Phules Paradise

CHAPTER TWELVE

Journal #236

One would think that the key turning point of this particular assignment was the event chronicled in the last chapter, the grand opening of the Fat Chance Casino, when my employer's forces successfully prevented the implementation of Maxine Pruet's multifaceted assault on Gunther Rafael's financial resources.

While there is no denying the importance of that skirmish, viewing the conflict from ground zero, as is my privilege, I would have to say that the events immediately following the opening were in many ways far more crucial to the eventual outcome of the confrontation.

Nicknames tended to abound among gamblers. What was more, certain nicknames were recurring almost to the point of being traditional. Thus it was that anyone in the gambling circles named Edward would invariably be hailed as "Fast Eddie."

Lucas, however, had managed to avoid the obvious title of "Lucky Luke" and was known to his associates simply as "Lucas." This was, in part, because he strove for, and achieved, a certain degree of anonymity in the casinos, dressing and acting the part of an accountant or an actuary on vacation. Mostly, however, the nickname was avoided because Lucas didn't think of himself as a gambler. He thought of himself as a crook, and luck had nothing to do with his success.

He was a meticulous planner, which was fortunate because the type of theft he favored required careful attention to detail and timing. In fact, he had been scouting the Fat Chance for nearly a week before he decided that a score was possible, and passed the word to the other members of his team who were scattered through the other Lorelei casinos.

The plan Lucas used required five people working in close cooperation, though, of course, great care was taken to be sure the pit bosses and casino security would not be able to spot that they even knew each other, much less were functioning as a unit. Their target was the craps table, where the odds were nearest to favorable to the player, and even more favorable with their system. It was a complicated system which involved the shooter palming one of the dice as he threw while another player dropped a loaded die onto the table as if it were one of the original pair. A third player would snatch up the dice and throw them back to the shooter, covertly switching them for a pair of honest dice as he did it, so that even if the house got suspicious and examined the dice, they would be clean. Two other players were at the table solely to create a diversion at the crucial moment, while the fifth, Lucas, placed the bet.

The beauty of the system was that the very number of players necessary to work it would make the pit bosses reluctant to believe they were being taken. The one placing the big bet wasn't the shooter, who would be betting the table minimum, and the shooter himself would never be vulnerable to being caught with the crooked die. While they could only work the gag a few times in a given casino without drawing undue attention, at the "adjusted odds" a few times was usually enough.

The other necessary ingredient to the scam was a sloppy croupier, which was much of what Lucas had been watching for the last week. It was also why he had chosen this time for the team to assemble for work.

The crowds from the opening-night festivities had thinned to a point where there were several seats available at the various tables. More important, the pit crews were tired from the crush and were openly glancing at their watches as if they could speed the end of their shift by willpower alone.

Lucas had been sitting at the target table for nearly an hour, carefully building the pattern of a slow loser who would bet heavily occasionally in an apparent effort to recoup his losses. The croupier was behaving as he had for the last several nights, splitting his attention between the table and a shapely cocktail waitress who winked at him in passing with increasing frequency as the end of their shift neared. Whether they were flirting or lovers, Lucas neither knew nor cared. What was important was that the croupier wasn't paying attention to what was happening at his table.

One by one, his team had drifted in and eased into their places with apparent casualness, until they were only lacking one member before they could swing into action. In spite of his confidence and control, Lucas felt his excitement starting to build. In another fifteen minutes, they'd either have scored their hit or scattered, looking for another target.

"Your dice, sir."

Lucas gathered up the dice and began shaking them slowly in preparation for his throw. This wasn't the big score, of course. He'd be the bettor, not the shooter, when they were ready for that. He was simply marking time and taking his turn in the rotation of shooters until the team was assembled.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the last team member drifting toward their table, pausing to watch the action at other tables in his show of indifference. They were just about ready to go.

"Come on, seven," Lucas said almost automatically as he raised his hand to throw the dice, and ...

"Just a moment, sir!"

A vicelike grip closed on his wrist. Startled, Lucas glanced around and discovered he was held by a black-uniformed security guard, flanked by two others.

"What ..."

"Let's have a look at those dice ... Hold all bets!"

Genuinely puzzled, Lucas surrendered up the dice he was holding to the guard with the red handlebar moustache. He had no idea what had prompted this interruption, since he had done nothing to cause any suspicion, justified or not.

The guard barely glanced at the dice.

"Just as I thought," he declared. "Check his pocket, Do-Wop ... the left-hand jacket pocket."

Before Lucas could gather his wits to protest, the greasy-looking guard next to him had plunged a hand into the indicated pocket and emerged with ...

"Here they are, Sarge. Just like you thought."

Lucas gaped at the pair of dice the guard was holding aloft.

There hadn't been any dice in that pocket ... or anywhere else on his person, for that matter!

"But ..."

"Thought you'd pull a little switcheroo, eh, sir?" The moustached guard smiled. "I think it's time you moved along ... if you'll follow me. No harm done, folks! Just keeping the Fat Chance tables honest. Reclaim your bets and pass the dice to the next shooter!"

