"Very good, you have apprehended me," said the lizard, in a translator-generated voice. "That is first-class work, and I am impressed indeed. Now, I wish to report to Captain Clown."

Brandy had managed to recover her breath and climb to her feet. The troops who had been in hot pursuit of the lizard had lined up behind her, waiting for her orders now that the fugitive was apparently captured. She looked at the lizard in disbelief.

"Captain Clown?" she asked, frowning. "There's no such person. Who the hell are you, anyway? You're not any member of this outfit, but you're wearing our unit patch."

The lizard assumed a more upright posture-difficult, with the Gambolt still keeping it under close guard. "I am Flight Leftenant Qual, Zenobian Space Command," it said. "I am attached to this company as military observer. Orders require me to report to Captain Clown, and I hereby request to be taken to him."

"Military observer?" said Brandy. She motioned to Garbo, who slightly relaxed her grip on the Zenobian's collar. "I do remember something about that, now. But why were you sneaking around the place and running away from my people when they spotted you?"

"I am observing," said Qual. "Part of this job is to cipher out how troops are ready for surprises, so I make a surprise. You catch on very quick, especially this one." He indicated the Gambolt who had collared him.

"I still think he's a spy, Sarge," growled Gabriel, who looked winded from the chase. There was a mutter of agreement from the others who'd been pursuing the Zenobian.

"Quiet," ordered Brandy, turning around. "We'll let the captain figure that out. You all return to your posts; we've got this under control. Dismissed."

"Right-o, Top," said one of the troops, but there didn't seem to be much enthusiasm in it. They turned and headed back to their posts.

Brandy turned back to Qual and Garbo. "OK, we'll bring you to the captain to report in as soon as we finish here. By the way, his name is Jester, not Clown. Garbo, make sure he stays put."

"Yes, Sergeant," came the translated voice, almost purring this time.

The Zenobian seemed calm, as far as Brandy could tell, not that she had much practice reading the facial expressions of a scaled-down dinosaur. But the Gambolt was ready for anything, and that was all that mattered right at the moment.

Brandy turned back to the desk clerk, who stood gaping at the scene in front of him. He wasn't alone; so were most of the customers. They'd come to the Fat Chance looking for excitement, but none of them had quite bargained for what they'd just seen. It was hard to tell whether they were favorably impressed or not.

Brandy had other business to worry about. "Well, Junior, have you got that problem with the room fixed yet? Or do I tell the Gambolt she's sleeping with you tonight?" The clerk turned white, and frantically began punching keys again.

"What the hell is going on here?"

Lieutenant Armstrong looked at the supply depot, a hotel delivery bay modified to the Legion's specifications. The depot had looked perfectly ordinary when Armstrong had come by early that morning. Now, the entire area resembled an armed camp. There were cartons of field rations and heavy-machine oil piled up as barriers, with razor wire strung between them. Farther back was a bunker made of soap boxes, the peak of a helmet visible just above it.

Despite himself, Armstrong felt a touch of pride that the Omega Mob could accomplish something so quickly. It had never been that way before Phule had arrived.

"Halt and identify yourself," came a mechanical voice from behind the barbed wire barricade. "Keep your hands in sight, and make no sudden moves."

"It's Armstrong," said the lieutenant, straining to see the speaker. "Louie, is that you? You know me, Louie. What's the situation here? It looks like you're ready for an invasion."

"Do not approach closer," said the voice. "What is the password?"

"Password?" Armstrong frowned. There'd been no password needed to enter the supply depot before-in fact, there'd been nothing to stop any curious passerby from walking up to it from the street beyond. Something must have changed. "Chocolate Harry, are you in there?" he called. Perhaps the supply sergeant would let him in and explain this strange game-whatever it was.

"There is nobody named Chocolate Harry here," said the voice. "Do not approach closer, and keep your hands in sight."

Armstrong raised his hands, putting his mouth within range of the wrist communicator. "Mother, there's something strange going on at supply," he said softly. "Can you patch me through to Chocolate Harry?"

"If I can't do it, nobody can," said Mother's voice. "Keep your pants on, sonny, and we'll hook you right up."

After a moment, another voice came through the speaker. "Who's there? Make it quick, I ain't got much time."

"Harry, is that you? This is Armstrong. What in the world is going on here?"

"You sound like Armstrong, all right, but I gotta be sure," said Chocolate Harry's voice. There was a brief hesitation, then "OK, who led the Galactic League in free flies last season?"

"Huh?" Armstrong thought frantically. Finally he said, "I don't know. Harry, this is ridiculous-I don't know anything about gravball."

"Hah! It's not gravball, it's scrumble. That's enough for me, though-you gotta be Armstrong. Ignorantest dude I ever saw when it comes to sports. What you want, Lieutenant?"

"Harry, I'm right outside the supply depot. The place looks like a fortress. What are you guarding-chips from the casino?"

"Right outside, hey? You see anybody suspicious out there, Armstrong?"

"There's nobody here except me! Tell your guard to let me in-I'm on company business."

"OK, Lieutenant, but hurry-and don't make any funny looking moves. Louie's got an itchy trigger appendage."

Lieutenant Armstrong stood up and smiled, waving to the Synthian on guard. He moved gingerly through the hastily implanted barriers outside the door to the supply depot, uncomfortably aware of Louie's shotgun aimed at him the entire time. Finally, he reached the door; it opened a crack and he saw the muzzle of a splat gun pointed at him briefly before the door opened wider to admit him. "Come on in, man, have a seat. Fix you a coffee?" Chocolate Harry said, beckoning; his gaze remained fixed on the area outside. Armstrong dashed through the door and plopped himself onto the proffered chair.

"What the devil is going on here?" demanded Armstrong. "Are we expecting another raid from the Mob?"

"No, worse than that," said Chocolate Harry, throwing a heavy metal bar into place across the door. "They've finally found me. I knew it was comin', I knew it all along. But they're not gonna just walk in and take me, Lieutenant. They got a fight on their hands if they try that."

"What in the galaxy are you talking about?" demanded Armstrong. "Who are they, and why are they after you?"

"It's a long story, Lieutenant," said Harry. "I'll give you the quick run-through. You know I used to ride with the Outlaws?"

"Yes, of course, we've all heard the story," said Armstrong.

"Well, then you know the part about me dissing the Renegades, right? The part where I got in so much trouble I had to run off and join the Legion-and before the captain took over this outfit, that was a mighty desperate thing to do."

"Yes, I've heard that, too," Armstrong began. "The one thing..."

Chocolate Harry interrupted him. "Well, man, my chicken's done come home to roost. The Renegades are here, and they're gonna fry me good and crisp. Ain't no mistake-Louie heard 'em talkin' to the captain, and he came here and told me right away." Harry was cleaning a Rolling Thunder automatic shotgun while he spoke; nervously peering out the slit between the boards he'd nailed over his window.