“Well, you better figure it out, Junior, or there’ll be a Gambolt sleeping in the lobby,” said Brandy. “I don’t think she’d eat any customers, but she might take a bite or two out of the staff. So the sooner you get her a room, the better.”
“I’m trying, ma’am,” the desk clerk repeated. “If this try doesn’t go through, I’ll enter it manually.” His expression was sulky and put-upon, but by the way his fingers flew over the cyborged touchpad imprinted on the skin of his left forearm, he was taking Brandy’s threats very seriously indeed. Brandy continued to scowl, although she suspected she was already getting all the mileage she could out of sheer intimidation.
So it was purely by chance that she happened to look away from the registration desk just in time to see a small, black-clad figure round the corner of the counter and sprint toward her. This must be the intruder Mother had warned everyone about!
Whether by instinct or training-after so many years in the Legion, it was hard to tell where one left off and the other began-she dropped into a defensive crouch. Her attention now focused, she registered consciously what she’d been hearing in the background-voices raised, and feet hurrying in pursuit.
“He went through there!”
“Hurry, before he gets away!”
And louder than the rest, “Spy!”
“Hold it right there,” she said in a voice that radiated the authority of a veteran top sergeant. To anyone with the barest minimum of military training, that voice was nearly impossible to disobey. And sure enough, the black-clad figure came to a momentary halt. In that frozen fraction of a second, she saw a meter-tall lizard, dressed in a miniature Space Legion jumpsuit. They stared at each other for perhaps a full second.
Brandy was already in motion before the lizard broke out of its frozen stance. She dove straight toward its midsection. But the lizard was quicker than she was. It sidestepped to the left, watched Brandy sail past it to land flat on her belly, and turned to dash off toward the open door across the lobby. “Get him, Garbo,” barked Brandy, sprawling at full length on the floor.
The lizardlike alien, which had appeared to accelerate to top speed in two strides, made a feint to the left, then dodged back to the right, and leaped its own height into the air. Brandy’s mouth fell open just watching the alien move.
Garbo was quicker.
Without seeming to have moved at all, the Gambolt was waiting when the lizard came down, and calmly placed one paw on the lizard’s collar, the other in the middle of its chest. Her claws were visible, spread wide on the lizard’s chest. “Do not move,” said Garbo. The look that accompanied the words was pure feline anticipation. It was difficult for a human observer familiar with cats to escape the impression that, if the lizard attempted to escape, Garbo would have a great deal of enjoyment recapturing it, and the lizard would not.
“Very good, you have apprehended me,” said the lizard, in a translator-generated voice. “That is first-class work, and I am impressed indeed. Now, I wish to report to Captain Clown.”
Brandy had managed to recover her breath and climb to her feet. The troops who had been in hot pursuit of the lizard had lined up behind her, waiting for her orders now that the fugitive was apparently captured. She looked at the lizard in disbelief.
“Captain Clown?” she asked, frowning. “There’s no such person. Who the hell are you, anyway? You’re not any member of this outfit, but you’re wearing our unit patch.”
The lizard assumed a more upright posture-difficult, with the Gambolt still keeping it under close guard. “I am Flight Leftenant Qual, Zenobian Space Command,” it said. “I am attached to this company as military observer. Orders require me to report to Captain Clown, and I hereby request to be taken to him.”
“Military observer?” said Brandy. She motioned to Garbo, who slightly relaxed her grip on the Zenobian’s collar. “I do remember something about that, now. But why were you sneaking around the place and running away from my people when they spotted you?”
“I am observing,” said Qual. “Part of this job is to cipher out how troops are ready for surprises, so I make a surprise. You catch on very quick, especially this one.” He indicated the Gambolt who had collared him.
“I still think he’s a spy, Sarge,” growled Gabriel, who looked winded from the chase. There was a mutter of agreement from the others who’d been pursuing the Zenobian.
“Quiet,” ordered Brandy, turning around. “We’ll let the captain figure that out. You all return to your posts; we’ve got this under control. Dismissed.”
“Right-o, Top,” said one of the troops, but there didn’t seem to be much enthusiasm in it. They turned and headed back to their posts.
