In the same lounge where the “incident” had taken place, another meeting was going on, though to the casual observer it would appear to be nothing more than a few friends relaxing over drinks. The mood of the gathering, however, was anything but relaxed.
“He’s still a bit groggy,” Stilman was saying, “but he swears he never even saw the guy start to swing. Now, Lobo may not be too quick upstairs, but he’s been in enough fights to know what he’s talking about, and he says this big guard is the fastest guy he’s ever tangled with!”
He glanced fearfully out the open side of the lounge into the casino as if expecting to see the Legionnaire under discussion appear at any moment.
“I don’t know,” he concluded. “Maybe Lobo just picked the wrong guy to lean on. Maybe this alien type has faster reflexes than normal. Maybe … I don’t know.”
“Maybe you just sent the wrong guy on the assignment,” Laverna said. “Maybe you should have used somebody who could think as well as fight.”
“Hey, stay out of this, Ice,” Stilman snapped, turning his head slightly to glare at her. “You may know numbers, but I’m the expert when it comes to rough stuff. Remember?”
“Are you aware, Mr. Stilman, that though they are very intelligent, Voltrons have slower reflexes than humans?” Maxine said carefully, ignoring the byplay.
“Really?” The big man scowled. “Well, maybe Lobo tied onto one of their athletes or something.”
Maxine sighed heavily. “Tell him, Laverna,” she said.
“Listen up, Stilman,” her companion said with a smirk. “The word we’ve got is that your man didn’t get taken out by the guard. Word is, he got hit from behind by one of the cocktail waitresses.”