On the other hand, the crowd was full of the spectator sports types, most of whom had come to be entertained-and to bet on whatever was about to transpire. Several bookies had set up impromptu stands, ready to set odds and cover wagers. (It didn't matter that the exact details hadn't been announced; there was bound to be something to bet on, and somebody willing to risk a few units on the outcome.) Phule smiled; once the crowd saw what he had in mind, the bookies would be swamped with business. He was almost tempted to send Beeker over to place some bets on his behalf, but there was little point to it. Any bet large enough to be interesting would skew the odds to the point that he'd get a minuscule return-assuming the bookies were willing to cover it in the first place.
And, reluctant as he was to admit it, it wouldn't be a sure return. He was gambling-even without placing bets, he was gambling-on a system that was about to be put to its most strenuous test. It had been risky enough to pit his whole company against the Red Eagles, the Regular Army's elite company. Now he was pitting raw rookies against Gambolts, the most respected fighters known. He'd find plenty of bettors willing to go against him-and it was not going to be a sure thing.
"Everything's set, Captain," said a voice at his elbow.
Phule awoke from his musing with a start; he hadn't even seen Brandy approaching. "Good work, Brandy. No point keeping all these people waiting, then. Let's get it started!"
"Right, Captain!" Brandy turned to the small group of uniformed figures waiting a short distance away, and barked out her orders. "Gambolts-front and center!"
The three Gambolts moved gracefully through the ranks of legionnaires and came to attention.
"The obstacle course is designed to build the confidence of the entire unit," said Brandy, speaking for the onlookers' ears as well as for her troops'. "This company has its own special way of running the course, and you'll learn that in due time. But today we have a special exercise for our new members. Flight Leftenant Qual, our Zenobian military attaché, will be assisting us. Are you ready, Leftenant?"
"Ready, Sergeant Cognac," said the Zenobian's translator as the little lizardlike alien stepped forward, his teeth displayed in what Phule knew was intended as a smile, but which most of the spectators instinctively flinched away from. Those who paid attention to such details would have noticed that Qual was wearing not his regular dress uniform, but black fatigues and running shoes.
Brandy turned to the three Gambolts again. "The Leftenant will run the course, and we will give him a three minute head start. Then you three will try to capture him and bring him to the finish line. He will attempt to reach the end under his own power. You will take every precaution not to injure one another, but short of that, all tactics are legal. Any questions?"
The Gambolts shook their heads-a gesture they'd picked up from their human counterparts since joining the Legion. "Good," said Brandy. "Leftenant, start when you're ready."
"Bonsai!" shouted the Zenobian, and he took off down the course.
Brandy watched him take off, then turned back to the troops. "Oh yeah, we forgot to tell you one other detail about this exercise. Three minutes after you Gambolts start, the rest of the recruits will follow you. It'll be their job to prevent you from capturing the leftenant. Again, anything they want to do is legit, as long as nobody's trying to hurt the others."
Surprise blossomed on the recruits' faces. "Sergeant, is this some sort of joke?" said Mahatma. "Of course, we're going to give this our best try. But we've seen what these Gambolts can do. They'll be at the finish, with Leftenant Qual in tow, before most of us have cleared the first barrier."
"Don't give up before you start," said Brandy, her eyes fixed on her chronometer. Qual was barrelling down the course, showing the same agility he'd demonstrated while leading Phule's legionnaires in a not-so-merry chase through the hotel. "Two minutes to go."
"Qual may have enough of a head start to get there before the Gambolts can catch him," muttered one of the other recruits. "That's our best chance of winning." Several heads in the ranks nodded in agreement.
Meanwhile, the crowd had grasped what was going on, and was rapidly trying to place bets before the issue was settled.
"That lizard's quicker than a flash," said one spectator. "I got fifty says he gets to the end before the cats catch him."
"I'm offering two-to-one on the lizard, even money on the cats," replied the bookie he'd approached.
"No way, you gotta give me three-to-one!" Because of the Gambolts' formidable reputation-and reports of Garbo's quick capture of Qual in the Fat Chance lobby-the heaviest betting was on the Gambolts. Soon, Qual's supporters were getting odds of five- or six-to-one. Nobody seemed to consider the human recruits a serious factor.
"One minute," said Brandy. The Gambolts were stretching their muscles, limbering up for the run. Like the rest of the recruits, they would be carrying full packs for the run-a tradition Phule had insisted on, even though it apparently gave the Gambolts an even greater advantage over the human rookies. Pound for pound, their catlike bodies possessed more raw strength than even the best-trained human athlete could match.
Suddenly one of the onlookers let out a gasp. "Look! The lizard's stopped!" he shouted, pointing down the course. Sure enough, after covering approximately a quarter of the distance, Qual had come to an open area, stopped, and was now sitting down on the ground in the middle of it.
"What the devil is he doing?" said one spectator, who'd been betting heavily on the Zenobian. "Is he worn out, or has he gone plumb crazy?"
"It's a fix!" yelled another bettor. "I want my money back!"
"No way, buddy," said the bookie who'd taken his wager. "You can't afford to lose, don't bet your money. Anybody wants to hedge their bets, I'm givin' two-to-five on the cats."
"Gambolts go!" barked Brandy, and almost as if flung from a catapult, the three Gambolts were streaking down the course, making an incredible pace without showing any strain at all. All three had their eyes on Qual, who lounged almost insolently in plain sight a short distance down the course. Some bettors turned to admire the Gambolts' speed and grace, but others were waving wads of money at the bookies. Within less than a minute, the odds had dropped to one-to-ten. The bookies did their best to stall these bettors, trying to accommodate the few suckers still willing to bet on the underdog Qual.
"OK," said Brandy, seeing the Gambolts well down the course. She turned to face the recruits and put her fists on her hips. "Listen up, people," she barked. "You're Legion, now, and what's more, you're Omega Mob, and that means family. We run the obstacle course our own way, and you're gonna see that right now." She reached to her chest and grasped a whistle hanging from a lanyard, put it to her mouth, and blew a shrill blast.
Out of the crowd, where they'd mingled unnoticed in mufti, came the Omega Mob. Not all of them-the guard detail at the Fat Chance had to be kept up to strength-but enough to multiply the strength of the recruit's squad tenfold. "This is your family," said Brandy. "We all run together-officers, NCOs, recruits, humans, Synthians, Gambolts-everybody! Let's show 'em how we do it."
Nobody bothered to ask whether the Gambolts' three minute head start had expired. The spectators watched, open-mouthed, as the Omega Mob, with Phule and Brandy in the lead, surged forward, and the new recruits were swept up with them.
Up ahead, the Gambolts had closed to within a few dozen yards of Flight Leftenant Qual, who had risen to his feet again. Now the Zenobian began to display the same kind of speed and elusiveness he'd given the legionnaires during the chase through the casino, with half the Omega Mob in pursuit.