If there is any port in the Alliance where private space yachts might dock without undue flurry, it is undoubtedly Lorelei, a space station-that spends its every waking hour as a playground for the wealthy. So while the unannounced appearance of a Logan 350-one of the sleekest and most distinguished vessels available to a private citizen-caused the traffic control officers on duty at Lorelei to give their undivided attention to getting docked smoothly and without delay, it caused no comment. Its electronic signature, revealing a high level of quasi-military hardware on board, might have raised a few eyebrows on other worlds and stations, but Lorelei took it in without a blink. Nor were many eyebrows raised when the yacht unloaded a vintage hoverlimo. Rich people often brought their own transport vehicles to Lorelei. Those paying attention might have recognized this one as an exception-a top of-the-line Fleutz-Royale, which to the trained eye revealed subtle security modifications worthy of a planetary chief executive's state limo. Despite its arrogantly plain exterior, this was a vehicle many billionaires might consider a bit pricey. Its performance and safety more than justified the price, but even so, few of them would have been willing to pay it. As soon as the hoverlimo was unloaded, a compactly.

built woman and a well-muscled man emerged from the Logan, escorting a lean, energetic, middle-aged man into the passenger seat. Racing fans might have recognized the woman as Maria Della Fanatico, a Formula-Ultra race driver who had mysteriously. retired about five years ago, after an impressive string of victories. The man was Eddie Grossman, whose face was familiar to veterans of the elite Red Eagles army unit if not to the general public.

As the unit's small-arms instructor, he had built an almost uncanny reputation for never missing a shot he had called. There weren't any immediate alarm bells at the Fat Chance Casino's communications center a few moments later, when the passenger appeared on their screens, calling from the comm unit in his vehicle. He asked (in a tone that made it clear he was issuing an order, not making a request) to be connected with Willard Phule.

"One moment, sir, I'll have him paged," said the junior clerk who took the call. It says a certain amount for the clerk's training that he not only recognized Captain Jester's civilian name, but knew that anyone asking for the casino's majority stockholder under that name ought to be put through without delay. "Whom should I say is calling, sir?"

"Victor Phule," said the caller. And that, at last, set off the alarms.

"Y-yes, s-ss-sir," said the junior clerk, and it was something of a miracle that he managed to put the caller on hold without disconnecting him. This was not one of the contingencies that the clerk's training had anticipated.

The clerk's face disappeared, to be replaced by an ad for the Fat Chance Casino's supper club and floor show, featuring several shots of Dee Dee Watkins in revealing costumes. A few moments later, a different young man's face appeared on Victor Phule's view screen. He peered at the view screen mounted below the on-line camera, and said, enthusiastically, "Captain Jester here. What can I do for you?"

Victor Phule peered suspiciously at the view screen for perhaps three whole seconds. "I asked for Willard, not for his screening service," he growled. "Get him on. If he's in a meeting, get him out of it. And if I have to wait much, longer, there'll be a bunch of people looking for new jobs.

Now, let me talk to my son, you miserable impostor, or you'll be the first one on the list!" The young actor somehow managed to keep his composure. "Please hold, sir," he said. Before Victor Phule could get in another word, the screen returned to shots of Dee Dee's dance routine interspersed with happy diners enjoying the four-star cuisine. (Not visible to the unsuspecting eye were various subliminals touting the casino's primary business.) By this time, Phule's hover limo had floated to within eyeball range of the Fat Chance. Impatiently, the weapons magnate reached out and broke the connection. "Incompetent idiots," he muttered. "Willard will have some explaining to do when I get him in my sights. I thought the boy had better sense." In the front seat, the driver and bodyguard said nothing.

In a few moments more, the limo had pulled in front of the casino's marquee front Eddie Grossman hopped out almost before the vehicle had stopped moving. He scanned the various gawking onlookers and uniformed hotel flunkies with professional thoroughness before opening the door to allow Victor Phule to storm out, making a beeline for the hotel entrance. Not missing a beat, Grossman followed a half pace behind him.

At the wheel of the hover limo, Maria Della Fanatico watched them go, with a sigh. Phule rarely got this angry.

She was almost sorry not, to get a chance to see the inevitable explosion. She wasn't at all sorry that she was not the one her boss was mad at. She'd risked her life plenty of times on the racetrack, but there were some things far more dangerous than that. Getting one of the richest men in the galaxy mad at you was one of them.

The Reverend Jordan Ayres ("Rev!' to his friends and followers) wore a pens~ look, somewhere between' a" sulk and a pout. A casual observer might have taken this to mean that something was bothering the Chaplin of Omega Company. But no-the pout was merely his normal expression when he was calm or thoughtful. It was a direct and intentional result of the extensive facial remodeling that all devout members of the Church of the King underwent in order to more perfectly resemble their prophet. In any case, to someone meeting Rev for the first time, the pout was probably less off-putting than the sneer that his; face assumed when he was actually in a cheerful frame of mind.

Rev's initial success in converting the members of Omega Company to the Church of the New Revelation-, or, as it was often known, the Church of the King-had been nothing short of phenomenal. But; as even he had to admit, recently the stream of converts had slowed to a trickle. For various doctrinal reasons, particularly the strong pressure for church members to have their face remodeled in the image of their prophet, Rev's denomination was somewhat lacking in appeal to the nonhuman sophonts among his larger flock. And even among the humans,. a fair number were attached to some other denomination, while others were frankly uninterested in any religion per se. While the company had been stationed on Lorelei, or on Landoor, this had not been of particular concern to Rev.

In both localities, he had found plenty of potential converts in the indigenous human populations. But here on Zenobia, populated by a race of sentient saurians, the King's message appeared to be falling on barren ground.

Rev had turned to some of his favorite texts for inspiration. Elder Aaron's personal memoir, Anyplace Is Paradise, had reinforced Rev's belief that the King was present everywhere, and Bishop Scott E. Moore's Gonna Be Cool affirmed that true believers would survive even the heat death of the universe. But, as always, the deepest meanings came from the King's own words-above all, the soulful admonition, "Don't be cruel." Rev's heart went flippity-flop every time he heard the King pronounce that sentiment. The words had lost absolutely none of their power as they'd come down the centuries. And yet, to his puzzlement, the Zenobians seemed deaf to all that. In fact, they seemed completely uninterested in anything the King had said or done.

He drummed his fingers, staring out the window of the small office he occupied in the administrative wing of Omega Company's Zenobia headquarters module. Out on the parade ground, Flight Leftenant Qual and two of his fellow Zenobians were making adjustments to some piece of equipment they'd brought along when they'd come to the Legion camp. The lizard like sophonts who had invited the Legion to this planet were every bit as intelligent as humans, or any of the other races that had become part of the Alliance. They showed as much imagination, as much curiosity about the universe they inhabited, as other species. Why, then, weren't they interested in the King's message?