"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."