The room seemed to reel around the manager as he had a sudden vision of his face and misdeeds being publicized stellarwide.

"You ... you wouldn't," he said.

"We wouldn't unless we felt it was necessary to protect our interests," Phule corrected. "Personally I'd suggest you take the more salvageable alternative of a quiet dismissal. Then again, perhaps you can convince Mr. Gunther here to reinstate you. After the opening, of course."

"Is ... is there any chance of that?" Huey said, looking to the casino owner.

Gunther shrugged. "Maybe. But only if-how did you put that again, Willie?"

"Only if you succeeded in convincing Mr.. Rafael that your loyalties were now properly aligned," the commander supplied.

"How could I do that?"

"Well, for starters you could tell us everything you know about Max's plans, beginning with the `special guests' that have been invited to the grand opening," Phule said. "If nothing else, that should burn the bridge between you and your old cronies. By the way, you might as well tell us directly. We've pieced together enough on our own that I'm afraid Max will assume you've sold her out, whether you do or not. I suggest you use what information is left to bargain for some protection."

"Here's your key, Mr. Shuman-room 2339-and welcome to the Fat Chance Casino. Front!"

With the deftness born from many years' practice, the clerk slapped the small bell on the registration desk, summoning a valet before the guests could stop him.

"Elevators are this way, sir," the valet said, materializing between the elderly couple and their only piece of luggage.

Snatching up the bag with ease, he led the way, leaving the twosome to trail along behind him.

"Well, Mother, we're here!" the portly gentleman declared, giving his wife a hug with one arm as they walked.

"Henry ... how old would you say that young man at the front desk is?" the frumpy woman at his side inquired.

"Oh, I don't know," the man said, glancing back. "Late twenties, early thirties, I'd guess. It's hard to tell with kids these days. Why do you ask?"

"Just curious," his wife said with a shrug. "He struck me as being a bit young to be wearing a hearing aid."

Shuman had also noticed the device in the desk clerk's ear, although, at the time, he had tried to convince himself it was inconsequential.

"I don't think it was a hearing aid," he said. "More likely some kind of paging radio or a hookup with the phones. I haven't been keeping up with all the electronic gizmos they've developed lately."

"I suppose you're right," the woman said, then returned his hug as if he had just given it. "It is hard to believe we're here, isn't it? After all these years?"

Though the implication was that the couple had been working and saving for years planning for a once-in-a-lifetime vacation, the real truth was hidden in this statement.

In actuality, they had been banned from nearly all casinos for close to five years now. Their guise of retired, unsophisticated grandparents was as complete as it was disarming, allowing them to pull off numerous forms of cheating requiring anything from sleight of hand to complex systems which, to the casual eye, would be assumed to be well beyond their abilities. They had, in fact, relieved most of the major gambling centers of sizable amounts of money before the casinos managed to compare notes and realized that they were not the harmless tourists they seemed to be.

They had been lured from "retirement" by a promise that they would not be recognized at this particular casino, as well as by a hefty bankroll to fund their charade. Though they were excited at the possibility of once more being able to dust off their long-practiced performance, they still had to fight off the nervousness that at any moment they might be recognized.

"This place really is something, isn't it?" Henry said, making a show of rubbernecking around as they were escorted into one of the elevators.

"Hold the elevator!"

The bellman caught the door with his hand in response to the call, and a broad-shouldered, chisel-featured young man in a black uniform burst into the car.

"Sorry for the inconvenience," he announced in an offhand tone that didn't sound apologetic at all, "but I have to commandeer the elevator for a moment."

As he spoke, he used a key to override the control panel and punched a button. The door closed, and the car began to move-downward instead of up.

Shuman suppressed a quick feeling of irritation, fearing that to protest would be out of character.

"Is something wrong?" he said instead.

"No. Everything's under control," the man assured him, sparing him only the briefest of glances before returning his gaze to the floor indicator.

"I didn't know this place had a basement," his wife said, tightening her grip on Henry's arm slightly. "Aren't we on a space station?"

Realizing she was making small talk to cover her nervousness, Henry nonetheless played along.

"I imagine it's some kind of storage area," he said. "All the rooms are ..."

He broke off as the elevator stopped and the doors slid open. Framed in the doorway was another black-garbed figure, an older man with a bald head and a theatric handlebar moustache.

"Got two more for you, Sergeant," their fellow passenger announced, nodding at the bellman, who unceremoniously tossed their bag out of the elevator.

"Very good, sahr!" the bald man said, barely sparing the couple a glance as he consulted the clipboard he was holding. "Let's see, you would be Henry and Louise Shuman ... or should I call you Mr. and Mrs. Welling?"

The use of their correct names eliminated any hope Henry might have had of bluffing their way out of the situation with bewildered indignation.

"Whatever," he said, taking his wife's arm and ushering her out of the elevator with as much dignity as he could muster as the doors slid shut behind them.

"I don't suppose you're hard of hearing, are you, Sergeant?" his wife asked their captor.

"Excuse me, mum? Oh, you mean this?" Moustache tapped the device he was wearing in his ear. "No, this is a direct hookup with the folks at the front desk. Mr. Bascom has one, too. He's watching on a closed-circuit camera, and when he spots a familiar face, he tells the clerk and they get relayed down here to us."

"Bascom?" Henry frowned. "You mean Tullie Bascom? I thought he retired."

"That's right, sir," the sergeant confirmed. "Seems you two aren't the only old war-horses being reactivated for this skirmish."

"I see," Henry said. "Well, tell him we said hello, if you get the chance."

"I'll do that, sir," Moustache said, flashing a quick smile. "Now, if you'll both join the others, it shouldn't be long now."

As he spoke, he gestured toward a cluster of chairs and sofas which had been set up in the service corridor. There was an unusual assortment of individuals sprawled across the furnishings, ranging in appearance from businessmen to young married couples to little old ladies and obvious blue-collar workers. While Henry did not recognize any of them, the studied casualness of their postures and the uniform flat, noncommittal looks that were directed at himself and his wife marked them all as being cut from the same bolt of cloth. These were grifters and con artists who, like the Wellings, had been caught in the security net. While the setting was pleasant enough considering the situation, and there was no indication of rough treatment among the captives, Henry could not escape the momentary illusion of a prisoner-of-war compound, possibly due to the black-uniformed armed guards spaced pointedly along the wall.

"What are you going to do with us, Sergeant?" Henry said, eyeing the assemblage.

"Nothing to worry about, sir," Moustache said, flashing another quick smile. "After we've collected a few more, you'll all be loaded into a shuttle bus and given a lift back to the space terminal."