"It looks like I'm on a hot streak today," he said. "Been cleaning up over at the roulette table all morning."

"Good for you," said Victor Phule. "The owners don't know it, but they're giving money away hand over fist. My idiot son thinks the way to run a casino is to give the best odds on the station. I'm trying to show him the error of his ways. A few lucky customers taking home big jackpots ought to put the icing on the cake."

"Well, I'm all for that," said Ernie. "Can't let these young whippersnappers think they know everything," he added, as if he were somehow old enough to be entitled to the sentiment.

"His biggest mistake was running off and joining the Legion instead of settling down to business," growled Phule, only half-listening. "Now he thinks he can run a business from halfway across the Galaxy. Well, I won't say it can't be done, but you need some real experience under your belt, real business experience. None of this rah-rah save-the-universe crap."

Ernie, whose business experience consisted almost entirely of scams and petty theft, nodded sagely. "No substitute for knuckling down and getting your hands dirty," he said. "Not a job for weak sisters."

"Just so," said Victor Phule. "Say, how'd you like to take another crack at the slots? If you're on a lucky streak, you're just the man I need. If you win a big jackpot, it'll show the boy the consequences of setting the odds too much in favor of the customers."

"Sure, why not?" said Ernie. He was enough ahead of the game that he could afford to throw a few tokens into the slots and still have a little nest egg so that he (and Lola) could afford another couple of weeks on Lorelei. By then, he hoped, they'd have made some kind of breakthrough. If not... well, as usual, he'd deal with the problem when his other choices ran out.

He followed Phule into the elephants' lounge. As usual, nobody was playing the thousand-dollar slots. Even the most well heeled bettors generally considered it foolish to drop that much on such a low-return bet. Other than Phule and Ernie, there hadn't been more than the occasional dabbler, who typically put in one or two tokens, then went on to play something that delivered better odds. Which was almost everything else in the Fat Chance Casino.

"All right," said Ernie, fishing in his pocket for the thousand-dollar chips. He had ten of them, now. He picked a likely-looking machine--not that there was any noticeable difference among them-and put a chip into the slot. He grabbed the handle, then turned to Phule. "Say, by the way-what's a partner's share of the casino stock actually worth? Must be pretty valuable, considering they're charging a thousand bucks for a chance to win it."

"I guess it's valuable enough, if you want that kind of property," said Victor Phule. "Probably fifty or sixty million, if I were going to guesstimate."

"I see," said Ernie. All of a sudden his palms began to sweat. He looked at the machine he'd just pumped a thousand dollars into. Fifty or sixty million, Victor Phule had said. Of course he'd dreamed of having that kind of money, but actually having it had never been remotely probable. Fifty or sixty million... He pulled the handle and the machine display became a whirl of rapidly changing symbols. .

He eased up on the handle, and one of the electronic "wheels" stopped on a golden bar that framed the words "FAT CHANCE" in bright blue letters. The other symbols continued to change rapidly. He waited, trying to feel the right moment, then gave the handle a little jiggle and watched a second "FAT CHANCE" golden bar appear. All right! he thought. Now, any symbol but a lemon would give him a decent return for his play. The machine was of course carefully calibrated not to turn up another gold bar.

The first two were supposed to make him think he'd just missed, and pump another token--or a dozen or more into the machine. But a bell or a cherry or a rocket ship were always possible... He gave the handle a little pull toward him, then released it. The final wheel came to a stop.

It was a third golden bar, with the words "FAT CHANCE" in bright blue letters. A bell started ringing somewhere very close, and, after a pause, tokens began pouring out of the machine.

Victor Phule stood openmouthed, speechless. But he was nowhere near as surprised as Ernie, as a loud siren added its noise to the bell, and happy music began playing.

In front of his face, a sign was flashing off and on:

"SUPER JACKPOT!!!" That was echoed in the back of his mind by a little voice saying, Fifty or sixty million, over and over and over...

13

Journal #723

The fascination of some men-it is invariably men-with implements of destruction never ceases to amaze me. While all collectors are by definition fanatics, the connoisseur of weapons takes this quality to an extreme. Even if one grants in principle the historical, and (1 will even grant) the artistic appeal of certain weapons, surely no civilized person can entirely forget their gruesome purpose.

1 find it particularly paradoxical that these aesthetes of destruction insist on having the finest weapons possible at their command. As if the victims would somehow be insulted to learn that their demise had been brought about by bargain-basement artillery, with secondhand ammunition!

Phule and Armstrong came in sight of the hunters' camp just as another loud explosion shook the air. Armstrong involuntarily ducked. "Great Ghu, I hope they're paying attention where they point that thing," he said. "It sounds Eke a cannon."

"For all we know, it is," said Phule. "According to Ambassador Gottesman, they've come to Zenobia planning to shoot some dinosaurs. I don't even want to speculate on what kind of weapons they thought they'd need for that."

"Civilians," grumbled Armstrong-just before another, even louder explosion caused him to duck again. "What the hell?"

"It came from over there," said Phule, pointing to the left of the row of three luxury-grade Ultra-tents facing them. "Let's find out what's going on." They found the hunters in a group, huddled around a selection of weapons ranging from antique firearms to what looked alarmingly like a milspec rocket launcher, supposedly unavailable to the civilian trade.

"Let's try this one," said one of the group. "The salesman told me it'd knock anything up to five thousand kilos right off its feet."

"Five thou?" said another. "Hell, if they got real dinos on this planet, not that I've seen hide nor hair o'one..."

"You won't, either," said Phule, stepping forward. "The local fauna are pretty diverse, but I've yet to see anything with hair-at least nothing indigenous." Startled, the hunters whirled around to face them. "Captain Jester!" said the man who'd spoken first. "We didn't hear you coming."

"I'm not surprised, with all the noise you've been making," said Phule, with a smile. "You really ought to wear ear protection if you're going to be using those big cannons. By the way, would you mind pointing that one the other way?" He gestured toward the large-bore double barreled rifle the hunter was cradling under one arm.

"Oh yeah, sorry," said the hunter-Euston 0'Better, Armstrong recalled. He shifted the weapon to one side, and said, "It ain't loaded, anyways." To prove his point he pulled the trigger. The weapon roared, and O'Better nearly fell backwards from the recoil. At the same time, a gaping hole appeared in one of the ultra-tents.

"Hey, why don't you watch where you're shooting?" came a woman's voice from inside the tent, shortly followed by the emergence of a compactly built brunette in shorts. Her hair was up in curlers, and her expression could have curdled milk at a hundred yards. "Oh, hello," she said, "I didn't know we had company."