Ernie was looking forward to renewing that acquaintanceship. He still had hopes of finding out exactly what Phule's real plans were. They couldn't possibly be as stupid as trying to win a jackpot big enough to break the bank, as Phule had insisted he was doing. And just maybe, he could find out where Willard Phule was, so he and Lola could decide whether or not to change their original plan of kidnapping the young Space Legion captain who was majority stockholder in the casino. Whether they could convince the people who'd hired them to go along with a change in plans was another problem. Ernie preferred not to think about that one, just now.

He sat down at a blackjack table and played a few hands. The cards weren't running his way, and he ended up dropping three hundred dollars in fifteen minutes. It was hard to keep his hands from shaking; here he was, frittering away more than his entire daily budget before Victor Phule had tossed him a chip and told him to play the slots. A person with any brains at all would probably pocket the money and get the hell off Lorelei. But, of course, Ernie wasn't going to do that. Lola was the brains, and she'd told him to come back here and play with it. She didn't have to tell him twice.

He stood up and wandered over to a roulette table; he'd get worse odds, but the game was more in line with the high roller image he was trying to project. A perky redhead with a really spectacular figure was watching the action waiting for two or three blacks in a row, then sliding a large bet onto the red, figuring it was more likely to come up now. Ernie had heard somewhere that it didn't make any difference how many times one color came up, the odds were still the same old fifty-fifty on the next turn of the wheel. That didn't make sense to Ernie. If you couldn't trust the law of averages, there wasn't any point to gambling at all.

Ernie bellied up to the table alongside the redhead. He slipped a fifty-pazootie chip out of his pocket and placed it on the red, right next to hers. Startled, she looked up at him. He grinned at her, not worrying for the moment about what Lola would have to say if she found out about it. Hey, I gotta play the role, he told himself.

The croupier announced the end of betting with the traditional incomprehensible phrase in some forgotten Old Earth language. Impulsively, Ernie pulled a second fiftybuck chip out of his pocket and put it atop the first just as the wheel began to spin. The redhead's eyes widened, and she turned a very curious sidelong stare at him before returning her gaze to the wheel.

Ernie caught himself involuntarily holding his breath as the wheel spun. He made himself relax. If he was supposed to be a big spender, a hundred bucks shouldn't be a big deal to him. Hell, a thousand shouldn't be that big a deal.

In a little while, he was going to go throw that much into a slot machine in a couple of pulls, and unless he got really lucky, he wasn't ever going to see it again.

The wheel slowed, and the redhead leaned forward, showing off a nice stretch of decolletage. Ernie wondered if it was for his benefit, and decided it probably was. He chuckled, and managed to keep from turning right around to stare at her. As interesting as she might be, he had to remember his real purpose here. More importantly, he had to remember what was likely to happen to him if Lola found out he'd been fooling around with some bimbo in the casino. Yes, those were the words she'd use. Then she'd use considerably harsher words directed at him. And unless he got very lucky, the harsh words might be followed by a stream of very hard objects flung in his direction.

It probably wasn't worth it, Ernie thought, even as the roulette wheel came to a stop and showed the ball resting in a red slot. He-and the redhead-had won. She let out a whoop, and gave a little jump, brushing up against him on purpose, he was sure. He was going to have to be very disciplined. He was going to hate it, but that was the price a fella had to pay.

Even so he managed to smile as the redhead brushed up against him again and turned her big eyes his way as he scooped up his winnings.

12

Journal #714

The most common question asked of a legionnaire-at least, by civilians-is "Why'd you join the Legion?" The most common answer, in my experience, is "To get a fresh start." While that answer may not be strictly true in every case, it does possess a great deal of psychological validity. A genuine fresh start in life is a rare thing indeed; even the illusion of a fresh start can lead to a significant alteration in a person's outlook. An a in fact, more than almost any other institution in society, the Legion does offer a fresh start to those who come to it in search of one.

The fact that so few of its members take any significant advantage of the opportunity is hardly to be held against the Legion.

Thumper bounded out of bed; it took him only a moment to reach the jangling wake-up alarm and turn the buzzer off. That was all it took to remind him that he was in a new place. It also reminded him, inevitably, of everything that had happened the night before. He shook his head; there was no changing what was past. He quickly washed up, threw on his black Legion jumpsuit, and went out to find some breakfast. Then he would report to Sergeant Brandy's training squad, as she had instructed him the previous afternoon. It was good being allowed to eat before having to stand in formation-Thumper decided that this was another one of the ways Omega Company was a significant improvement over Legion basic camp.

He loaded up his tray and turned to look for a seat at one of the tables. To his surprise, there were a couple of legionnaires beckoning to him from the nearest table. "Hey, new guy, come sit with us!" said one of them-a small human with a hairless head and a wide smile.

Encouraged, Thumper took one of the empty seats at the long table. "Thanks for the invitation," he said. "My Legion name's Thumper. What about you guys?"

"I am Mahatma," said the one who'd invited him. "And until you came, I was one of the new guys in Omega Company. So you have caused me and my friends to become veterans, for which we owe you many thanks." The others introduced themselves: a small human named Super-Gnat, and her partner, a Volton named Tusk anini; two Gambolts named Dukes and Rube; and two other humans named Roadkill and Street. As it turned out, several of them, including Mahatma, were also members of Sergeant Brandy's training squad, to which Thumper had been ordered to report after breakfast.

"Is this going to be anything like Legion basic?" Thumper asked.

Mahatma smiled. "I went through basic training with Brandy, so I have nothing else to compare it to," he said.

"Sergeant Brandy can sometimes be obstinate, but she is usually capable of adapting to circumstances."

Tusk-anini snorted, and said, "Mahatma has not seen many other sergeants. I have. All of them were tough, and Brandy is tough, too. But better than most sergeants, she understands that not all sophonts are just humans with funny faces. That is a good thing to know, for a sergeant"

"But she will make you work hard," said Rube. "I hear you are a fast runner and a good jumper."

"Well, 1 guess so," said Thumper. "They told me 1 set a camp record for the obstacle course in Basic."

"Ah, yes-the obstacle course," said Dukes, brushing crumbs out of his whiskers with one paw. "Captain Jester has us run the obstacle course, too. 1 believe that we do it differently from other Legion companies. It will be interesting to hear what you say after you run it with us."

"Uh-huh," said Thumper, suddenly cautious. "I guess we'll see what it's like when it comes up." He sensed some deeper meaning behind the Gambolt's comment, some unspoken subject he'd best not commit himself on until he saw its complexities firsthand. He took a forkful of salad to chew on, hoping that someone else would pick up the thread of the conversation.