Phules Paradise

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Journal #234

There is much made of the satisfaction felt by a commander when a plan comes together.

Obviously I cannot comment on the conduct of all, or even the majority of, military commanders under these circumstances, but the behavior of my employer on the opening day of the Fat Chance Casino showed little of this passive enjoyment. Rather, he was more like an insecure party hostess, hurrying here and there and busying himself with countless details, dealing with both important and minor chores with equal intensity.

Huey Martin was in the middle of getting dressed when he was interrupted by an insistent hammering on the door of his suite. This was both annoying and puzzling, as people rarely visited his room, and never without calling in advance.

"Who is it?" he called, hurrying to button his shirt.

Instead of an answer, he heard the sound of a key in his lock. Before he could protest, the door slammed open and the commander of the casino's security force strode into the room, followed closely by two guards ... and Gunther Rafael himself!

A sudden pang of fear stabbed at the casino manager's gut, but gambler's reflex kept him from showing his emotions openly.

"What's going on?" he demanded indignantly. "I'm trying to get ready for the opening."

"That won't be necessary," the commander, said levelly. "You're being relieved of your duties. Effective immediately."

"I ... I don't understand," Huey said, looking at the casino owner in feigned bewilderment.

"It won't work, Huey," Gunther said tersely. "We know all about your working for Max and about the dealers you've been hiring."

"We have some interesting tapes from the eye-in-the-sky cameras," Phule said. "Your pet dealers have provided us with a catalog of skims and scams, often while you were standing on camera watching them. They're being met as they report for duty, incidentally. We felt it was best that they not work the opening. In fact, they're being given the entire week off without pay. After that, we'll interview them again to see if they're willing to work for us without the skims and perks."

"But that won't leave you with enough dealers to open!" the manager said, then realized he was admitting the extent of his treachery.

The commander smiled humorlessly. "That would be true if we hadn't arranged in advance for replacements for them ... and you."

Huey was stunned by the admission that this action against him was not spontaneous, but rather the result of foreknowledge and substantial planning.

"So what does this mean for me?" he said, both from curiosity and to cover his confusion.

Gunther looked at the commander.

"You will be held here," Phule said, "incommunicado."

As he spoke, he nodded at the Legionnaires, who responded by moving through the suite and pulling the phone in each room out of the wall.

"Once the opening is over," the commander continued, "you'll be free to go. Your employment here is, to say the least, terminated."

"You can't do that," the manager said, shaking his head. "I have a contract that guarantees me due notice as well as a share of the casino."

Phule scowled and shot a sidelong glance at the casino owner.

"Do you have a copy of that contract?" he said. "I'd like to see it."

Huey produced the document from a drawer in his desk and passed it to the commander, who moved closer to a light to study it.

"Why did you do it, Huey?" Gunther said, the hurt showing in his voice. "Wasn't the deal we had between us enough for you?"

"Hey, nothing personal, kid," the manager said. "It's just that my mom raised me greedy. The way it was, it looked like I could collect on our deal and from Max, and by my addition, two paychecks are better than one. Like I say, nothing personal."

"Excuse me," Phule interrupted, turning back to the conversation, "but I don't find anything in here about termination notice or about your having a share in the casino."

"Of course it's there," Huey said, snatching the contract back. "Look, I'll show you. It's right ..."

He began paging through the document, then scowled and flipped back a few pages to study it closer.

"I don't understand," he murmured. "I know they're in here."

"Believe me, Mr. Martin," the commander said, "I just reviewed the contract, and they're not."

An image flashed across the manager's mind. The image of Phule turning away to look at the contract.

"You switched it!" he accused with sudden realization. "This isn't the contract I handed you!"

"Nonsense," Phule said. "That's your signature on the last page, isn't it?"

Huey barely glanced at the indicated page.

"It may be ... More likely a forgery," he spat. "Either that or you pulled the last page and attached it to a new contract. Don't think you're going to get away with this!"

