In short, there was a studied sense of timelessness which permeated Lorelei-for a specific reason. The longer people gambled, the better it was for the casinos. While there might be the occasional “lucky hit” or “hot run,” if the players kept betting long enough, the house odds would catch up with them, and all their winnings, plus whatever they were willing to lose of what they brought with them, ended up in the casino vaults.
This was the real trap of the Lorelei’s song, and many who arrived by private ship left by public transport. Others, who could no longer afford even public transport, were absorbed into the station’s work force until they could raise enough money to leave, which rarely happened, as they would usually succumb to the temptation of the tables once more, trying desperately to “build a stake” while the house yawned and raked in their savings. Those that did manage to escape, vowing never to return again, were quickly replaced by the next shipload of eager faces and fat wallets, each planning to have a good time and maybe win an instant fortune on a lucky roll or turn of a card.
There was a seemingly endless supply of these replacements, as the publicity machine of Lorelei was mercilessly effective, and unceasing in its quest to find yet one more way to keep the lure of Lorelei in front of the public. Thus, it was no surprise to insiders that the media had been alerted and was waiting when the Omega Mob arrived on Lorelei.
“Excuse me, Mr. Phule?”
The Legionnaire commander halted, not ten paces from stepping off the gangplank, and blinked in surprise at the figure blocking his way. The pudgy man was wearing a fluorescent-green jumpsuit with a large blue bow tie, leaving one with the quick impression of being confronted by a prize-winning frog.