"You'd think so," her aide said. "The only thing I can figure is that he's holed up with someone-someone who's better at hiding things than we are at finding them."

"Like young Mr. Phule, for example?"

Laverna eyed her employer for a moment.

"Excuse my asking, Max, but is he going to take the blame for everything that goes wrong for us from now on?"

"I'm not getting paranoid or obsessive-not yet, anyway." Maxine smiled. "Think about it for a moment, Laverna. It makes sense. We have a network of spotters all through this space station. We should be able to locate anyone in a relatively short time, yet this one gentleman who is rather memorable in appearance eludes our efforts. Now, where is our current blind spot-or, at least, where is our web the thinnest?"

"Right here at the Fat Chance," Laverna admitted.

"Correct," Max said. "Now, add to that our suspicions that the attack on Mr. Stilman was not entirely coincidental-that there is some link between our fugitive and the forces under Mr. Phule's command."

"I thought he told you that he didn't have anything to do with it."

"He may have lied," Max said, "though I somehow doubt it. What he specifically said, though, was that he didn't know anything about it. It's my guess that one of has subordinates indulged in a little independent action, just as Mr. Stilman arranged the attack on his own. Anyway, with those two pieces-our lack of information on the internal workings of the Fat Chance and the possible connection between our missing bartender and someone in the security force-I don't think it's unreasonable to conclude that he might be hiding right here, in this complex."

Laverna thought about it.

"It's possible," she said. "It still bothers me, though, that they used free-lance help instead of going after Stilman themselves. That doesn't make sense."

"It may have been to keep their own hands clean if anything went wrong," Max said. "Besides, young Mr. Phule hasn't been averse to hiring outside specialists before. Look at the computer auditors he sneaked in on us."

"That's true," her aide said. "You know, that's something else that's been bothering me."

"What's that?"

"Well, for some things, like the computer jockeys, they've been going outside, but for the crew that was working the stage at the showroom, they used their own people. I would have thought that they'd hire some specialists for that, too." She shook her head. "Oh well, I guess it's just that he had some show business people in the Legion, but nobody who really knew computers."

"Just a moment, Laverna." Max was suddenly alert. "Say that again."

"What? You mean about there not being any computer experts in the Space Legion?"

"No, before that. You said he must have some show business people in his force."

"That's right. So?"

"So what if all the security force aren't from the Space Legion? What if some of them are actors?"

"You mean stand-ins?" Laverna frowned. "That's interesting. I guess if that were the case, I'd be wondering where the soldiers were they were replacing."

Maxine was staring into the distance. "I was just recalling something Mr. Stilman said-about how he wasn't impressed by the security force, but that the complex had the toughest staff he had ever run into. What if young Mr. Phule decided early on that uniformed guards were of limited value, and that instead he was going to put a portion of his force to work under cover, seeding them through the staff as waitresses or cooks?"

"Or bartenders!" Laverna supplied. "That would explain the guy who jumped Stilman!"

"Of course that means he hasn't restricted himself to infiltrating the staff for this complex," Maxine continued thoughtfully. "He could have people anywhere, including as guests." She snapped her fingers suddenly. "Weren't you saying a moment ago that he must have had more information about our plans than Mr. Martin could provide? Who have we shared our plans with recently? In detail."

"Jonesy!" her aide gasped. "You mean-damn! Posing as someone from the Yakusa. Now, that takes brass!"

"Audacity seems to be something young Mr. Phule is not lacking in-or his troops, for that matter," Max said grimly.

The two women lapsed into silence, each analyzing this new hypothesis.

"Well," Laverna said finally, "I guess that clinches it. Without knowing how many he's got scattered around or who they are, I don't see any way we can put something together by the deadline."

"Oh, it's true that we'll probably have to abandon our efforts to gain control of this enterprise," Maxine said, "but that doesn't mean I'm ready to quit the field. Not just yet, anyway."

Her aide frowned. "I don't think I follow you."

"There's a fallback, contingency plan I've had in mind for some time now. Something that will at least recoup our investment and give us a chance to pay young Mr. Phule back for his interference. Now seems an appropriate time to implement it."

"What plan is that?"

"It's really simply a matter of shifting our aim from a target which is defended to one which is not. Actually, Laverna, you deserve at least part of the credit for this. You gave me the idea yourself back when Mr. Phule arrived on Lorelei with his troops."

"I did?"

"Certainly. I recall specifically your pointing out that young Mr. Phule comes from a very rich family."

Beeker was jarred awake by the discordant jangle of the phone next to his bed. Bleary-eyed, he glanced at his watch to see how long he had been asleep, but abandoned the effort when he realized he had no recollection of when it was he had gone to bed. Not for the first time, he found himself annoyed with the Lorelei timetable, or lack thereof, which made any adherence to a schedule next to impossible.

The phone rang again.

Rather than reaching for the instrument immediately, the butler took a moment to compose himself. Perhaps business tycoons could function while giving the impression of being rushed and harried, but that simply wouldn't do for one in his position.

Again the phone jangled.

"Beeker here."

"Beeker, what the hell's going on there?"

The voice was a surprise, not so much for its statement as in its identity. Even in its agitated condition, the butler had no difficulty recognizing it as belonging to Victor Phule, his employer's father.

"Unfortunately, sir, I am unable to reply to that query-at least until you have calmed yourself sufficiently to properly identify yourself."

"Oh. Sorry. This is Victor Phule, Beeker, and-"

"Ah yes. Good evening, Mr. Phule. How may I help you?"

"You can start by telling me what's going on there on Lorelei!"

The butler rolled his eyes in exasperation. He had hoped that by forcing his caller into following formal protocol, the elder Phule would also be coerced into discussing rationally whatever it was that was bothering him. Clearly, however, this was not to be the case.

"Events on Lorelei are meticulously chronicled by the media, sir," he said. "Or is there something specific you require information on?"

There was a long pause on the other end of the conversation.

"Look, Beeker," the voice came at last, grim but in control. "Are you trying to be cute or do you really not know what's going on? I just got a call from some old dragon who says she's holding Willard, and that unless I pony up a hundred million, they're going to ax him or shove him out an air lock or whatever the hell they do to kill someone out there."

"I see," the butler said. "No, Mr. Phule. I assure you this is the first I've heard about it."

"Do you think it's on the up-and-up?"

"Yes, sir. I believe I know the parties involved, and they do not strike me as the sort to attempt to bluff on something of this magnitude. I'm afraid the probability is quite high both that they have your son and that they'll kill him if you fail to pay the ransom."