This beleaguered calm was shattered, however, as the first of the hover limos eased into the loading zone in front of the Plaza and disgorged its cargo of Legionnaires and luggage. Phule was in the lead vehicle, and left his charges to struggle with their personal gear as he descended on the front desk.

"May I help you, sir?" the desk clerk said, nervously eyeing the gathering mob visible through the front door.

"Yes. I'm Willard Phule. I believe you have a reservation for me... a hundred rooms and the penthouse?"

The desk clerk hesitated for a moment, then moved to his computer terminal... coincidentally placing himself farther from Phule's reach.

"Yes, sir. I have it here. Willard Phule... the penthouse."

"And a hundred rooms."

"I... I'm sorry, sir. My records only show the penthouse."

The commander's smile tightened slightly, but aside from that he showed no annoyance.

"Could you check again? I made the reservation a week ago."

"Yes. I remember it coming in. It seems to have been canceled."

"Canceled?" Phule's voice hardened. "By whom?"

"You'll have to speak with the manager about that, sir. If you'll wait just a moment, I'll get him."

Without waiting for a reply, the clerk bolted through the door behind the desk, leaving Phule to fidget impatiently as the lobby behind him began to fill with Legionnaires.

Lawrence (never Larry) Bombest might be younger than most wielding his title and power, but early in his career it was apparent that he was a born hotel manager. He ruled the Plaza with an iron fist, and though the employees chafed under his tyranny, they were nonetheless grateful of his unshakable certainty when crisis struck, as so often happens in the hotel business, and, as now, were quick to duck behind him in times of trouble. Many a wave of tired, angry traveler had broken against this rock without moving or altering it in the slightest, and he brought the sureness of a veteran with him as he emerged from his office and took in the situation at a glance.

"I am the hotel manager. What seems to be the trouble, sir?"

The commander squinted briefly at the manager's brass name badge.

"Yes, Mr. Bombast. My name is Willard Phule and I'd like to know who canceled my reservation for a hundred rooms."

Safely out of the line of fire and sight, the desk clerk struggled to hide a smile. Phule had inadvertently hit upon the staff's nickname for Bombest... Bombast... though, until now, no one had uttered it to his face.

"That's Bombest, sir... and I canceled that reservation myself. "

"May I ask why?"

"Certainly. I assumed there had been a typographical error on the part of whoever placed the reservation. It was done by computer rather than through our staff, and I've found that such errors are commonplace." The manager gave a smug smile, which was not returned. "Realizing the cost of a hundred of our rooms for a period of several weeks would be, shall we say, prohibitive, and, not being sure if the actual request was for one or ten rooms, I canceled the reservation as a courtesy. At the time, I felt we could accommodate you on site according to your actual needs."

"I see. I don't suppose you bothered to run a check on the credit card number that accompanied the reservation?"

"That is correct. As I said, the cost would be prohibitive."

Phule made a magician's pass with his hand and dropped his credit card on the desk in front of the manager.

"I think that should settle the question of prohibitive cost." To Bombest's credit, he neither gaped nor cringed at the sight of the card, but rather made a show of turning it over to examine the signature on the back. It was a Dilithium Express card, reserved for the ultra-rich in the galaxy and normally only used to expedite the buying and selling of companies. Despite his outward calm, the manager began to experience a vague niggle of fear that he had bitten off more than he could chew.

"I see," he said slowly.

"And now that I'm on site, as you put it, shall we proceed with accommodating my needs? What I need is the hundred rooms I reserved... as you can see."

The commander indicated the now full lobby with a jerk of his head.

Bombest was fully aware of the crowd. Since seeing the Dilithium Express card, he had been weighing the potential windfall of business against the horror of admitting a full company of Legionnaires to his domain. Realizing that his salary would not be affected one way or the other, he reached his decision.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Phule. At this time, we don't have enough rooms available to grant your request. If you'd like, I could assist you in finding other accommodations more... appropriate to your party."

The manager was fully prepared for the burst of anger that an announcement such as this invariably drew. He was, however, taken by surprise when Phule responded instead with a lazy smile.

"I don't want to argue with you on this, Bombast..."

"Bombest. "

"... since, you see, the same computer I used to place that reservation told me that of your hundred and fifty rooms, barely a dozen are currently occupied. Instead, I'll point out that there are three possible solutions to our little impasse. First, I could bring a complaint against you and the hotel under the law which states you can't refuse lodging to anyone on a basis of race, religion, sex, or occupation... but that's a lengthy, annoying process and doesn't satisfy my immediate need for rooms. Second, you can start handing out the keys like a good fellow. Third... "

The commander's smile broadened slightly .

"... I can buy this hotel and have you replaced with someone who exercises better judgment when it comes to protecting the owner's interests."

The casual reference to his legal vulnerabilities unnerved Bombest slightly, but he was also aware of the obvious lack of knowledge behind the third solution Phule had voiced, and rallied gamely behind that.

"What I meant, sir, was that, due to the low occupancy you referenced, we are currently understaffed to accommodate a party of your size in the manner the Plaza is famous for, and, rather than tarnish that reputation, I would suggest you would be happier at another hotel. As to the possibility of your actually purchasing the Plaza"-the manager allowed himself a slight smile-"I'm afraid that's a rather hollow threat. You don't seem to be aware that we are not singly owned, but a part of a chain of hotels, which is, in turn, owned by a rather large conglomerate. I doubt you could interest them in entering into negotiations over a single unit."

Phule shook his head in slow dismay.

"Actually Bombast..."

"Bombest. "

"... I'm afraid it's you that's not fully aware of the situation. Your chain is owned by the Webber Combine, and Reggie Page is the CEO-that's chief executive officer-at least until the next meeting of the board of directors, which happens to be in three weeks. Now, he's in a spot because he's already stretched the combine's credit to the limit for their new resort complex on Parna II, and the contractors have just gone on strike. That's the third disaster they've had in the last quarter, and if he doesn't come up with some ready cash to buy them off fast, the whole project, not to mention his own job, will go down the toilet. That's why I think he'd be interested if I offered to take this place off his hands."

Bombest could feel his forehead growing damp, but Phule wasn't finished.

"I want to point out, though, that my mentioning this option wasn't a threat. Now, I could buy this place, but the paperwork involved would take at least twenty-four hours, which would mean that I'd have to move my people into another hotel until the deal was finalized. The problem there is that I've already told them that they'll be staying here, and if I have to go back on that, if I get embarrassed in front of my new command because of your silly-ass games, then, after you're fired, I'll not only see to it that you never work on this planet again by purchasing any company you apply at, I'll block your leaving even if it means buying up every seat on every outbound ship for the next year. That's a threat. See the difference?"