“I still like it,” said Zigger. “Are you from Teloon?”
“No, I got on back at Fiano,” said the human. “I’m on my way to Mussina’s World to join the Space Legion.”
“No goofing!” said Zigger. “That’s where I’m bound, as well. I guess we’re going to be comrades in arms. What’s your name?”
“Well, they say that legionnaires don’t tell anybody their real names,” said the human. “They only go by their Legion names. The only problem is, I haven’t decided on mine yet. Have you got one picked out?”
“Sure,” said Zigger. He’d been thinking about his Legion name ever since his first decision to enlist. He’d looked into several books about Old Earth, hunting for something with just the right feeling. The answer, when he’d found it, seemed just right. “You can call me ‘Thumper,’” he said.
“Thumper. That’s pretty sly,” said the human. He wrinkled his brow, then confided. “I’ve been thinking about calling myself ‘Sharky’—you think that fits?”
Zigger looked the human up and down, then nodded. “It’s you,” he said, not quite sure what made him say so.
But it was obviously the right thing to say. “All right!” said Sharky. “Thumper, you and me gotta stick together. They say the Legion drill sergeants eat recruits for breakfast. Between the two of us, I bet we can keep each other one step ahead of the game. Is it a deal?”
“Sure,” said Zigger—no, his name was Thumper now. Thumper grinned, and said, “I’ve got a whole bunch of Poot-Poot tri-vees. Come sit next to me and we can watch ’em while we figure out what we want to do now that we’re Legion buddies.”
“All right,” said Sharky again. “Look out, sergeants—here we come!”
* * *
“Yo, Soosh, c’mere,” said Do-Wop, grinning evilly. “I got a swindle that can’t lose.”
“Right,” said Sushi, raising an eyebrow. He’d been listening to Do-Wop’s harebrained schemes ever since Captain Jester had made the two of them partners. Almost without exception, he’d ended up having to talk Do-Wop out of his grandiose plans—most of which had some loophole big enough to drive a space liner through. “What’s the plan this time?”
“This one’s as solid as neutronium,” confided Do-Wop. “You know how Chocolate Harry runs a big-ass poker game every time he wants some spare cash, which is like every couple-three days?”
“Sure,” said Sushi, leaning back on the fender of a cargo carrier. He folded his arms over his chest and looked Do-Wop in the eye. “Don’t tell me you’re going to try to cheat the sarge at his own game. It’ll never work.”
“Nah, this is even sleener,” said Do-Wop. “I’m gonna get up my own game and swindle everybody else.”
“Not very likely,” said Sushi. “I know you. You lose every time you play poker with C. H., and every other time I’ve ever seen you play. What makes you think it’ll be any different just because you’re the one running the game?”
“Because I’ve been watching the sarge, and I finally figured out how he cheats,” said Do-Wop. “It’s so evil, I don’t know why I didn’t think of it myself.”
“Really?” Sushi was impressed in spite of himself. If Do-Wop had actually caught the Supply sergeant cheating, he’d done something that had defied the best efforts of the entire company for as long as anyone remembered. “How does he do it?”
“Scope this out,” said Do-Wop. He glanced around to make sure there were no eavesdroppers, and lowered his voice. In a dramatic whisper, he said, “The fat old snarkler drops out of a hand when he ain’t got good cards.”
“What?” Sushi’s voice rose nearly an octave, and his mouth fell open in surprise.
“Shh, you want everybody to hear what it is?” said Do-Wop, peering around worriedly. “I tell ya, it’s a pure stroke of genius. Why, a dude could get rich overnight doin’ that.
“Do-Wop, that’s not cheating,” said Sushi. “It’s the way you’re supposed to play poker.”
“Oh, su-u-ure,” said Do-Wop, scornfully. “Go try that one out on Tusk-anini—it ain’t gonna fly with me. If what you said was true, why don’t everybody play that way?”
“Now there’s a question well worth asking,” said Sushi, grinning. “In fact, I think I’m going listen to myself and ask it. Why don’t you play that way?”
Do-Wop’s jaw dropped. “What, and miss the chance of winning a really big one? Believe me, Soosh—there ain’t no bigger rush than when everybody looks at your hand and thinks it’s total crunk, and tries to boost the betting so’s to clean you out, and then your last hole card gives you that sure winner.”
“Right,” said Sushi, with a sigh. “So how often does that happen?”
“All the time, man,” said Do-Wop, excitedly. “I had a hand like that just a couple weeks ago. Had to draw a six to make my straight on the last card. I hung in there and got the sucker, on the last card. Woulda cleaned house, too—but all the dudes except Double-X had folded before then, and I only won seven-eight bucks on it.”
“Uh-huh,” said Sushi, unimpressed. “And how many times do you play for that kind of hand and wind up with crunk anyhow?”
“Sometimes it happens,” Do-Wop admitted. “But hey, like C. H. says—you never go for it, you never get it!”
“Yeah, he would say that,” said Sushi. “You know, I’d be tempted to give you a lesson about poker odds, except I seem to remember that you got one of those from Tullie Bascomb back on Lorelei, and it obviously didn’t take. Maybe he was right—it’s a waste of time to wise up a sucker.”