Lucas barely noticed the shocked faces of the other team members as they faded back into the crowd. His entire attention was arrested by the firm hands gripping his arms as he was propelled gently but steadily toward the casino entrance.

"But I'm a guest at this hotel!" he managed at last, still trying to make sense of what had happened.

"Not anymore, you aren't, sir," the sergeant informed him. "You'll find your luggage waiting for you outside."

"But I didn't do anything! Honest!"

While he might have accepted the risks of his chosen profession, Lucas shared everyman's disbelief and indignation at being found guilty of a crime when he was, in fact, innocent.

"I know that, sir." The sergeant winked. "We just got tired of waiting for you is all. Now, if you'll step this way?"

Things suddenly snapped into focus in Lucas's mind.

"Wait a minute," he said. "If my luggage is waiting, then somebody had to have packed it before you ..."

Wrenching his arms free from his captors, he stopped dead in his tracks and pointed an accusing finger at the sergeant.

"You set me up!" he proclaimed. "There wasn't anything wrong with the dice I was holding! And he ... he planted that extra pair in my pocket!"

"Quite right, sir," Moustache said smoothly. "The dice were yours, though. We just took the liberty of moving them from your room into your pocket is all."

"My room?"

"Yes, sir. If I might suggest, sir, it's unwise to keep an extra couple dozen pairs of dice in your luggage when staying at a casino. It tends to make nasty blokes like us suspicious, and not everybody's as nice and understanding as we are."

"What ... you searched my luggage? Before I did anything?"

"Just looking out for the owner's interests, sir," the sergeant said.

"But that's ... that's ..."

"Illegal? Quite right, sir. It would seem that you're not the only crook on Lorelei, but, of course, you already knew that. The real trick, sir, is not getting caught. Now, if you'll step this way?"

Sprawled at a table near the open front of one of the casino's cocktail lounges, Doc and Tiffany watched the procession march past.

"You know," Doc said, "that actually looks like it would be fun. Maybe I should put in a request to stand regular duty once in a while. If nothing else, it would justify wearing these uniforms all the time."

The actress made a face as she sipped her drink.

"It's got to be more fun than troweling makeup onto Dee Dee the Dip five times a day," she said. "Wouldn't you know that, after making that big fuss about not wanting a live stage crew, now the computer's been dry-cleaned, she's insisting we keep working the shows?"

"All I have to do is work the curtains," Doc said, "but I know what you mean. Still, I suppose it's closer to show business than standing around watching drunks lose money day in and day out."

"Maybe for you, Doc, but you're used to working behind the scenes. For someone like me who's used to being in view in some capacity or other, working support is a real comedown. At least standing guard would be role-playing of sorts."

The stuntman cocked an eyebrow at her. "You sound kinda down, Tiff. Anything bothering you?"

"This just isn't what I expected when I signed on is all," she said with a grimace. "Or after our surprise briefing, either."

"I see," Doc said, then shifted in his seat to stare pointedly at the ceiling. "This wouldn't have anything to do with your efforts to charm our captain, would it?"

Tiffany glared at him for a moment, then broke into a rueful smile.

"Bingo." She laughed. "You know, when we were on the ship on the way here, I thought that he was just busy planning this operation, and that I'd see more of him once we got settled in. The way it's worked out, though, what with us working the showroom, I see even less of him than I did on shipboard."

Smiling, Doc signaled the bartender for another round.

"To be honest with you, Tiffany," he said, "I don't think it would make much difference. From all I can tell, our Fearless Leader is pretty much married to his work. Everyone I've talked to says pretty much the same thing-that they don't get as much time with the captain as they would like, while at the same time muttering that they're afraid he's pushing himself too hard. All in all, I don't figure him as being much for play, no matter how tempting the bait is or how often you wave it at him."

The actress smiled and laid a hand on his arm.

"Thanks, Doc," she said. "That helps a little. Maybe it's because I'm spending so much time in front of a makeup table these days, but more and more I catch myself staring in the mirror and wondering, `Have you lost it? Has time finally run out?' I guess a bit of insecurity goes with the job ... or with being a woman, for that matter."

"Well, for what it's worth, I don't think you've lost it," the stuntman said with a wink. "That's not just my opinion, either. In case you haven't noticed, Junior has a real thing for you."

"I know!" Tiffany exclaimed, rolling her eyes. "I'll tell you, Doc, I don't know what to do about him. It seems like every time I turn around he's there offering to run an errand for me or just staring at me like I just stepped off a half-shell or something. I mean, he's a nice enough kid and all that, but he's just that-a kid!"

Doc grinned. "He's not that young. You should talk to him sometime. He's really quite mature mentally. And it might help him see you more as a person than as a goddess."

"I might give that a try. You know, when it comes right down to it, he's really kind of ..."

"Excuse me?"

The two broke off their conversation as a young woman in a short, tight skirt, possibly one of the show girls, stepped up to their table.

