challenged.
The lieutenant swallowed nervously.
"Umm ... there was one report that concerned me a bit," he said. "It seems that during one of the curtain calls, Dee Dee dragged Lex out of the wings and introduced him to the audience as the show's stage manager and an old friend of hers from her theater days, now on temporary duty with the Space Legion."
"Oh, swell," the commander growled. "As if I didn't already have enough to worry about."
"To be fair, sir, we can't really say it was her fault. Nobody told her not to put the spotlight on our decoy associates."
"It never occurred to me that she might do it," Phule said. "Oh well ... it's done now, and we can't change it. Let's just hope none of the opposition was at the first show ... or that if they were, they don't find it unusual that we have an actor in our company. Pass the word to Lex, though, to ask her not to do it again."
"I'll do that," Armstrong said.
"Just a moment, Lieutenant ..."
The commander veered slightly to pass by the hotel's registration desk.
"Mr. Bombest," he called, beckoning the manager over for a quick consultation. "I hear things are going fine. Do you have enough rooms now?"
"Yes, Mr. Phule." Bombest looked a bit haggard, but managed to rally enough to smile at his benefactor. "The winnowing of the guest list should provide the rooms necessary. I've got a few people I've had to delay check-in for until some of the `special guests' who arrived early can be evicted from their rooms, but nothing I can't handle."
"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...or 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."
The manager frowned. "Excuse me?"
"I don't think you were quite clear enough on that last part, Lieutenant," Phule observed.
"A debt of gratitude," the Legionnaire corrected. "We wouldn't be where we are now if it weren't for you."
"Oh. Uh ... thank you," Bombest said with a hesitant smile.
"Now that that's taken care of, Lieutenant," Phule said, the grin still on his face, "I believe we were about to have a little talk?"
"Umm ... actually sir, I thought I'd ..."
"Now, Lieutenant."
"Yes, sir!"
With the eager step of a man on his way to the gallows, Armstrong followed his commander into one of the lobby's more secluded nooks.
"Now then, Lieutenant," Phule said with a tight smile, "it seems there's at least one item that was omitted in your `no problems' report. What do you know about this reporter thing?"
"The incident occurred during Lieutenant Rembrandt's shift, sir," Armstrong said. "In fact, she's probably the best person to fill you in on-"
"I didn't ask when it happened," the commander interrupted. "I asked what you know about it."
Though maintaining his deadpan expression for armor, Armstrong winced internally. There was a tradition in the Space Legion that while it was acknowledged that the Legionnaires would, and did, play fast and loose with the truth when dealing with those outside the Legion, within their own ranks, they were required to tell the truth. In reaction to this, Legionnaires had also become masters at the art
of evasive answers and shamelessly diverting the subject of a conversation, which usually worked except for times, like this, when confronted insistently with a direct question.
"Umm ... a call came in, as you just heard, from Bombest that a reporter and a cameraman from Haskin's Planet were checking into the hotel," the lieutenant recited in a monotone. "Lieutenant Rembrandt decided, and I agreed with her, that-"
"Wait a minute. When did all this happen?"
Armstrong studied his watch carefully before answering.
"Approximately fifteen hours ago, sir."
"Fifteen hours? Why wasn't I informed?"
"I suggested that at the time, sir. When we tried to get through to you, however, Mother informed us that you had gone off the air less than an hour before to get some sleep, and Remmie said ... excuse me, Lieutenant Rembrandt mentioned that you had encouraged her to make more command decisions on her own, so she decided to deal with the matter herself without disturbing you ... sir."
"I see," Phule said, grimacing a bit himself. Then he cocked an eyebrow at the lieutenant. "It sounds like you were there for the whole thing. Didn't you say that it was Lieutenant Rembrandt's shift?"
"Yes, sir. I ... I was sort of hanging around before taking my formal shift. I was awake, anyway, sir, and thought I'd give her a hand while I was up. She's done the same for me several times."
"You're supposed to be using your time off to get some sleep and otherwise relax, Lieutenant. That's why we set up the schedules the way we did. Otherwise, you'll be functioning at less than peak efficiency if something happens while you're on duty."
"Yes, sir. I'll remember that, sir."
"Now, tell me ..."
"Of course, it would help if the captain set an example for us ... sir."
The commander eyed him for a moment.
"Lieutenant Armstrong," he said at last, "are you trying to change the subject?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, forget it. I want to know what happened to the reporter."
"She's being held in her room under guard; sir. Also her cameraman. In adjoining rooms, that is, sir."
"What?"
Even though Phule had been half expecting the answer, he was nonetheless stunned.
"It was all we could think of to keep her from-"
"You kidnapped a member of the interstellar press? Against her will?"
"It seemed impractical to wait until we could do it with her will, sir."
The commander shot a hard look at his junior officer, but Armstrong never cracked a smile.
"All right, Lieutenant. While you're coming up with clever answers, perhaps you can explain to me why I wasn't informed of this when I woke up and came back on the floor. I believe it was your shift then?"
"I started to tell you, sir," Armstrong said, still holding his deadpan expression. "At the time, however, you were getting ready to lead the expedition to confine the casino manager in his room ... against his will. If the captain will recall, I asked for a moment of his time, and was asked if it was important."
Phule frowned, vaguely recalling the brief exchange. "And you didn't think this was important?"
"I assumed the captain was asking if my question was time sensitive, and in my best judgment, it wasn't. The captain should recall that at that point, the reporter had already been confined for several hours, and I did not think that a few more hours would significantly change the situation, or her mood ... sir."