"That's an interesting accusation," the commander said, unruffled. "Though I suspect it would be hard to prove in court. Of course, if you did try to take this to court, we'd be forced to make our tapes a part of the public record to defend the position that you were fired with cause. That might make it a little hard for you to find another position, since I doubt the media would let the story die until they had broadcast the footage several dozen times."

The room seemed to reel around the manager as he had a sudden vision of his face and misdeeds being publicized stellarwide.

"You ... you wouldn't," he said.

"We wouldn't unless we felt it was necessary to protect our interests," Phule corrected. "Personally I'd suggest you take the more salvageable alternative of a quiet dismissal. Then again, perhaps you can convince Mr. Gunther here to reinstate you. After the opening, of course."

"Is ... is there any chance of that?" Huey said, looking to the casino owner.

Gunther shrugged. "Maybe. But only if-how did you put that again, Willie?"

"Only if you succeeded in convincing Mr.. Rafael that your loyalties were now properly aligned," the commander supplied.

"How could I do that?"

"Well, for starters you could tell us everything you know about Max's plans, beginning with the `special guests' that have been invited to the grand opening," Phule said. "If nothing else, that should burn the bridge between you and your old cronies. By the way, you might as well tell us directly. We've pieced together enough on our own that I'm afraid Max will assume you've sold her out, whether you do or not. I suggest you use what information is left to bargain for some protection."

"Here's your key, Mr. Shuman-room 2339-and welcome to the Fat Chance Casino. Front!"

With the deftness born from many years' practice, the clerk slapped the small bell on the registration desk, summoning a valet before the guests could stop him.

"Elevators are this way, sir," the valet said, materializing between the elderly couple and their only piece of luggage.

Snatching up the bag with ease, he led the way, leaving the twosome to trail along behind him.

"Well, Mother, we're here!" the portly gentleman declared, giving his wife a hug with one arm as they walked.

"Henry ... how old would you say that young man at the front desk is?" the frumpy woman at his side inquired.

"Oh, I don't know," the man said, glancing back. "Late twenties, early thirties, I'd guess. It's hard to tell with kids these days. Why do you ask?"

"Just curious," his wife said with a shrug. "He struck me as being a bit young to be wearing a hearing aid."

Shuman had also noticed the device in the desk clerk's ear, although, at the time, he had tried to convince himself it was inconsequential.

"I don't think it was a hearing aid," he said. "More likely some kind of paging radio or a hookup with the phones. I haven't been keeping up with all the electronic gizmos they've developed lately."

"I suppose you're right," the woman said, then returned his hug as if he had just given it. "It is hard to believe we're here, isn't it? After all these years?"

Though the implication was that the couple had been working and saving for years planning for a once-in-a-lifetime vacation, the real truth was hidden in this statement.

In actuality, they had been banned from nearly all casinos for close to five years now. Their guise of retired, unsophisticated grandparents was as complete as it was disarming, allowing them to pull off numerous forms of cheating requiring anything from sleight of hand to complex systems which, to the casual eye, would be assumed to be well beyond their abilities. They had, in fact, relieved most of the major gambling centers of sizable amounts of money before the casinos managed to compare notes and realized that they were not the harmless tourists they seemed to be.

They had been lured from "retirement" by a promise that they would not be recognized at this particular casino, as well as by a hefty bankroll to fund their charade. Though they were excited at the possibility of once more being able to dust off their long-practiced performance, they still had to fight off the nervousness that at any moment they might be recognized.

"This place really is something, isn't it?" Henry said, making a show of rubbernecking around as they were escorted into one of the elevators.

"Hold the elevator!"

The bellman caught the door with his hand in response to the call, and a broad-shouldered, chisel-featured young man in a black uniform burst into the car.

"Sorry for the inconvenience," he announced in an offhand tone that didn't sound apologetic at all, "but I have to commandeer the elevator for a moment."

As he spoke, he used a key to override the control panel and punched a button. The door closed, and the car began to move-downward instead of up.

Shuman suppressed a quick feeling of irritation, fearing that to protest would be out of character.