"I thought you should know ... there's a man hurt outside."

"What?" Doc frowned, momentarily confused by the change in focus.

"In the alley beside the casino," the woman said, "there's a man lying on the ground."

"What makes you think he's hurt?"

"I don't know ... He's not moving. He may just be drunk. I didn't get that close. I just thought I should tell someone, and you're the first people I've seen in a uniform."

"Thanks," Doc said. "We'll look into it."

"We will?" Tiffany said, cocking her head as the woman marched away.

"Sure. Why not?" the stuntman said, rising to his feet and digging out some money for their bill. "Weren't we both just complaining about being stuck backstage? Besides, remember that as far as the guests are concerned, we're as much security guards as anyone else in a black uniform. It would be out of character for us to try to find someone else to send instead of going ourselves."

The actress glanced around the casino, but none of the regular troops were in sight.

"I suppose you're right," she said, gathering up her purse. "I guess we can handle it."

"Sure we can," Doc assured her. "There's two of us and only one of him, and it sounds like he's drunk, to boot. Besides, if he gives us any trouble, we're armed, remember?"

He patted the tranquilizer pistol in the holster at his hip.

Tiffany rolled her eyes.

"Please don't start going macho on me, Doc. One of the things I like about you is that you don't strut."

"Sorry," the stuntman apologized easily. "Hanging around with both actors and military types seems to bring out the melodramatic in me. Seriously, Tiff, I figure all we have to do is check to see what the problem is, then use our wrist radios to call for the appropriate help-if it's needed at all, that is. That much we should be able to do."

Even though it was still technically "indoors," the open air along the Strip was a pleasant relief for the mock Legionnaires after days of close confinement in the casino showroom. Because of the size of the Fat Chance, it was a several-minute stroll to reach the alley-a service access for the loading docks, really-and they took advantage of it, moving at an unhurried pace as they drank in the sights and sounds of Lorelei.

"You know, this place is really something," Doc commented as he shifted his gaze from the soaring light shows to watch the stream of people walking along the Strip. "I can't remember how long it's been since I've been outside. I guess working backstage, it's easy to forget just where the stage is located."

"Take away all the lights and glitz, and what you have left is more lights and glitz," Tiffany agreed, then frowned. "Say, speaking of being outside, didn't the captain say something about our jurisdiction only being inside the complex?"

The stuntman thought for a few moments.

"You know, you may be right," he said finally. "It seems to me there was something in one of those briefings. There were so many of them, though, I can't recall for sure. Oh well, we've come this far, we might as well take a look before we head back."

The light dimmed radically a bare dozen steps into the alley. The casino light shows were designed to impress and lure the tourists on the Strip, not the hired help, and there was little point in wasting wattage on areas traveled only by residents and employees. Walking down the alley was like entering another world, a land filled with shadows and blind angles giving it such an air of gloom and menace that it was hard to realize there were lights and teeming humanity a stone's throw away.

"I don't see anybody," Tiffany said nervously, peering into the almost impenetrable shadows that lined the access.

"Maybe he woke up and moved on," Doc said. "We'll just check a little further, then-uh-oh."

"What is it, Doc?"

"Just keep walking, Tiffany. Don't look back."

Too startled to think clearly, the actress immediately shot a look behind them toward the mouth of the alley.

There were three men, faceless in the gloom but unmistakably heavyset, following the mock Legionnaires. When they saw Tiffany had spotted them, they quickened their pace as if to close the gap separating them from the pair.

"Just keep moving, Tiff."

"Shouldn't we call for help?"

"It may be nothing," the stuntman said, though his tone said he didn't believe it himself. "If it is, though, I don't think they'd give us time to use our wrist radios. No, I figure our best bet is to try to make it to the loading dock, then-shit!"

A lone figure appeared ahead, blocking their path ... a figure that was noticeably larger than any of the three following them. It was as if the man had materialized out of the shadows, though he stood so motionlessly that he might have been there all along and simply escaped their attention.

"Okay, listen close, Tiff. We don't have time to argue," Doc murmured. "The odds ahead of us are still better than what's behind us. I'm going to brace this character, and you're going to keep going. Got that? Don't stop, don't look back until you get to the loading dock. Once you're inside, get on the radio and tell them where I am and what's going on-but only after you're inside."

"But ..."

"Just do it!" the stuntman hissed, then started angling away from her.

"Hold it right there, fellah!" he called to the figure ahead, who was now moving toward them in a curious, floating stride. "I said hold it!"

The figure kept coming, and Doc reached for his tranquilizer pistol ... far, far too late.

The stuntman's work had given him experience in fight scenes and falls that looked quite impressive in the holos, but in actuality were planned and choreographed to minimize the risk of serious injury. The few real fights he had been in were of the barroom variety, and even those were far behind him, since he had become much more of a homebody after his marriage. Nothing in his past, however, had prepared him to deal with, or even recognize the speed and agility of a professional athlete ... even a retired one.

