Harry picked up his beer and propped his elbows on the bar.
"No problem," he said easily. "I appreciate your watching my back for me. Speakin' of briefings, though, just between the two of us, my vision is a lot more selective when I know just what it is I'm not seein'."
William moved a few steps away and leaned casually against the bar.
"Well," he said, talking prison-style, without looking directly at Harry, "what you aren't seeing is the Main Man on this whole station."
The Legionnaire-in-disguise frowned slightly.
"That's funny. I always thought that kinda dude usually kept a low profile, but I could swear I've seen him somewhere before. Has the media been shootin' him or somethin'?"
The bartender let out a snort. "If you're an astroball fan, you've seen him, all right. Remember Ward Stilman?"
"Sure do!" Harry said, sneaking another look at the group in question, but using the bar mirror this time. "So that's him, huh? Damn! I used to love to watch him bust up people before he got tossed out of the pros."
"That's him," William confirmed. "But he's not the one I was talking about. The old biddy's the real mover and shaker on Lorelei. Stilman's just her chief muscle."
Harry's eyes flickered over to the older woman he had been ignoring so far.
"Her? She's `the Man' up here?"
"Be-lieve or be dead," the bartender said, flashing a tight smile. "You may have heard that someone called Max is running things. Well, that's short for 'Maxine,' and that's her. She's got a piece of every casino on this station and is real good at keeping the tourists in and the competition out. I'll tell you, C.H., if you start thinking about picking up some extra change with a bit of part-time larceny here on Lorelei, you don't worry about the cops-you look over your shoulder for Max. She does hire free-lancers from time to time, by the way, but ain't real tolerant of independents, if you know what I mean."
"How 'bout the stone mama sitting next to her?" Harry said, shifting the conversation to the original object of his attention.
"That's the Ice Bitch." William grinned. "Some say she's the actual brains of the operation, others say she's just a walking calculator for Max. Everybody says that if you want to make a pass at her, you'd best have your frostbite insurance paid up."
"I can believe that," Harry said, shaking his head. "I damn near caught cold from across the room a minute ago when she looked at me."
The bartender's smile evaporated.
"Steer clear of that one, C.H.," he said earnestly. "In fact, you're wisest not to mess with any of them. I'll tell you, when those three get together-like they aren't right now-it means someone is about to get put through the grinder. Whatever it takes, just be sure it's never you."
It has been accurately observed in military history that no battle plan ever survived contact with the enemy. Such was the case in the opposition's first attempt to 'feel out" my employer's troops.
Accounts of the incident vary, which is not surprising, as it was a brief skirmish that was over almost before it began ...
Huey Martin, manager of the casino portion of the Fat Chance complex, did not bother trying to hide his disdain as he surveyed the Legionnaires wandering through what used to be his unchallenged domain. His feelings went unnoticed, however, as they were next to impossible to distinguish from his normal, dour expression.
At first he had been more fearful than resentful when his wet-behind-the-ears employer informed him that he was bringing in a Space Legion company to serve as security guards. What had looked like a pushover job was suddenly jeopardized by an unknown factor.
Watching the Legionnaires since their arrival, however, the concern he felt gave way to amusement and, eventually, contempt. Far from being experienced casino guards, they seemed to be no more knowledgeable about the table games than the average tourist. One by one, Huey let his planted dealers shift back to their normal grifting routines, and so far not a one of them had been detected by these uniformed clowns, even when they were seated at the table with the hustle going on literally under their noses. Instead, they cheered and clapped like children as they raked in their winnings, apparently oblivious to the fact that their winning streak was being boosted by dealers who were working to empty the casino's coffers.
A faint smile drifted across the manager's face.
It would be deliciously ironic to use the Legionnaires to break the casino, but the Max had her own timetable for that, and Huey would never have the nerve to try to deviate from her express orders. Besides, it was easier to pass big winnings to big bettors, and the Legionnaires all seemed content to cling to minimum bets at the low-stakes tables-at least, so far.
A small flurry of noisy activity drew his attention, and his smile tightened again.
Some of the Legionnaires, among them the two sluglike Sinthians, were posing for pictures, pointing their guns at a slot machine as the cameras gobbled up film recording the scene: guards holding up a one-armed bandit. The tourists loved it.
With only a small portion of the casino open, the Legionnaires had far less to do than they would after the grand opening. In the meantime, they had lots of time on their hands to explore the space station or, as they were more inclined to do, hang around the Fat Chance and pose for the tourists who came nosing around looking to meet this highly publicized force.
As, far as Huey was concerned, that was all they were good for, and even there he firmly believed the job could be done better by models in hula skirts. Models would be more fun to look at, and cheaper.
A familiar figure entering the casino caught his eye, and Huey realized it was time for him to slip out of the complex for a walk. It would be best if he wasn't on the premises for what he had been warned was about to transpire.
Contrary to popular belief, planned violence is usually much more effective than the spontaneous, berserker variety. The main difficulty, of course, was finding personnel capable of the former. Ward Stilman, Maxine's field general when it came to physical action, had thought long and hard before selecting just who he wanted to carry out this mission. Lobo was far and away the best choice.
Though not particularly imposing physically, Lobo's work as a baggage handler at the spaceport had given his long, simian arms deceptive strength. Even more important for this assignment, however, was his eerie ability to soak up punishment without apparently feeling it or losing his head. In fact, he was something of a minor legend on Lorelei after he successfully took on three soldiers on leave in a fight. The brawl had lasted nearly fifteen minutes-long for a no-holds-barred dispute-but at the end of it Lobo had emerged victorious, though more than a little battered, while his opponents had to be carried to the Lorelei hospital.
The job as given to him by Stilman was simple enough, though slightly puzzling. He was supposed to try to goad one of the Legionnaire guards into a fight, both to test their effectiveness as fighters and to see how much provocation was necessary for them to take action. Above all, Lobo had been cautioned numerous times not to strike the first blow-not to fight back at all, for that matter. Supposedly this was to minimize the chance that the Legionnaires would simply resort to using the tranquilizer dart sidearms they were carrying, and instead be forced to try to subdue him physically.
Though he hadn't said anything at the time, Lobo wasn't wild about being assigned to play punching bag for some uniformed jerk. Not that he minded the possibility of pain or injury; it was the idea of not fighting back that bothered him. Still, it wasn't often that Stilman came to him with work, and he was eager to prove himself.