"Is something wrong?" he said instead.

"No. Everything's under control," the man assured him, sparing him only the briefest of glances before returning his gaze to the floor indicator.

"I didn't know this place had a basement," his wife said, tightening her grip on Henry's arm slightly. "Aren't we on a space station?"

Realizing she was making small talk to cover her nervousness, Henry nonetheless played along.

"I imagine it's some kind of storage area," he said. "All the rooms are ..."

He broke off as the elevator stopped and the doors slid open. Framed in the doorway was another black-garbed figure, an older man with a bald head and a theatric handlebar moustache.

"Got two more for you, Sergeant," their fellow passenger announced, nodding at the bellman, who unceremoniously tossed their bag out of the elevator.

"Very good, sahr!" the bald man said, barely sparing the couple a glance as he consulted the clipboard he was holding. "Let's see, you would be Henry and Louise Shuman ... or should I call you Mr. and Mrs. Welling?"

The use of their correct names eliminated any hope Henry might have had of bluffing their way out of the situation with bewildered indignation.

"Whatever," he said, taking his wife's arm and ushering her out of the elevator with as much dignity as he could muster as the doors slid shut behind them.

"I don't suppose you're hard of hearing, are you, Sergeant?" his wife asked their captor.

"Excuse me, mum? Oh, you mean this?" Moustache tapped the device he was wearing in his ear. "No, this is a direct hookup with the folks at the front desk. Mr. Bascom has one, too. He's watching on a closed-circuit camera, and when he spots a familiar face, he tells the clerk and they get relayed down here to us."

"Bascom?" Henry frowned. "You mean Tullie Bascom? I thought he retired."

"That's right, sir," the sergeant confirmed. "Seems you two aren't the only old war-horses being reactivated for this skirmish."

"I see," Henry said. "Well, tell him we said hello, if you get the chance."

"I'll do that, sir," Moustache said, flashing a quick smile. "Now, if you'll both join the others, it shouldn't be long now."

As he spoke, he gestured toward a cluster of chairs and sofas which had been set up in the service corridor. There was an unusual assortment of individuals sprawled across the furnishings, ranging in appearance from businessmen to young married couples to little old ladies and obvious blue-collar workers. While Henry did not recognize any of them, the studied casualness of their postures and the uniform flat, noncommittal looks that were directed at himself and his wife marked them all as being cut from the same bolt of cloth. These were grifters and con artists who, like the Wellings, had been caught in the security net. While the setting was pleasant enough considering the situation, and there was no indication of rough treatment among the captives, Henry could not escape the momentary illusion of a prisoner-of-war compound, possibly due to the black-uniformed armed guards spaced pointedly along the wall.

"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."

"I think Mr. Phule's security team has Stilman a bit spooked, Max," Laverna said with a wink and a grin.

Stilman fixed a cold, level gaze on her.

"It's not funny," he said. "These soldier boys of yours haven't shown me much so far, but I'll tell you, this casino has some of the toughest employees I've ever seen. Where did Huey find them, anyway?"

"You'll have to ask him the next time you talk," Max said, suppressing a smile of her own. "Not tonight, though. While I don't think there will be any trouble as long as you're just here as a guest, it probably wouldn't be prudent if Mr. Martin were seen conversing with us or any of our known associates this evening."

"Yeah ... well ... it's all nice and easy for you to say `Don't worry,'" Stilman growled, glancing around once more, "but you aren't the one they'll be coming after if you're wrong. I don't know why I had to be here, anyway."

"You don't, really," Maxine said. "Realizing, though, that you and your men have had to put up with being roughed up and humiliated due to my policy of no rough stuff during our various diversionary probes, I thought you might enjoy being around `for the kill,' as it were."

"What? For this?" Stilman made a small gesture at the casino floor. "I suppose it was a nice thought, but this is about as exciting as watching grass grow."