His hand barely touched the grip of his tranquilizer pistol when the oncoming figure accelerated with bewildering speed. Unable to even sidestep, Doc felt the air rush out of his lungs as the man slammed a massive shoulder into his midsection, then he was lifted and carried backward as the monster continued to drive forward, paying no more attention to the stuntman's weight than a bull would give notice to a towel dropped across its horns. Something smashed into Doc's back, and he thankfully lost consciousness.

Tiffany watched in horror, her orders to run forgotten, as the attacker stepped back from the wall, still carrying Doc's now-limp body then flung it to the ground. Breathing heavily in what could only be described as animal growls, the man stared at her fallen companion for a moment, then kicked the still form savagely in the side.

That broke her trance.

Snatching her own tranquilizer pistol from its holster, the actress fired at the hulking menace.

There was a soft pfutt of compressed air when she pulled the trigger, but aside from that there was no indication that she had done anything at all.

She fired again ... and again ...

No effect.

In frustration, she hurled the weapon away and launched herself at the man's back.

He turned at the sound of her approach, then backhanded her lazily out of the air like a troublesome insect.

Tiffany hit the ground in a boneless heap and lay still.

"Big bad soldier boys, huh?" one of the men who had been trailing the twosome said, stepping out of the shadows where he had been waiting. "They aren't so tough."

Still coming down from the adrenaline high of battle, Stilman only grunted in response.

"Hey! This babe's a real looker," one of the other men called, turning Tiffany over with his foot. "Guess we're going to get a little pleasure with our business."

Stilman's head came up with a snap.

"None of that," he said sharply. "We mess 'em up a bit to remind them they're playing out of their league, but that's all."

"I thought Max said we could take the gloves off," the man said sullenly.

In reality, Stilman wasn't even sure that Max would approve of what they were doing. He had put this ambush together on the strength of her not giving him his usual order to "lay off the rough stuff." Taking a couple of the security guards out of action should be okay, but it was certainly a welcome change for the boys not to have to keep their hands in their pockets during a brawl. Still, Max was a woman, and Stilman was almost certain that she'd get upset if the crew got too frisky with the female Legionnaire.

"Never mind what Max says," he snapped. "I'm telling you to keep it impersonal. We're sending these guys a message to back off, and I don't want to confuse the issue with anything else. We're going to mess them up period! Got that?"

"Yeah. Sure."

Turning back to his original victim, Stilman raised his foot and brought his heel down sharply on the fallen man's leg.

The sound of the bone breaking echoed briefly off the alley walls.

"Do something to her face," he called back over his shoulder. "Women are sensitive about stuff like that."

"Beeker here."

"Yo, Beeker! It's me ... Chocolate Harry."

Leaning against the bar's back wall next to the public pay phone, Harry grinned as if the butler were standing in front of him instead of on the other end of the line.

"Hello, C.H. Sorry, but Captain Jester isn't in at the moment. If you'll just hold on, I'll have Mother patch you through to him."

"Whoa! Hold on there, hoss! I was callin' for you, not the cap'n."

The big man shot a glance around the bar to be sure no one was in hearing range, but the place was empty except for one couple sharing a late sandwich and beers.

"I see. Well then, what can I do for you, Harry?"

"I hear tell how you've been makin' a play for the Ice Bitch and thought I'd give you a call with a friendly warning. That's a real Stone Fox you're messin' with, bwana. Now, don't get me wrong ... you're one hell of a man, but that gal will eat you alive, manners and all."

There was a slight pause on the other end of the line.

"Are you, by any chance, referring to Ms. Laverna?"

"That's the one."

"Well then, I appreciate your concern and advice, Harry, but the truth of the matter is that Laverna and I are getting along rather well. In fact, I find her one of the warmest, kindest people I've met for some time."

"No foolin'?" The ex-biker was genuinely impressed. "Beeker, either we're talkin' about different women, or I'd be greatly obliged if you'd give me a few pointers on technique sometime over a few brews."

"I'd be glad to," the butler's voice came back. "But I'm not sure how much help I can be. I've never really considered my conduct with women as being `technique.' In fact, I make a point of being myself rather than trying to impress them, and the response has been favorable, for the most part."

"Hmmm. I dunno. There's got to be more to it than that," Harry said. "Every time I've tried bein' myself with the ladies, they tend to look around for a cop."

That got a laugh from Beeker.

"Of course, Harry, you should remember that when it comes to being oneself, you and I are notably different people. Still, I'll be willing to chat with you on the subject sometime, if you'd like."

"All right, my man, it's a date. Just say when and where, and I'll be there with a notepad."

"It will probably have to wait until this assignment is over," Beeker said. "I'm of the impression that while it's on, we're to avoid each other's company publicly, for the sake of secrecy."

"Yeah, I know." Harry sighed heavily. "Well, let me know when you think it'll be all right."

There was another moment's pause.

"Are you all right, Harry?" the butler said at last, a note of concern creeping into his voice. "Forgive me if I'm prying, but you sound a little down."

"I guess I am ... a bit," the ex-biker admitted.