Brandy turned back to Qual and Garbo. “OK, we’ll bring you to the captain to report in as soon as we finish here. By the way, his name is Jester, not Clown. Garbo, make sure he stays put.”
“Yes, Sergeant,” came the translated voice, almost purring this time.
The Zenobian seemed calm, as far as Brandy could tell, not that she had much practice reading the facial expressions of a scaled-down dinosaur. But the Gambolt was ready for anything, and that was all that mattered right at the moment.
Brandy turned back to the desk clerk, who stood gaping at the scene in front of him. He wasn’t alone; so were most of the customers. They’d come to the Fat Chance looking for excitement, but none of them had quite bargained for what they’d just seen. It was hard to tell whether they were favorably impressed or not.
Brandy had other business to worry about. “Well, Junior, have you got that problem with the room fixed yet? Or do I tell the Gambolt she’s sleeping with you tonight?” The clerk turned white, and frantically began punching keys again.
“What the hell is going on here?”
Lieutenant Armstrong looked at the supply depot, a hotel delivery bay modified to the Legion’s specifications. The depot had looked perfectly ordinary when Armstrong had come by early that morning. Now, the entire area resembled an armed camp. There were cartons of field rations and heavy-machine oil piled up as barriers, with razor wire strung between them. Farther back was a bunker made of soap boxes, the peak of a helmet visible just above it.
Despite himself, Armstrong felt a touch of pride that the Omega Mob could accomplish something so quickly. It had never been that way before Phule had arrived.
“Halt and identify yourself,” came a mechanical voice from behind the barbed wire barricade. “Keep your hands in sight, and make no sudden moves.”
“It’s Armstrong,” said the lieutenant, straining to see the speaker. “Louie, is that you? You know me, Louie. What’s the situation here? It looks like you’re ready for an invasion.”
“Do not approach closer,” said the voice. “What is the password?”
“Password?” Armstrong frowned. There’d been no password needed to enter the supply depot before-in fact, there’d been nothing to stop any curious passerby from walking up to it from the street beyond. Something must have changed. “Chocolate Harry, are you in there?” he called. Perhaps the supply sergeant would let him in and explain this strange game-whatever it was.
“There is nobody named Chocolate Harry here,” said the voice. “Do not approach closer, and keep your hands in sight.”
Armstrong raised his hands, putting his mouth within range of the wrist communicator. “Mother, there’s something strange going on at supply,” he said softly. “Can you patch me through to Chocolate Harry?”
“If I can’t do it, nobody can,” said Mother’s voice. “Keep your pants on, sonny, and we’ll hook you right up.”
After a moment, another voice came through the speaker. “Who’s there? Make it quick, I ain’t got much time.”
“Harry, is that you? This is Armstrong. What in the world is going on here?”
“You sound like Armstrong, all right, but I gotta be sure,” said Chocolate Harry’s voice. There was a brief hesitation, then “OK, who led the Galactic League in free flies last season?”
“Huh?” Armstrong thought frantically. Finally he said, “I don’t know. Harry, this is ridiculous-I don’t know anything about gravball.”
“Hah! It’s not gravball, it’s scrumble. That’s enough for me, though-you gotta be Armstrong. Ignorantest dude I ever saw when it comes to sports. What you want, Lieutenant?”
“Harry, I’m right outside the supply depot. The place looks like a fortress. What are you guarding-chips from the casino?”
“Right outside, hey? You see anybody suspicious out there, Armstrong?”
“There’s nobody here except me! Tell your guard to let me in-I’m on company business.”
“OK, Lieutenant, but hurry-and don’t make any funny looking moves. Louie’s got an itchy trigger appendage.”
Lieutenant Armstrong stood up and smiled, waving to the Synthian on guard. He moved gingerly through the hastily implanted barriers outside the door to the supply depot, uncomfortably aware of Louie’s shotgun aimed at him the entire time. Finally, he reached the door; it opened a crack and he saw the muzzle of a splat gun pointed at him briefly before the door opened wider to admit him. “Come on in, man, have a seat. Fix you a coffee?” Chocolate Harry said, beckoning; his gaze remained fixed on the area outside. Armstrong dashed through the door and plopped himself onto the proffered chair.