Victor Phule's expression was skeptical. "To tell you the truth, I've never understood why anybody would bet on anything but a sure winner," he said. "And when you're giving somebody a chance to take away a thousand dollars--or more, if what you say is right-then the casino is betting on a losing proposition. On top of that, we give them free drinks and free food-and entertainment at a bargain price, as well. Why aren't we charging a competitive price for that, when we're giving away money hand over fist in the casinos?"
Marti's voice dropped even lower. "Because for every big jackpot, there are hundreds of losing bets, and that's the foundation of the business. Every single day of the year, as inevitably as taxes, the casino takes in many times what even the luckiest player can expect to win.. Over the long run, the casino comes out solidly in the black."
"Solidly in the black is all right," said Victor Phule.
"But I got my MBA at Rakeitin School of Business, and they taught us that any businessman worth his salt aims to maximize profits. I've built my arms business into the biggest in the galaxy by following that principle, and I can't see why it doesn't apply to this so-called business, as well."
"You saw the books, Mr. Phule," said Marti, shrugging.
Even now, the smile never left her face. "If you don't want to believe what you saw, there's not much I can do to change your mind. The odds are stacked in the house's favor, and always will be."
Phule frowned. "There's a loophole somewhere," he said. "If the odds are so heavily stacked, none of these people would keep coming back to play. Yet I've already heard several of them say they're back for a fourth or fifth visit.
There are obviously some consistent winners. That's what worries me. If one person can keep winning, then others can-and if enough learn how, they can put this place out of business."
Marti shook her head. "It doesn't work that way, Mr. Phule," she said patiently. "There's no way around the odds. In the long run..."
"Long run? Pfui!" said Victor Phule. "Your whole business principle is wrong, and I'm going to prove it. Where do I get tokens to play these machines?"
"Right over there, Mr. Phule," said Marti, pointing. She smiled quietly. It wasn't the first time somebody had refused to believe the simple facts. Nor would it be the last.
Every casino in the galaxy made its money because of people who didn't believe in the odds. It looked as if Victor Phule was about to find that out-the hard way.
4
Journal #664
Excessive displays of zeal, should always be grounds for suspicion. The religious bigot, the superpatriot, and the zealous company man have in common an emotion-loyalty to something larger than their individual interest. Loyalty to the greater cause is an emotion that everyone shares to some degree, and that in due proportion ought to be considered a good thing. But the zealots carry it to such an extreme that any reasonable person would feel a degree of embarrassment. Even more than the fanatical fixity of their loyalties, it-is the lack of a sense of proportion that makes them suspect. Anyone with a balanced view of the world around him inevitably becomes to some degree a cynic:
I consider myself to have an exceptionally well-balanced view of the world around me. In consequence I am frequently annoyed by the impositions of those less-balanced persons I find myself surrounded by...
The shuttle settled down roughly a kilometer south of the Legion camp. Phule and Beeker watched the landing from within the camp perimeter, then-as the cloud of dust began to settle-Phule gave a signal to his driver, Gears.
The hoverjeep moved forward toward the landing site.
Ahead of them, the shuttle door was already open, and two men--presumably the hunters-were standing idly by, watching the crew piling luggage and equipment on a crawler. They'd evidently brought enough to last them twice as long as their little expedition was scheduled for-either that, or they'd assumed there wouldn't be laundry facilities at a Legion camp. Actually, thought Phule, fastidious visitors might have been advised not to trust their clothing to the mercies of a Legion field laundry-as much to avoid the likelihood of rough handling as on account of pilferage.
With its own state-of-the-art automatic laundry facility built into the encampment module, Omega Company was miles ahead of the normal Legion standard. But the visitors could be excused for not having known that in advance.
Gears brought the hoverjeep to a halt next to the equipment crawler, and Phule leapt lightly to the ground. "Good afternoon, gentlemen," he said, holding out his hand. "I'm your host, Captain Jester. Welcome to Zenobia." The men had been staring at Jester during the hoverjeep's approach. Now one of them took the captain's offered hand and shook it.
"Our host, eh?" he said. "Not quite the way most people describe a visit from us. But I'm glad you're taking it in good spirits, Captain. It'll make our work here a lot easier."
Phule chuckled. "Work isn't exactly how I'd describe your visit, either," he said, heartily. "We've convinced the Zenobians to open up an area where no off-worlder has ever been-I'd call it virgin territory, gentlemen. It won't be exactly a weekend in the Waldorf, but I think you'll find it worth the effort. They tell me there are some spectacular beasts in there."
"Opened up virgin territory?" It was a woman's voice that replied, and Phule turned automatically to face the speaker. She was tall, with sharp features under a bowl haircut, and was dressed in the same dull-colored jumpsuit as the men (phule now realized). The name tag on her breast read C. I. Snieff. "I certainly hope that's an exaggeration, Captain," she added, pursing her lips. "We want to keep this planet's indigenous territory unspoiled, wherever possible. Your company's presence is enough of a problem."
Phule wrinkled his brow, slowly beginning to realize that there was something going on he didn't quite follow. "Excuse me," he began. Before he could finish the thought, a new creature emerged from the shuttle hatchway and made a beeline for the Legion hoverjeep, uttering a steady stream of angry barks.
"What the hell?" said Gears, jumping back into the jeep to escape the agitated animal.
"Hey there, big fellow," said Phule, going down on one knee and stretching out a hand to the dog. "What's your name, huh?" The dog, ignoring him, circled the hoverjeep, staring balefully at Gears and snarling.
"Surely you recognize Barky, the famous Environmental Dog," said Snieff. "He's been on tri-vee allover the galaxy. Every schoolchild loves to watch him sniff out pollution and other dangers to the natural balance. Your hoverjeep's emissions must not be properly controlled."
"I beg your pardon, ma'am," said Gears, who had climbed up on the seat to avoid the attentions of Barky. "I set this vehicle up myself and if it ain't totally up to spec, I'll eat it one piece at a time, without no/ketchup, neither.
Hey, can you call your dog off?" he added, with a note of concern.
"Barky is never wrong abut pollution." said Snieff.
She turned to one of her companions, and said, "Inspector Slurry, please impound that vehicle until we can have it properly tested."
"Woof!" said Barky, the Environmental Dog, his front paws up on the running board of the hoverjeep. It was not a friendly "woof." Gears cringed.