Maxine cocked a regal eyebrow at him. "I know you sometimes think me dull, Mr. Stilman, and perhaps in comparison to the excitement of the astroball circuit, I am. You should recall, however, that I also have a love of the dramatic. Rest assured, that things will get much more lively soon-in fact, in about fifteen minutes, I'd say."

"Lively like how?"

Maxine returned her gaze to the casino floor. "Do you ever play the slots, Mr. Stilman?"

"Not since I first got here," Stilman responded. "I tried them once, just because it seemed the thing to do at a casino, but they always seemed to be pretty much a sucker bet to me."

"That's quite correct," Max said with a nod. "They're popular with the tourists, and because of that they provide a surprisingly high income for any casino. Even the lure of a high jackpot, however, doesn't offset the fact that the odds are depressingly high against the player."

"Yeah. So?" Stilman pressed, but Maxine was not about to be rushed.

"Take that island of machines over there, for example," she said, indicating a cluster of slots with a nod of her head. "They only accept fifty-dollar tokens to play, but there's a progressive jackpot attached to them, with a guaranteed minimum of ten million dollars. Of course, if you read the fine print on the machine, you have to bet the maximum of five tokens and hit a very rare combination of images to qualify for the big jackpot."

"Are you saying that someone's going to win the jackpot tonight? Ten million dollars?"

Stilman craned his neck to peer at the machines, obviously impressed.

Maxine smiled. "I know I've said it before, Mr. Stilman, but you habitually think too small. You'll notice that, like all casinos today, Mr. Gunther is using the video-image slot machines as opposed to the old models that mechanically match the various images. This both reduces the maintenance necessary, since there are fewer moving parts, and lets the house control the odds more closely, as the payout rate is controlled by the central computer which all the machines are tied into-the computer, if you'll recall, that we've paid substantially to gain access to."

She paused to check her watch again.

"Now, in about thirteen minutes, a sleeping program we've had planted in that computer is going to cut in and change the odds for that cluster of slots down to one in fifty. Then I think we'll see some excitement."

"You mean they're all going to start paying out? At ten million dollars a pop?" Even Stilman's legendary calm was shattered as he gaped openly at Maxine.

"Realistically I'm afraid it will only work a few times before they pull the plug," she said. "The way I see it, the first jackpot will cause a stir, and the management will try to play it up big for the publicity. The second will startle them, but they'll still try to maintain a generous front."

Her eyes narrowed slightly.

"When the third jackpot hits, however, they'll know there's something wrong and shut down the system. Of course, that decision takes time, both to make and to initiate. If we're lucky, we should hit one, maybe two more jackpots before they can put a stop to it."

"Thirty to fifty million dollars," Stilman said, saying the words in a soft, almost reverent voice.

"Before you ask," Max added with a smile, "those are, of course, our people manning the key machines right now. No sense letting all that money fall into the wrong hands."

"At ten thousand dollars a minute," Laverna put in.

Max blinked. "What's that, Laverna?"

"Five fifty-dollar tokens per pull, times ten machines, times at least four pulls a minute, is ten thousand dollars a minute they're pumping into those machines by my count," her aide clarified. "I assume they're only playing minimum bets until the right time comes, but even if they only play for ten minutes after the flag goes up, that's one hundred thousand dollars they'll be going through."

"The end profits more than justify the investment," Maxine said flatly, annoyed at having her explanation interrupted. "Now then, Mr. Stilman, as I was saying ... As you can tell, that many high jackpots will put a severe drain on Mr. Rafael's funds. He doesn't dare not pay off the jackpots, or the negative publicity would drive him out of business. Combined with the losses we've planned for him at the tables, however, it should keep him from making the necessary payment on his loan. What's more, word of the multiple jackpots should get sufficient media coverage that I doubt he'll be able to find anyone willing to let him borrow the money."

Maxine was smiling again. A sweet, grandmotherly smile.

"In short, Mr. Stilman, when those jackpot bells start to sound, what you'll be hearing is the Fat Chance Casino sliding into our cash drawer."

"Yes, Laverna?"

"We've got a problem."