"What's wrong? Is it anything you'd like to talk about?"

"I dunno ... It's just that ..." Harry struggled for a second, then the floodgates went down and the words came in a rush. "I just feel kinda cut off out here ... out of the information loop, you know? One of the things I've always liked about the cap'n is that he always made sure I knew what was goin' on, even when it didn't involve me direct. Now I only hear about some of the things that are happenin', and even then it's after the action is over. For the most part, I just stand around here and polish glasses and wonder what's goin' on with the crew. I'll tell you, Beeker, it's gettin' to me. You know, it seems like more and more often I see somethin' or think of somethin' and turn to point it out to the guy next to me, only there's no one there. I mean, there're folks here and all, but no one I can talk to. Know what I mean?"

"If it's not pointing out the obvious, Harry," the butler observed once the ex-biker had run out of words, "it sounds to me like you're lonely."

Harry thought for a few beats, then his face split in a wide smile.

"Damn! You know, I think you're right, Beeker! Son of a gun! That never occurred to me ... I guess 'cause I've never been lonely before."

"Excuse me, Harry"-Beeker's voice was gentle-"but don't you mean that until recently, you've always been lonely?"

If it was from anyone else, Harry would have simply laughed at the suggestion, but he had a great deal of respect for Beeker, so he gave the idea serious thought.

"I never thought of it that way," he said slowly, "but ... you know, it's funny. When I first heard about this assignment, I was really lookin' forward to bein' out on my own again ... gettin' away from uniforms, and maybe mixin' with a few of the folks like I used to hang around with. The way it is, though, I just can't get into it. There's even another biker here who keeps wantin' to talk about old times, but I have trouble gettin' fired up to brag about how bad the old club used to be. In fact, the more I think about it, the more it seems we ran on bullshit-all the time tryin' to impress each other with how tough we was so's nobody would think we was afraid. The fact is, the only place I've felt comfortable just bein' me is with the cap'n and the troops."

"I can't say I'm surprised, Harry," the butler said. "Of course, I've been with Mr. Phule for a long time now and watched the effect he has on those around him. Let me assure you that you're not alone in your reactions. After a lifetime of feeling one has to pretend to be something he's not, finally meeting someone who can not only accept but appreciate people as they are tends to generate-"

"Excuse me, Beeker," Harry interrupted. "Hang on just a sec."

A flurry of activity at the door had caught the ex-biker's attention. Four men had just trooped in, Stilman the obvious leader. Paying no attention to Harry, they took seats at a table and noisily called for a round of drinks.

"It's okay, Beeker," Harry said. "Just a little movement in the enemy troops. What was that you were sayin'?"

"Just that many people who had long since resigned themselves to being alone or the oddball in any group, find that ..."

Harry was only listening with half an ear, the rest of his attention focused idly on the table of heavies.

They seemed to be in a good mood, shaking hands and patting each other on the back, and he caught the flash of Stilman passing out thick envelopes, presumably full of money, to the other three men.

"Hold on, Beeker," Harry said, still eyeing the table of men. "There may be something goin' on here. You might want to pass the word that ..."

He broke off in midsentence, his blood suddenly turning ice cold.

Stilman had produced two objects from his pocket and was holding them up for inspection. From the back of the room, the ex-biker couldn't see too clearly, but he didn't have to. He'd know those things from a mile away. He should ... he'd issued enough of them.

Stilman was holding two of the company's wrist radios.

"Harry?" came Beeker's voice in his ear. "Are you there? What is it?"

"Listen close, Beeker," Hang growled into the phone, barely recognizing his own voice. "I may not have time to say this twice ... got me? Tell the cap'n to run a body count on the company. Fast. I think someone's in trouble. Only ... listen up, Beek ... be sure to tell him not to use the wrist radios for the check. In fact, tell him to pass the word to be careful what gets said over the radios period! It looks like the opposition has gotten hold of a couple of 'em, so there's a good chance they'll be listenin' in ... for a while, anyway. You got that?"

"Got it, Harry," the butler shot back. "Do you want him to get back to you when he's done?"

"Tell him not to bother. I'll get back to him later if I can."

"Harry, are you in trouble? You sound-"

"Just tell the cap'n," the ex-biker said hurriedly, and broke the connection.

Stilman had just gotten to his feet and, after one last round of handshakes, was heading out the door.

Forcing himself to move casually, Harry strolled behind the bar.

"Can you cover for me for a few, Willie my man?" he said. "I gots to slip out for a minute."

"I suppose so," the other bartender said. "It's not like it's real busy, or-hey! What's up?"

Harry had been fishing around under the bar, but now he straightened up holding a sawed-off pool cue loosely in one hand. Effectively a lead-weighted club, it was kept to break up fights and happened to be one of Harry's favorite weapons.

"You really don't want to know," he said with a wink. "In fact, you haven't seen a thing, sight?"

"If you say so." Willie shrugged, and pointedly turned his back.

