He eased up on the handle, and one of the electronic "wheels" stopped on a golden bar that framed the words "FAT CHANCE" in bright blue letters. The other symbols continued to change rapidly. He waited, trying to feel the right moment, then gave the handle a little jiggle and watched a second "FAT CHANCE" golden bar appear. All right! he thought. Now, any symbol but a lemon would give him a decent return for his play. The machine was of course carefully calibrated not to turn up another gold bar.
The first two were supposed to make him think he'd just missed, and pump another token--or a dozen or more into the machine. But a bell or a cherry or a rocket ship were always possible... He gave the handle a little pull toward him, then released it. The final wheel came to a stop.
It was a third golden bar, with the words "FAT CHANCE" in bright blue letters. A bell started ringing somewhere very close, and, after a pause, tokens began pouring out of the machine.
Victor Phule stood openmouthed, speechless. But he was nowhere near as surprised as Ernie, as a loud siren added its noise to the bell, and happy music began playing.
In front of his face, a sign was flashing off and on:
"SUPER JACKPOT!!!" That was echoed in the back of his mind by a little voice saying, Fifty or sixty million, over and over and over...
13
Journal #723
The fascination of some men-it is invariably men-with implements of destruction never ceases to amaze me. While all collectors are by definition fanatics, the connoisseur of weapons takes this quality to an extreme. Even if one grants in principle the historical, and (1 will even grant) the artistic appeal of certain weapons, surely no civilized person can entirely forget their gruesome purpose.
1 find it particularly paradoxical that these aesthetes of destruction insist on having the finest weapons possible at their command. As if the victims would somehow be insulted to learn that their demise had been brought about by bargain-basement artillery, with secondhand ammunition!
Phule and Armstrong came in sight of the hunters' camp just as another loud explosion shook the air. Armstrong involuntarily ducked. "Great Ghu, I hope they're paying attention where they point that thing," he said. "It sounds Eke a cannon."
"For all we know, it is," said Phule. "According to Ambassador Gottesman, they've come to Zenobia planning to shoot some dinosaurs. I don't even want to speculate on what kind of weapons they thought they'd need for that."
"Civilians," grumbled Armstrong-just before another, even louder explosion caused him to duck again. "What the hell?"
"It came from over there," said Phule, pointing to the left of the row of three luxury-grade Ultra-tents facing them. "Let's find out what's going on." They found the hunters in a group, huddled around a selection of weapons ranging from antique firearms to what looked alarmingly like a milspec rocket launcher, supposedly unavailable to the civilian trade.
"Let's try this one," said one of the group. "The salesman told me it'd knock anything up to five thousand kilos right off its feet."
"Five thou?" said another. "Hell, if they got real dinos on this planet, not that I've seen hide nor hair o'one..."
"You won't, either," said Phule, stepping forward. "The local fauna are pretty diverse, but I've yet to see anything with hair-at least nothing indigenous." Startled, the hunters whirled around to face them. "Captain Jester!" said the man who'd spoken first. "We didn't hear you coming."
"I'm not surprised, with all the noise you've been making," said Phule, with a smile. "You really ought to wear ear protection if you're going to be using those big cannons. By the way, would you mind pointing that one the other way?" He gestured toward the large-bore double barreled rifle the hunter was cradling under one arm.
"Oh yeah, sorry," said the hunter-Euston 0'Better, Armstrong recalled. He shifted the weapon to one side, and said, "It ain't loaded, anyways." To prove his point he pulled the trigger. The weapon roared, and O'Better nearly fell backwards from the recoil. At the same time, a gaping hole appeared in one of the ultra-tents.
"Hey, why don't you watch where you're shooting?" came a woman's voice from inside the tent, shortly followed by the emergence of a compactly built brunette in shorts. Her hair was up in curlers, and her expression could have curdled milk at a hundred yards. "Oh, hello," she said, "I didn't know we had company."
"Captain, this is my wife Dallas," said one of the other hunters, Austen Tay-Shun. "And don't you worry, honey we'll make sure Euston doesn't shoot you again."
"With that thing, once would be enough," said the woman. Then she turned to Phule, and a pleasant smile replaced her frown. "Hello, you must be Captain Jester. I'm Dallas Treat. And who's this handsome young man with you?" Phule introduced the blushing Lieutenant Armstrong, then turned back to the hunters. "Gentlemen, what just happened is a good example of why I came out here. It looks to me as if you need to pay a lot more attention to weapons safety generally. For example, not knowing whether a weapon is loaded before you pull the trigger..."
"Ahh, it's not such a big deal," said the third hunter, L. P. Asho. "It could've happened to anybody."
"It darn near happened to me," said Dallas Treat. "What do you need all those big guns for, anyway?"
"I tol' you, honey, we came to this planet to hunt the biggest game in the whole galaxy," said Tay-Shun.
"If you're fixin' to go toe to toe with the big 'uns, you better have your boots on."
"What's that have to do with guns?" said Dallas, pouting. "Sometimes I think you say things that don't make any sense just to make me feel stupid."
"Honey, you don't hardly need help with that," said Tay-Shun. "Now, if you'll pardon me, I need to talk with these here Legion officers that come to visit..."
"We're not really here for a social visit," said Phule, cutting him off. "I just have one point to make. You are not allowed to fire weapons indiscriminately as long as you're this close to our base. I'm going to insist that you stop shooting until you're someplace where you can't hurt one of my people by accident."
"I see," said L. P. Asho. "Tryin' to get rid of us, are you?"
"Mr. Asho, I want to get rid of anything that puts my people in danger," said Phule. "If you won't use weapons responsibly, that definitely includes you. I can't make you go home, but I can take your weapons away as long as you're in territory under my command. Or I can be a good deal of help."
"How's that?" asked O'Better.
Phule waved in the general direction of the Legion camp. "If you think you need weapons practice before you start hunting, I can give you guest privileges at our base firing range, with Legion instructors. Or if you'd prefer, I can help you move your camp out to a remote area with plenty of game, where you can fire away as you please. Your choice. But you just can't go popping off this close to my base; you don't even know where my people are, at any given time."
"All right, I take your point," said Tay-Shun, quieting Asho, who seemed ready to protest again. "I reckon we aren't quite ready to move out into the country just yet; we'd like to hire a native guide or two for when we do move. You think you can help us with that?"
"Our Zenobian liaison officer could probably help," said Phule. "But will you promise to put the guns away, or at least not to use them except at our range, until you're away from our base?"
"Fair enough, Captain," said Tay-Shun, and turned to look at the others. After a moment, they nodded reluctantly.