"I suppose there's a certain logic there ... even if it is a little twisted."
"Thank you, sir."
"There's still the question, though, of why you didn't mention it just now when I asked for your report."
"I ... I was working my way up to it, sir," Armstrong said, letting a small grimace flicker across his face.
Phule glared at him for a moment, then heaved a big sigh.
"Well, what's done is done," he said. "In the future, however, I want it understood by you and Lieutenant Rembrandt that any incident of importance, particularly one involving the press, is to be brought to my attention immediately. That's immediately, as in at the time it occurs, whether I'm asleep or not. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes, sir. I'll keep that in mind, sir."
"All right. Now, are there any other little incidents that I should be aware of?"
"Excuse me, sir, but there's one more thing you should know about Jennie."
"What's that?"
"When we were informing her that she was to be confined to her quarters, she said ... well ... among the things she had to say, she indicated that she already knew that we had substitutes standing in for some of our troops."
"She did?" Phule said with a frown. "I wonder how she figured that out. Probably too many unfamiliar faces in that news coverage we got when we arrived. Oh well. I'll have to remember to ask her when I get around to talking to her."
"Is that to say you won't be dealing with the matter right away ... sir?"
The commander grimaced. "As you so logically put it, whatever damage has been done won't change significantly if she has to wait a few more hours. Right now, we have matters to deal with that are time sensitive."
Maxine loved casinos.
There was a rhythm to them, almost like the pulse and breathing of a huge animal, a predator on the prowl. Small white balls rattled in the silently spinning roulette wheels and cards were slapped from shoes to the accompaniment of the monotone chants of the pit crews, the repetition of words giving an almost ritualistic, religious air to the proceedings, interrupted only by the occasional yips of glee or curses of the players. Every twenty minutes the pit crews would be pulled for a break, their replacements stepping in without missing a beat in the tables' rhythm. When the rested crews returned, they would be inserted into another pit, often rotating their positions so that someone who had been dealing blackjack would now be working a roulette wheel, while the pit bosses watched with flat eyes to see if anyone was following a particular dealer from post to post.
Yes, a well-functioning casino was a living, breathing predator ... and it fed on money.
Maxine surveyed the casino floor, drinking in the almost electric flow of excitement that radiated from the tables. She was dressed elegantly in an evening gown as befitted a grand opening, but if she had been wearing rags and tatters-or nothing at all, for that matter-no one would have noticed. Lady Luck was a cruel coquette who demanded the total attention and concentration of her suitors.
There was no sign of anything amiss, but that wasn't surprising. If the various imported cheats were half as expert as their reputations would indicate, their actions would go undetected, especially with the assistance of the crooked dealers seeded through the pit crews. If the casino was an animal, then they were leeches, quietly bleeding it of the money that was its sustenance until it wobbled and fell. The casino might think of itself as a predator, but this time the Fat Chance was, in actuality, a fatted calf.
"I don't see any big winners," Stilman said, breaking his silence as he stood at her side. "Are you sure this is going to work?"
Maxine shot a distasteful glance at him.
Stilman's tuxedo was tailor-made and fit him superbly, but he wore it like a warm-up suit. Even to the casual observer, he showed all the grace and style of a penguin on steroids.
"I keep telling you, Mr. Stilman," Max said, "this is supposed to be a subtle operation. Subtle as opposed to obvious. You should know by now that's my style of operating. While I can appreciate the skill and conditioning required by your specialty of physical action, I prefer to only use it for diversions or as a last resort."
That settled, Maxine turned her attention to the casino floor once more. Unfortunately, however, Stilman's grumbles had planted a worm of worry in her mind, and she found herself straining to detect any big winners or steady trends at the tables within her immediate sight.
"What do you think, Laverna?" she said finally, turning literally as well as figuratively to her financial advisor and confidante,
who was also accompanying her this evening.
Laverna had ignored the formality of the opening and was dressed in one of her normal jumpsuits, a pair of diamond earrings her only concession that there was anything special about the occasion. Though her manner was relaxed to the point of appearing bored, her eyes were busy, constantly gathering and analyzing data as was her habit whenever they were actually on the floor of a casino.
"Hard to tell," she said with a slight shrug, her eyes still moving across the casino. "It looks pretty normal ... maybe a bit more flow to the customers than usual, but I'd have to watch for a while to get a real feel for it. Of course, you can't say for sure without moving in close to see which chips are moving in which direction."
What she was referring to was that experienced gamblers rarely settled for making the same bet over and over. If you did that, the house odds would catch up to you in the long run and you'd lose. Instead, they tended to stagger their bets, betting low for long stretches, then raising their bets dramatically when they felt the odds were in their favor or a run was in effect. As a result, a player could win and lose an equal number of hands, but end up ahead or behind depending on whether or not their larger bets paid off.
"So we really don't know if this grand plan is working or not," Stilman said crossly.
Surprised at the surliness in his tone, Maxine glanced at him and noticed for the first time that he was looking around nervously and fidgeting ... something totally out of character from his normal aloof manner.
"You seem uneasy, Mr. Stilman," she observed. "Is something bothering you?"
The muscleman glanced around again before answering.
"I'm just not sure how happy the staff is going to be to see me here is all," he said. "After that fiasco on the loading dock, I wouldn't be surprised if they tried to throw me out-tuxedo or no."
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