Holding the weapon close to his side so it would not be noticed easily, Harry headed out of the bar, hurrying slightly to make up for the lead Stilman had on him.

Tiffany looked smaller stretched out in the clinic bed, the sight tugging at Phule's heart and conscience as he had known it would. He had been stalling making this visit since he heard the doctor's appraisal of the extent of the actress's injuries, even to the point of prolonging his conversation with Doc. The stuntman had been in surprisingly good spirits, remarkably good considering his two broken legs, and had even succeeded in putting the Legionnaire commander relatively at ease over the incident. That feeling had fled, though, upon first viewing Tiffany's bandaged face, draining away as if someone had pulled a plug in his mind and let his hastily constructed defenses run out like so much water.

She seemed to be asleep, and after a few silent moments Phule started to leave.

"Hi, Captain."

"Hello, Tiffany," he said, forcing a smile as he turned back.

"I don't suppose you know anyone who's casting for The Mummy's Bride, do you?"

The actress's hand came up to touch her bandages.

"I ... I don't know what to say, Tiffany," Phule stammered." `I'm sorry' doesn't start to express what I'm feeling."

"Sorry about what?" Tiffany said, raising herself slightly on her pillow. "You warned us it might be dangerous when you gave us that first briefing, and you gave us a chance to back out then. If anything, it's our fault, because we went against your set procedures. We were the ones who decided to play soldier on our own, going outside the hotel and not bringing one of your regular troops along."

The commander shook his head.

"I never imagined it would come to this," he said. "If I had, I never would have-"

"Listen to me, Captain," the actress interrupted. "It's our fault, not yours. Okay? If I don't blame you, don't go blaming yourself. I never should have let Doc talk me into tagging along."

"I'm sure Doc didn't think that-"

"Hey! I'm not trying to hang this on Doc, either," Tiffany said hurriedly. "I've been making my own decisions for a long time and living with the consequences, good or bad. I'm a big girl now, in case you haven't noticed."

"Oh, I've noticed, all right," Phule said, smiling in spite of himself. "Don't think that I'm totally insensitive or blind. It's just that running this outfit is taking a lot more of my time and attention than I had expected, and I really can't afford any distractions right now."

"A distraction, eh? Well, that's something," the actress murmured.

"Excuse me?"

"What? Oh, nothing." She managed to let him see her close one eyelid in a broad wink. "At least now I know what it takes for a girl to get you into her bedroom."

The smile disappeared from Phule's face as if someone had turned out the light.

"Since you're awake, Tiffany, I wanted to tell you not to worry about ... about the damage to your face. I've already put in a call for a plastic surgeon, and we'll be covering all the expenses and continuing your salary for however long it takes to erase any trace of what's happened."

"I know. The doctor told me, except ..." The actress turned her face toward the commander. "You know, it's funny. I was still groggy from the painkillers he gave me, but I think he said something about Maxine Pruet covering all the expenses."

Phule's expression tightened slightly.

"I know," he said. "I was told the same thing. We'll see about that. You just get some rest and concentrate on getting better and don't worry about where the money is coming from. I'll take care of dealing with Mrs. Pruet."

He started to ease toward the door.

"In the meantime," he continued, forcing a lighter tone into his voice, "be sure to let me know if there's anything I can do."

"Well ... there is one thing, Captain."

"What's that?"

"When you talk to the surgeon ... Is there any chance he could do a little work on my nose at the same time? I've always thought it was too big, and since he'll be operating, anyway ..." She let her voice trail off.

"Consider it done." Phule smiled, more confident now that Tiffany hadn't been merely putting on an act for his benefit. "I'll be sure he confers with you on what the final result should be, and you can make any adjustments you want."

"Thanks, Captain," she said. "I suppose it sounds silly, but-"

"Excuse me, Captain?"

They looked around to find Doc's son standing in the doorway to the room.

Tiffany waved. "Hiya, kid! Welcome to the horror show."

"Hello, Tiffany."

"Hi, Junior," Phule said. "Your father's right down the hall. He was awake a little while ago when I talked to him."

"I know, Captain," the youth said. "I've already been to see him, thanks: You're the one I was looking for."

"Oh?" The commander glanced quickly at Tiffany. "I was just finishing here, if you'd like to step into the hall."

"No, here is fine. In fact, I want Tiffany to hear this, too."

"Okay. What's on your mind?"

"Well ... the others asked me to talk with you, since I was coming over anyway to visit Dad." The youth seemed suddenly uneasy. "What it is, is ... well, we all appreciate what you told us, about paying off our contracts and sending us back to Jewell, but-"

"What? Wait a minute!" Tiffany broke in. "You didn't tell me anything about this, Captain."

"It didn't concern you," the commander said tersely. "Not for a while, anyway. You were saying, Junior?"

"Well, sir," the youth continued, squaring his shoulders, "we'd like you to reconsider your decision. We want to stay on until this thing is finished. As far as we're concerned, nothing has changed from the original agreement."

"Nothing?" Phule scowled. "That isn't how I'd describe what's happened to your father and Tiffany."