Maxine followed her aide's gaze and saw the unmistakable figure of Willard Phule, the security force commander, pausing to watch the activity at their targeted cluster of slot machines.

"I thought Huey was supposed to come up with something to keep him busy when the program was scheduled to cut in."

"He was," Maxine said through tight lips, "but obviously he hasn't. Well, there's only one thing to do."

"What's that?" Laverna said as Max started forward.

"Provide the distraction myself," the crime leader explained, flashing a quick smile. "Besides, I think it's about time the two of us talked directly."

"Good evening. Captain Jester."

The Legionnaire commander turned and smiled vaguely at being addressed by name.

"Good evening," he said with reflexive politeness.

"I was wondering if I might buy you a drink?" the woman continued.

The Legionnaire smiled. "Thank you, but I'm on duty."

"I see. I thought you might be able to make an exception this time. My name is Maxine Pruet."

As expected, that caught Phule's entire attention, though he made a deliberate effort to remain outwardly casual.

"Of course," he said. "Forgive me for not recognizing you from your picture."

"What picture was that, Captain?"

"Well, it was two pictures, actually," Phule said. "One profile, one full face."

For a moment Maxine's eyes narrowed dangerously, then she caught herself and smiled again, though a little forced this time.

"No need to be insulting, Mr. Phule," she said levelly. "You probably know as well as I do that I've never been arrested."

"Quite right." The commander nodded, and for a moment a flash of weariness showed on his face. "I'm sorry ... that was a cheap shot. You just caught me, a bit by surprise, is all. Here, let me take you up on that drink."

As he spoke, Phule stopped one of the cocktail waitresses with a gesture and plucked two glasses from the tray of complimentary champagne she was distributing.

"Here," he said, passing one to Maxine. "What shall we drink to? Somehow I don't imagine you're eager to drink to the success of the Fat Chance."

"Not for a while, anyway," Max purred. "How about `To honorable enemies and dishonorable friends'?"

"I think I can accept that." The commander chuckled, raising his glass in mock salute. "We seem to have at least that much in common."

Maxine hid her irritation as she returned his gesture. She had hoped to lead Phule off to one of the cocktail lounges, but instead they were standing near the targeted island of slots ... too near for her comfort.

"I was wondering if you could answer a question for me, Captain?" she said, drifting slowly along the aisle as if to get a better view of the tables.

"Depends on the question," Phule answered, but followed along apparently unaware that they were moving.

"Why exactly did you join the Space Legion, anyway?"

The commander gave a slow smile.

"Within the Legion," he said, "it's generally considered impolite to ask that question."

"How very interesting," Maxine drawled. "However, I'm not in the Legion, nor have I ever been overly concerned with being polite."

Phule hesitated, then shrugged.

"Oh, just call it a rich boy's whim," he said dismissively.

"I find that very hard to believe," Max pressed, unwilling to let the subject drop.

"How so?"

"In the simplest terms, Mr. Phule, I doubt that anyone in your position has gotten where they are by whimsical or, casual thinking. No, I believe you have a specific purpose behind nearly everything you do, including joining the Space Legion."

The commander glanced at her sharply.

"How very perceptive of you," he said. "You're right, of course. I'll admit that much. I'm afraid, however, my reasons will have to remain my own. While I can't fault you for asking, you must also be aware that people in my position don't stay on top by sharing their plans with others, particularly not with the opposition."

"Opposition," Maxine repeated, wrinkling her nose. "Really, Mr. Phule. You have such a delicate way of phrasing things. You must meet Laverna sometime. Perhaps it's a result of your common background in financial maneuverings, but you both tend to walk around a subject verbally rather than acknowledging it for what it is."

Again Phule was forced to smile. Despite himself, he found himself liking Maxine more and more.

"Old habits die hard, I guess," he said. "Of course, the Legion itself tends to feed the pattern by encouraging, if not requiring, double talk. For my own information, how would you describe our relationship?"