“Hey, who you callin’ sucker?” said Do-Wop. “If you wasn’t my buddy …”
Whatever he was about to say, it was cut off by a fresh voice. “Good mornin’, boys. Would y’all be interested in a little special project I just cooked up?”
The two legionnaires turned to see Rev standing just behind them, with the half sneer that was the closest he came to a smile. “Yo, Rev, what’s up?” said Do-Wop.
“A li’l ol’ electronic reconnaissance project, I think would be the best thing to call it,” said Rev. “When I ran into this here problem, I couldn’t help but think of you boys, rememberin’ how you were the ones that cracked the Nanoids’ transmissions. How’d you like to do somethin’ along that line for me?”
Sushi shrugged. “Depends on what you’ve got in mind,” he said. “Why don’t you start talking, and we’ll let you know whether it interests us.”
“Sure, sure,” said Rev, glancing around the parade ground. “But I’ll tell you what—why don’t y’all come into my office, where maybe it’s a little more private? Then I can tell you the whole thing.”
“Lead the way,” said Sushi. “Come on, Do-Wop, this might be fun.”
“What the hell, it’s a slow day,” said Do-Wop. The two legionnaires fell into line behind Rev and followed him to his office. At first, Sushi didn’t know whether or not to make anything of the fact that Rev led them on a roundabout route instead of using the entrance nearest to his office, where Flight Leftenant Qual and two of his fellow Zenobians were working on some of their electronic equipment.
But when Rev began to describe his plan, Sushi understood.
* * *
“All right, tell me about these games,” said Victor Phule, standing in the middle of the Fat Chance Casino’s main gambling floor. “How do they work, and what does the house get from them?”
“Yes, sir,” chirped the young resort PR person Tullie Bascomb had assigned to show him around. Marti Mallard was blond and perky, dressed in a short, tight skirt—the very image of a cheery bubblehead. Phule knew better than to take her at face value. He’d already had a look at the casino’s personnel files, and noticed that Ms. Mallard had graduated magna cum laude in Interspecies Studies from Libra Arts University, followed by a business degree from Taurus Tech. Underneath that perky exterior was a steel trap of a mind, and her presence on the Fat Chance Casino’s staff showed that his son’s personnel department hadn’t been completel
y asleep when it put her on the job.
“The most popular attraction in almost all casinos is the slot machines,” said Marti, leading Victor Phule into a large bay filled with customers happily pumping tokens into an array of quantum slots. “One of the leading points of our ad campaign has been Captain Jester’s decision to make the Fat Chance Casino’s slot machine payouts the highest on Landoor …”
“I wish you wouldn’t call my son by that stupid Legion name,” growled Victor Phule. “What exactly is the payout percentage on these machines, and why did my idiot son have to go raise it? That sounds like it’d cut into profits.”
Marti moved closer to Victor Phule, and said in a low voice, “You probably don’t want to talk about that in front of all these players, Mr. Phule. The fact is, even after your son shaved off one percent of the casino’s percentage on the slots, it’s still by far the most profitable of all the games we offer. No matter how big the jackpots are, on the whole, we’re taking in a steady twenty percent of every dollar played.”
Just then a bell began ringing, accompanied by bright flashing lights and a honking Klaxon. “Yes-s-s-s!” shouted an enthusiastic voice, and along the ranks of avid quantum slots players, many (but far from all) heads turned to see what had set off the noise, which now included an electronically amplified victory march. “There’s one now,” said Marti. “The bells and lights mean it’s at least a thousand dollars. We want to make sure everybody knows when there’s a big winner.”
Victor Phule was incredulous. “You’re giving away a thousand dollars?”
“Of course,” said Marti. She managed somehow to whisper out of the corner of her mouth without losing her bright smile. “The players have to believe that they have a chance to win—and win big—if they’re going to come here instead of one of the other casinos. On any given play, a player has a chance to win a jackpot of a hundred, a thousand, even ten thousand dollars—and when one of them does hit a jackpot, we give them the bells and lights so nobody can forget they have that chance.”
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.
Chapter Four
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 shuttl
e 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 all over 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 about 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.
“Wait a minute,” said Phule, interposing himself between Snieff’s two assistants and the hoverjeep. “That’s a Legion vehicle. You can’t impound that …”
“We certainly can,” said Snieff, haughtily. “Inspector Gardner, show him the subpoena.”
The third member of the team, a tall thin man with long reddish blond hair and a goatee, grinned and handed Phule a folded envelope. On one side it was marked, “Recycled Paper.” Phule turned it over to read the other side: “Alliance Ecological Interplanetary Observation Union: Inspection Order and Subpoena.”
“Subpoena?” asked Phule, blinking. “Inspection?”
“Sir, I believe I understand the situation,” said Beeker. “This is obviously not the party of, ah, visitors we were expecting. This is an Environmental Inspection team from the Alliance Ecological Interplanetary Observation Union. And I’m afraid, sir, that they are perfectly within their rights to impound any vehicle suspected of improper emissions. The laws are quite explicit on that subject, sir.”
The Complete Phule’s Company Boxed Set Page 116