"I can't speak for Tiffany," the youth said. "But my father's had broken bones before. It goes with the job. As for the rest of us, we were warned of the possible danger involved in this deal, and we accepted it. Just because it's become a reality hasn't changed the terms of our contract. We're all ready to go on working for you if you'll let us."

"All of you?"

"Well, we haven't had a chance to check with Tiffany," the boy admitted. "That's why I wanted to discuss this in front of her."

"You can add my vote to that, kid," the actress said firmly. "It looks like I'll be stuck here for a while, anyway, but ..."

She pulled herself up into a sitting position, hugging her knees to steady herself. "Let me tell you something, Mister Phule. You may be some kind of hotshot in the business world, or even the military, but it seems you have a lot to learn about show business."

"I guess I do," the commander said, shaking his head slightly. "Would either of you care to enlighten me?"

Tiffany gave out an unladylike snort.

"It appears you have the common misconception that entertainers are hothouse flowers that have to be babied and protected. Well, nothing could be further from the truth. Our profession has never really been socially acceptable, and anyone who makes a living at it has had to put up with physical and mental abuse as a norm, not as an exception. You may think of the theater as being sophisticated and artsy, but our roots are in traveling troupes that were closer to carnivals and snake-oil shows than any black-tie opening night."

"We're used to butting heads with the locals," Doc's son supplied calmly. "It's almost like we're gypsies, and being hassled or exploited-or blamed for whatever goes wrong in the near vicinity-gets to be expected after a while. Usually we have to knuckle under and go along with things or risk being run out of town. This time, though, we've got the forces of authority on our side for a change. Heck, we are the forces of authority."

"What the kid's trying to say, Captain," the actress added, "is that we may be temperamental and sometimes quit a job in a huff, but nobody runs us off a stage ... except maybe the director or stage manager. In this case, that's you. Now, if you tell us that we're not performing up to snuff or that you have to make some budget cuts, that's one thing. But don't tell us we're being pulled from the cast for our own good. You hired us because we're all pros ... `real troopers' as the phrase goes. These yokels can't even imagine a situation bad enough to close us down if you say it's all right to keep working."

"The show must go on, eh?" Phule smiled wryly.

"That's about it," the youth said.

"All right." The commander sighed, reaching a decision. "Pass the word that any of the actors who want to stay on, can. Oh, and son ... ?"

"Yes, sir?"

"There's a tradition in the Space Legion that lets a recruit choose his own name when he signs on, and suddenly I don't feel comfortable thinking of you as `Junior.' Is there anything else you'd like to be called?"

The youth's face split in a sudden smile.

"Well, sir," he said, "I think I'll take my cue from the lovely lady here. Why don't you just call me `Trooper'?"

"Consider it done," Phule said. "Pass the word on that as well, and be sure to give everyone my personal thanks."

"Thank you, sir!"

The youth drew himself up and gave a snappy salute.

"Thank you, Trooper," the commander corrected with a smile, returning the salute.

"That was nice, Captain," the actress said after the youth had departed. "Would it be a horrible imposition to ask if I could give you a kiss before you left?"

"Tiffany," Phule said with mock solemnity, "it would be a pleasure."

The phone rang on the bedside table.

"Damn!" the actress snarled, then caught herself and smiled again. "Don't go away, Captain. I'm going to hold you to that kiss."

"I'll be right here," the commander promised.

The phone rang again, and the actress reached for it.

"Hello? ... Who? ... Oh ... No, I'm fine, thank you. It's nice of you to ask."

Catching Phule's eye, she covered the phone's mouthpiece with one hand while silently mouthing a name.

Maxine Pruet.

The commander's face hardened, and he held out his hand for the phone.

"Mrs. Pruet?" he said. "Captain Jester here."

"Good evening, Captain." Max's voice came after only the slightest pause. "I was going to call you next, but I should have known you would be there."

"Yes ... Well, I just wanted to tell you that while we appreciate the gesture of your offering to cover the medical costs, they're being paid by the Space Legion. We take care of our own."

"I'm aware of that, Captain ... now more than before, I'm afraid."

"Excuse me?"

"I was going to extend my personal apologies for what happened tonight, as well as my assurances that it was not done at my orders. It seems, however, my apologies would have been a bit premature ... all things considered."

"Forgive me, Mrs. Pruet, but I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, come now, Captain. I'm sure neither of us believes in coincidence. Do you really expect me to accept that it was sheer chance that Mr. Stilman was brutally beaten so soon after his attack on your members?"

"You can believe what you like," Phule said tersely, "but whatever happened, I'm unaware of it."

"I see." Max's voice was thoughtful. "Very well, Captain, I'll believe you ... if for no other reason than I can't think of why you would claim ignorance if you were responsible, since there has clearly been provocation. I'll admit that it struck me as strange that you'd use outside help rather than your own troops. For your information, however, the person responsible for the attack on your people tonight, Mr. Stilman-I believe you're familiar with the name, if not the person-is currently receiving medical attention for a shattered kneecap as well as multiple breakage to his jawbone. As I said, the coincidence is a bit too much for credibility, so I suggest you make inquiries within your own forces as to who ordered the attack."