"Why, we're rival commanders in a gang war for control of this casino, of course," Max said with an easy shrug, then, noting his frown, she continued, "Come now, Mr. Phule. Surly you don't see this as a conflict between the forces of light and darkness ... with yourself on the side of the angels?"

"Actually I was thinking that you're the second person who's recently described me as the leader of a band of criminals," the commander explained with a wry smile. "While it's no secret that Legionnaires often have spotted pasts, I'd rather hoped for a better public image."

"Spotted pasts," Max exclaimed with a quick bark of laughter. "There you go again, Mr. Phule, trying to verbally tie a ribbon around the neck of a hardworking mule. We provide the brains and direction for a pack of criminals and live off the profits. There's no other way to accurately describe it."

"I'm sorry, but I can't agree," the Legionnaire said, shaking his head, "though I'm sure you intend it as a compliment to view me as an equal. I prefer to think of what I'm doing as assisting certain individuals in finding constructive, beneficial applications for their talents. For proof, let me remind you that we were assigned to protect this casino at the request of the proper owner, and that we don't stand to profit from our efforts beyond our normal wages."

"I suppose you have a point, Captain," Maxine returned easily. "I can't honestly say, however, that I see your position as an improvement on my own. I've always found that people work harder for direct benefits than for a straight wage."

The commander nodded. "We're in agreement there. However, sometime you might consider whether or not there are direct benefits to the individual that can outweigh monetary gain. In the meantime, if you'll excuse me, I must return to my duties. It's been a pleasure talking to you."

Realizing both that Phule was about to break off the conversation and that there had been no sign that the expected run on the slots had begun yet, Maxine cast about quickly for something to prolong the discussion.

"Just a moment, Captain," she said, laying a restraining hand on his arm. "There's someone I'd like you to meet."

Without further explanation, she led the Legionnaire commander over to the line by the cashier's window, which was, of course, another half dozen yards farther away from the slot machines.

"Excuse me ... Jonesy?" she said, lightly touching the shoulder of one of the men waiting for more chips.

The young Oriental turned with a smile, then started visibly when he saw the black-uniformed figure who was accompanying Max.

"I don't believe you two have met," she continued, as smoothly as a society hostess at a reception. "Jonesy, this is Captain Jester, commander of the security force for this casino. Captain Jester, this is Jonesy." She bared a few extra teeth in a smile. "Of course, that isn't his real name, obviously, but that's what he's asked us to call him."

"Captain Jester."

"Jonesy."

The two men eyed each other with open wariness. Neither offered to shake hands.

"Jonesy, here, is visiting us from ... I guess you'd call it one of our sister organizations." Maxine smiled. "His superiors have expressed an extreme interest in how you and I manage to work out our differences."

The Oriental gave a small movement of his shoulders. "I'm afraid, Captain, that curiosity is only natural for those in our line of work. Should we ever find ourselves-how should I put this?-in a similar relation to you that Mrs. Pruet is, I trust you will accept that there would be no personal rancor involved. I'm sure that, if anyone, you would understand that business is business."

"Of course," Phule answered through tight lips. "In return, might I suggest that you inform your superiors, from me, that if they choose to visit Lorelei to witness our methods firsthand, I will do my best to see they are treated with the same hospitality as we have shown Mrs. Pruet and her organization?"

Jonesy's eyes flickered slightly.

"I'll be sure to do that, Captain," he said with a small bow. "Now, if you'll excuse me, they're holding a seat for me at one of the tables."

"I don't think he likes you, Captain," Max said softly as they watched the Oriental walk away.

Phule smiled humorlessly. "I think I can live with that. Then again, I don't think he was particularly happy with you, either, for singling him out that way."

Maxine gave an unladylike snort.

"Believe it or not, Mr. Phule, the possibility of Jonesy's associates appearing on Lorelei is even less appealing to me than it is to you. Besides, as I said earlier, `honorable enemies and dishonorable friends.' I considered it a matter of courtesy to make you aware of what you might be up against someday."

