"Umm ... a call came in, as you just heard, from Bombest that a reporter and a cameraman from Haskin's Planet were checking into the hotel," the lieutenant recited in a monotone. "Lieutenant Rembrandt decided, and I agreed with her, that-"

"Wait a minute. When did all this happen?"

Armstrong studied his watch carefully before answering.

"Approximately fifteen hours ago, sir."

"Fifteen hours? Why wasn't I informed?"

"I suggested that at the time, sir. When we tried to get through to you, however, Mother informed us that you had gone off the air less than an hour before to get some sleep, and Remmie said ... excuse me, Lieutenant Rembrandt mentioned that you had encouraged her to make more command decisions on her own, so she decided to deal with the matter herself without disturbing you ... sir."

"I see," Phule said, grimacing a bit himself. Then he cocked an eyebrow at the lieutenant. "It sounds like you were there for the whole thing. Didn't you say that it was Lieutenant Rembrandt's shift?"

"Yes, sir. I ... I was sort of hanging around before taking my formal shift. I was awake, anyway, sir, and thought I'd give her a hand while I was up. She's done the same for me several times."

"You're supposed to be using your time off to get some sleep and otherwise relax, Lieutenant. That's why we set up the schedules the way we did. Otherwise, you'll be functioning at less than peak efficiency if something happens while you're on duty."

"Yes, sir. I'll remember that, sir."

"Now, tell me ..."

"Of course, it would help if the captain set an example for us ... sir."

The commander eyed him for a moment.

"Lieutenant Armstrong," he said at last, "are you trying to change the subject?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, forget it. I want to know what happened to the reporter."

"She's being held in her room under guard; sir. Also her cameraman. In adjoining rooms, that is, sir."

"What?"

Even though Phule had been half expecting the answer, he was nonetheless stunned.

"It was all we could think of to keep her from-"

"You kidnapped a member of the interstellar press? Against her will?"

"It seemed impractical to wait until we could do it with her will, sir."

The commander shot a hard look at his junior officer, but Armstrong never cracked a smile.

"All right, Lieutenant. While you're coming up with clever answers, perhaps you can explain to me why I wasn't informed of this when I woke up and came back on the floor. I believe it was your shift then?"

"I started to tell you, sir," Armstrong said, still holding his deadpan expression. "At the time, however, you were getting ready to lead the expedition to confine the casino manager in his room ... against his will. If the captain will recall, I asked for a moment of his time, and was asked if it was important."

Phule frowned, vaguely recalling the brief exchange. "And you didn't think this was important?"

"I assumed the captain was asking if my question was time sensitive, and in my best judgment, it wasn't. The captain should recall that at that point, the reporter had already been confined for several hours, and I did not think that a few more hours would significantly change the situation, or her mood ... sir."

"I suppose there's a certain logic there ... even if it is a little twisted."

"Thank you, sir."

"There's still the question, though, of why you didn't mention it just now when I asked for your report."

"I ... I was working my way up to it, sir," Armstrong said, letting a small grimace flicker across his face.

Phule glared at him for a moment, then heaved a big sigh.

"Well, what's done is done," he said. "In the future, however, I want it understood by you and Lieutenant Rembrandt that any incident of importance, particularly one involving the press, is to be brought to my attention immediately. That's immediately, as in at the time it occurs, whether I'm asleep or not. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir. I'll keep that in mind, sir."

"All right. Now, are there any other little incidents that I should be aware of?"

"Excuse me, sir, but there's one more thing you should know about Jennie."

"What's that?"

"When we were informing her that she was to be confined to her quarters, she said ... well ... among the things she had to say, she indicated that she already knew that we had substitutes standing in for some of our troops."

"She did?" Phule said with a frown. "I wonder how she figured that out. Probably too many unfamiliar faces in that news coverage we got when we arrived. Oh well. I'll have to remember to ask her when I get around to talking to her."

"Is that to say you won't be dealing with the matter right away ... sir?"

The commander grimaced. "As you so logically put it, whatever damage has been done won't change significantly if she has to wait a few more hours. Right now, we have matters to deal with that are time sensitive."

Maxine loved casinos.

There was a rhythm to them, almost like the pulse and breathing of a huge animal, a predator on the prowl. Small white balls rattled in the silently spinning roulette wheels and cards were slapped from shoes to the accompaniment of the monotone chants of the pit crews, the repetition of words giving an almost ritualistic, religious air to the proceedings, interrupted only by the occasional yips of glee or curses of the players. Every twenty minutes the pit crews would be pulled for a break, their replacements stepping in without missing a beat in the tables' rhythm. When the rested crews returned, they would be inserted into another pit, often rotating their positions so that someone who had been dealing blackjack would now be working a roulette wheel, while the pit bosses watched with flat eyes to see if anyone was following a particular dealer from post to post.

Yes, a well-functioning casino was a living, breathing predator ... and it fed on money.

Maxine surveyed the casino floor, drinking in the almost electric flow of excitement that radiated from the tables. She was dressed elegantly in an evening gown as befitted a grand opening, but if she had been wearing rags and tatters-or nothing at all, for that matter-no one would have noticed. Lady Luck was a cruel coquette who demanded the total attention and concentration of her suitors.

There was no sign of anything amiss, but that wasn't surprising. If the various imported cheats were half as expert as their reputations would indicate, their actions would go undetected, especially with the assistance of the crooked dealers seeded through the pit crews. If the casino was an animal, then they were leeches, quietly bleeding it of the money that was its sustenance until it wobbled and fell. The casino might think of itself as a predator, but this time the Fat Chance was, in actuality, a fatted calf.

"I don't see any big winners," Stilman said, breaking his silence as he stood at her side. "Are you sure this is going to work?"

Maxine shot a distasteful glance at him.

Stilman's tuxedo was tailor-made and fit him superbly, but he wore it like a warm-up suit. Even to the casual observer, he showed all the grace and style of a penguin on steroids.

"I keep telling you, Mr. Stilman," Max said, "this is supposed to be a subtle operation. Subtle as opposed to obvious. You should know by now that's my style of operating. While I can appreciate the skill and conditioning required by your specialty of physical action, I prefer to only use it for diversions or as a last resort."

That settled, Maxine turned her attention to the casino floor once more. Unfortunately, however, Stilman's grumbles had planted a worm of worry in her mind, and she found herself straining to detect any big winners or steady trends at the tables within her immediate sight.