"Stop it," whispered Laverna. "You're starting to sound like a recruiting sergeant." She peered at him intently. "You don't really mean it, do you?"

Beeker steepled his fingers. "I merely offer it as an alternative to staying here, recognizing as you do that eventually someone will decide that you know more than is good for them. As an intelligent and perceptive woman, you must have given some thought to making your escape before that moment comes. It seems to me that now, with your employer's influence waning and competitors beginning to circle, is as logical a time as any. But of course you have to judge the moment for yourself."

Laverna's eyes looked from one side to the other, making certain nobody was within hearing distance. "You know, Beeker, you might be right about that," she said. "I'm not going to make any decisions on the spur of the moment, you understand. But you have given me something to think about."

"Don't think too long about it," said Beeker. "The opportunity won't be here much longer, you know."

"I know," said Laverna, and she fell silent. The music system was playing a sinuous minor-key dance tune from two decades ago, music from when they'd both been young. An innocent time, before either had known much responsibility.

The conversation, when it resumed, moved on to other things.

8

Journal #329

The average visitor to Lorelei never even learned the location of Gladstone Park, let alone set foot in it. It was not one of the space station's leading tourist attractions-in fact, it was not designed for tourists at all. Its official function was to supplement the station's air-recycling system, cleaning the excess CO, from the atmosphere and replacing it with fresh, organically generated oxygen. The chemical processors were as close to perfect as to make no difference, but many customers persisted in believing that air "naturally" cleaned by twenty square kilometers of trees and grass was somehow better than the "artificial" stuff the recyclers produced.

Had it been their choice, the casino owners would have had no compunction about digging up the grass and trees and replacing it with a few more casinos. After all, it contributed nothing to the station's economy, which was almost entirely gambling-based. The tourists who'd come to Lorelei wanted artificial light and late hours and the frantic hustle-bustle of money changing hands. Just knowing that the park existed was a sort of security blanket for them. Very few tourists wanted to actually go there.

But the full-time residents-the workers in the hotels, casinos, bars, and restaurants-needed someplace to unwind, someplace they could look at a green surface other than the top of a craps table. A croupier might find it rejuvenating to ride a bicycle on his day off, and a cocktail waitress might enjoy sitting on a bench and resting her eyes by looking at flower beds. Even the bosses found the park a great place to take the workers for a corporate outing, to display their benevolence by setting out an opulent spread, and to prove that they still had the common touch by getting out on the field for a pickup gravball game with the employees...

Shortly after its arrival on the space station, Phule's Company had begun making regular use of Gladstone Park for training exercises. Its variety of "natural" terrain, from dense woods to open meadows to rocky hillsides made it a useful simulation of conditions likely to be encountered planetside on many worlds. After all, Phule had no illusion that the company's assignment to Lorelei was a permanent one. He knew that sooner or later, the Legion's top brass would give Omega Company an assignment that put it to the utmost test. When the call came, Phule wanted his legionnaires to be ready for it.

But today was a special exercise-not least because so many spectators had come. It was not unusual for a small group of Lorelei's inhabitants to observe the legionnaires' maneuvers. Some of these, Phule knew, were spies for rival casinos trying to spot some weakness in the troops guarding the Fat Chance Casino. He accepted the challenge and made sure the show was always sufficiently daunting to discourage anyone foolish enough to think about taking over the casino by force-not that any had been willing to make the attempt, after the convincing defeat of Maxie's bid.

Today, though, the exercise had been publicized, and had drawn a good crowd of curiosity seekers anxious to get a glimpse of the legendary Gambolts. The publicity had stressed the cat-like aliens' reputation as the finest troops in the galaxy, as well as their being the first Gambolts to volunteer to serve in a unit with other species. The publicity had not mentioned Phule's plans for the exercise. Since such plans were not usually announced in advance, nobody thought to comment on it.

Phule looked down at the gathering crowd from atop a portable observation tower the legionnaires had constructed to one side of the exercise field. There among the spectators were the three Renegades, peering intently at the Space Legion troops assembling below his position. Looking to see if Chocolate Harry has come along, he thought. Of course, the supply sergeant had been excused from today's activities. C.H. would have to deal with the Renegades eventually-that was a given-but Phule was not going to force him to abandon his defenses. The confrontation, when it occurred, would take place on ground of Harry's choosing. Phule thought he knew how to manipulate the outlaw bikers onto that territory. That was, in fact, one purpose of today's exercise.

He scanned the crowd with his stereoculars (not the milspec Legion-issue model, but a custom set from Optronix Ltd., with extra memory for stored images and enhancements for infrared, glare reduction, and infinite focus). Right away, he spotted two more familiar faces: reporter Jennie Higgins and holophotographer Sidney, covering the show for Interstellar News Services. Phule's Company had been hot media fare ever since the commanding officer's flamboyant style had come to Jennie's attention. The resulting attention had been a mixed blessing, but on the whole Phule was glad to have had it. Better a reputation you had to strive to live up to than one you wished you could live down.

There were other familiar faces among the spectators, too. There were half a dozen he recognized as security chiefs for rival casinos, undoubtedly here to pick up hints on his troops' capabilities. And despite her official abandonment of the attempt to run Phule out of business, Maxie had sent her assistant Laverna to view the happenings-or perhaps she had come on her own, although she didn't give the impression of being the outdoor, spectator sports type.

On the other hand, the crowd was full of the spectator sports types, most of whom had come to be entertained-and to bet on whatever was about to transpire. Several bookies had set up impromptu stands, ready to set odds and cover wagers. (It didn't matter that the exact details hadn't been announced; there was bound to be something to bet on, and somebody willing to risk a few units on the outcome.) Phule smiled; once the crowd saw what he had in mind, the bookies would be swamped with business. He was almost tempted to send Beeker over to place some bets on his behalf, but there was little point to it. Any bet large enough to be interesting would skew the odds to the point that he'd get a minuscule return-assuming the bookies were willing to cover it in the first place.

And, reluctant as he was to admit it, it wouldn't be a sure return. He was gambling-even without placing bets, he was gambling-on a system that was about to be put to its most strenuous test. It had been risky enough to pit his whole company against the Red Eagles, the Regular Army's elite company. Now he was pitting raw rookies against Gambolts, the most respected fighters known. He'd find plenty of bettors willing to go against him-and it was not going to be a sure thing.