"I see," the commander said, looking at her thoughtfully. "All right, I guess it's up to me to return the favor. Do you see that man sitting at the far right on the end blackjack table? The pale one?"

Maxine craned her neck slightly, then nodded.

"Well, realizing your interest in collecting casinos, he's someone you might want to watch out for in the future."

"Really?" Max said, studying the indicated individual. "What is he? A card cheat?"

"Not hardly," Phule said easily. "In fact, we've taken steps to screen out as many known cheats as possible-part of our job as security, you know. It might be of interest to you that we've already sent over a hundred of them back to the spaceport so far today."

Maxine digested this news in silence for a few moments.

"That's quite a claim, Captain," she said at last, speaking slowly and carefully. "Might I inquire as to how you managed to detect them?"

"It wasn't that difficult," the commander said. "We had spotted most of them during the past week, along with the dealers who were feeding them bad deals and extra chips. Tullie Bascom, the new casino manager, helped us pick out the rest. It seems he knows most of them on sight. Once they were identified, it was just a matter of picking the right time to weed them out without disrupting the legitimate guests, and I felt today was the right time."

"Tullie Bascom." Max said the name as if it tasted bad. "I thought he had retired. For that matter, I was under the impression that Huey Martin was the manager."

"He was," Phule confirmed. "Unfortunately he was also weeded out today. Some question as to whether he was working for the house or against it, if I understand correctly."

"I see."

"However, I was about to tell you about the gentleman at the blackjack table," the commander continued, as if unaware of Maxine's reaction to his disclosure. "His name is Albert, and he heads a team of computer auditors-some of the best I've ever worked with."

"Computer auditors," Maxine echoed tonelessly.

"Yes. I highly recommend him if you ever feel the need to have your central computer's programming checked." Phule locked eyes momentarily with his rival. "I know you'll find this hard to believe, but Albert there discovered that someone had been tampering with the Fat Chance computer. According to him, someone had put in a time-triggered program which would have drastically changed the payout odds on the progressive slot machines at midnight tonight." He made a show of looking at his watch. "We had him correct it, of course, but I was curious to see who might be watching those slots at midnight and what their reactions would be when the machines simply continued to eat the money instead of paying out millions like they expected. Now here it is nearly half past and all I've done was talk with you. C'est la guerre, I guess. I really must be going now, but it has been a real pleasure spending the time with you, Mrs. Pruet."

With that, he gave her a mock salute with his index finger, then turned and walked away, smiling.

Watching him go, Maxine did not share his smile. Rather, the look she focused on him was not unlike that of a snake watching a supposedly flightless meal disappear into the clouds.

"Max ... I think we've got problems," Laverna hissed, materializing at her side.

"What's that, Laverna?" Maxine blinked, tearing her eyes away from Phule's retreating back.

"I said we've got problems," her aide repeated. "It's been nearly half an hour since midnight, and those damn machines aren't-"

"I know," Max snapped, cutting her off. "Tell those idiots to stop feeding our money into the house's coffers. And don't bother being subtle. The gambit has been blown and countered."

"It has?"

"Just go," Maxine said. "Come up to the room when you're done and I'll fill you in on the details. Right now, as you pointed out earlier, every minute's delay is costing us money."

"On the way," Laverna said, and headed for the slots with a speed quite unlike her characteristic amble.

"Mr. Stilman! A moment, if you please?"

At her summons, the ex-astroball player floated over to her.

"Yes, Mrs. Pruet?"

"I want you to take over the floor operations for a while," she said. "See if you can arrange some sort of incident to remind Mr. Phule's troops that we haven't forgotten them completely. I need some time to rethink things."

"Is something wrong?"

"It seems I've underestimated our Mr. Phule ... Rather badly, at that," Max admitted, shaking her head. "I'll be in my suite with Laverna trying to figure where we go from here."

Preoccupied as she was with her own thoughts as she headed for the elevators, Maxine failed to look directly at her violence specialist after she spoke. If she had, her usually alert warning signals might have been triggered by the rare, slow smile that spread across Stilman's face.