"Excuse me, did you say that he's here? At this clinic?"

"No, Captain. He's at another facility. We have several clinics here on Lorelei, though it's not highly publicized. I felt it would create an unnecessarily messy situation if he were treated at the same location as your people. In fact, I'll be having him shipped off-station for intensive care on the next available ship. While I am far from pleased with his independent action, we take care of our own, too."

"I see." Phule frowned. "I was hoping I could speak with him directly about who it was who attacked him."

"His injuries make it impossible for him to talk, Mr. Phule." Maxine's voice was momentarily cold. "But he can write. I suggest that you confine your investigation to your own people to determine who ordered the attack. We already know who executed it."

"Who was it?"

"I already said that it was not one of your Legionnaires, Captain, and as the attack did not take place on the premises of the Fat Chance, I don't believe it's any of your concern. Now, if you'll forgive me, there are things which require my immediate attention."

With that, she broke the connection.

Phule frowned at the receiver for several moments before gently placing it back on its cradle.

"What is it, Captain?" Tiffany said, noting the expression on his face.

"I'm not sure," the commander admitted. "It seems that the person who attacked you and Doc has been ..."

A shrill beep from his wrist communicator interrupted him. Despite the urgency of the sound, Phule stared at it for a few moments before answering the signal. There were only a few of the command communicators such as he was wearing, so the radio silence order did not preclude the use of the exclusive channels. Still, he had left orders with Mother that he was to be disturbed only for an emergency while he was visiting the clinic.

"Phule here," he said, finally opening the line.

"Sorry to bother you, Captain," came Mother's voice without any of her usual banter, "but things are popping back here at the casino and I thought you should know about it. First of all, we've got the two missing communicators back, and-"

"Wait a minute. Who got them back?"

"It was sergeant ... Chocolate Harry, I mean."

"Harry! I should have known." Phule grimaced. "Listen, Mother. Pass the word: I want Harry pulled in fast! The opposition's looking for him. I don't care if it means sending out a team to escort him in, we've got to-"

"That's what I'm trying to tell you, Captain," Mother broke in. "He's already in. We've got him up in your suite. He's hurt, but he won't let us call a doctor. You'd better get back here pronto."

The supply sergeant was stretched out on the suite's sofa attended by Beeker and a small group of hovering Legionnaires when Phule arrived back at his room. He was stripped to the waist, and even from the doorway the commander could see the massive purple bruise that showed even against his dark skin, stretching from armpit to hip and across a large part of his rib cage.

"Hello, C.H.," he said. "It's good to see you again."

"Hey, Cap'n," came the weak response. "How's it goin'?"

The sergeant shifted his huge form, and Phule realized with a start that he was trying to rise.

"Just stay where you are," he said, moving quickly to Harry's side. "Well, I hear you've been busy tonight."

"You heard that, huh?" C.H. grinned, sinking back into his pillows. "Busier'n I expected, that's for sure. Man, that dude was fast! If I hadn't gotten his kneecap with my first shot, he would have cleaned my clock. Even as it was, he got me a good lick before I put him to sleep."

He gestured vaguely at his bruise with the opposite hand.

"So I see," Phule said sternly. "I want a doctor to look at that, Harry. No arguments."

"Don't do it, Cap'n," Harry wheezed, shaking his head. "I've been knocked around before, and this's nothin' more'n a few cracked ribs. I'm pretty sure the Max has the local medics in her pocket, and you bring one of 'em up here, she's gonna know I'm with you, and maybe start lookin' around to see who else might be Legionnaires in civilian clothes."

The commander hesitated.

"Please, Cap'n," the sergeant pressed. "I'll be all right ... really. Just let me get some sleep, and I'll be good as new."

Phule pursed his lips, then nodded.

"Beeker," he said, "I want you to stay close to Harry tonight. Watch him close. If there's any indication he's hurt worse than he's telling us, I want you to call me ... cancel that. Call a doctor, then call me."

"Certainly, sir."

"The rest of you, clear out of here and let the man get some rest. We'll keep you posted as to his condition."

"One more thing, Cap'n," the prone sergeant said, raising his head painfully.

"What is it, Harry?"

"The bulletproof material our uniforms are made of? Well, Stilman's outfit was made of the same stuff, probably standard issue for their troops as well. I don't think our tranquilizer guns will work against it."

"Don't worry, C.H.," Phule said grimly. "I already planned to have heavier armaments issued to everyone and to put an around-the-clock guard on Gunther. It looks like things are starting to get rough."

"Yeah, well, you might want to find that salesman and see about gettin' some of your money back." Harry grinned humorlessly as he let his head ease back down. "That stuff may stop penetration, but it ain't much good against impact. If he wants to argue, I bet there are four people who will be glad to give him a demonstration that he's wrong!"