Phule’s Paradise by Robert Asprin

“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.