Robert Asprin - Phules Paradise

"They aren't regular guards," one of the others supplied. "They're some kind of army types."

"Yeah?" The original questioner fixed Stilman with an accusing gaze. "You didn't say nothing about that when you was briefing us."

"It's been all over the media," Stilman said levelly. "I assumed you knew. All it means is that they shouldn't rattle as easily as normal guards would."

"Well, I don't like it."

"You aren't supposed to like it. If you did, we wouldn't have to pay you to do it."

Kong tensed, waiting for Stilman to quell the rebellion physically as well as verbally. To his surprise, however, the headman simply turned his back on the complainer.

"If it makes you feel any better," he muttered, "I don't like it, either. It's Max's orders, though, and while I'm taking her pay, she calls the shots."

Kong tried to think of another time when he had heard Stilman speak out openly against an order from Max, but couldn't bring one to mind. Coming from him, the casual complaint was of monumental significance.

"Here comes another one."

One of the small electric vans that were the mainstay of the space station's delivery network was pulling off the main drag into the loading area, a meat wagon this time.

The men waited in silence as it backed into position, then uncoiled from where they had been lounging against the wall and moved forward as the driver came around to open the back of the vehicle.

"Hey! You can't unload here!"

"Who says I ..."

The driver's words died in his throat as he turned and took in the six musclemen between him and the door.

"Hey, I don't want any trouble," he said, holding up his hands as he backed away.

"No trouble, friend," Stilman said easily. "You just got the wrong address is all."

The driver frowned. "This is the Fat Chance Casino, isn't it?"

"Maybe you don't hear so good," Kong said, moving forward slightly. "The man said you have the wrong address! Something wrong with your ears? Something we should maybe try to fix for you?"

"What the hell's going on here?"

Kong managed to keep a straight face as the men turned to confront the white-aproned cook who had come charging out of the kitchen door. It was about time someone inside had noticed the activity on their loading dock. Security should be close behind him.

The urge to smile faded as he recalled their "no rough stuff" orders.

"Nobody unloads here until you hire some union help," Stilman was saying, moving to confront the cook directly.

"What are you talkin' about?" the cook said. "There aren't any unions on Lorelei!"

Kong was distracted from the conversation by a small, dark-skinned figure who emerged from the kitchen behind the original cook. Completely ignoring the raging argument, the little man strode over to the open delivery van and shouldered a quarter side of beef, then turned back toward the kitchen.

It occurred to the thug that he should stop the unloading, or at least call it to Stilman's attention, but he was loath to intrude on the verbal brawl or take individual action while the headman was right there. Fortunately the decision was taken out of his hands. The laden figure passed close by the two arguing men on his way back to the kitchen, and Stilman spotted him.

"Hey! What do you think you're doing?" the headman demanded, breaking off the debate.

The little man stopped and turned to face him, regarding him levelly with dark eyes.

"Must get meat inside," he said. "Not good to leave out here. Too warm. Might go bad."

"Maybe you didn't get the drift of what I was saying," Stilman challenged, moving closer. "You can't unload that stuff while we're around."

The little man bobbed his head.

"Good. You take."

With that, he half tossed, half thrust the meat at Stilman, shoving it forward as the balance came off his shoulder. The headman was unprepared for the weighty mass suddenly launched at him, but he managed to catch it-more from surprise than intent.

The little man ignored Stilman's reaction, stepping past him to address the stunned thugs.

"You ... and you," he said, stabbing a finger at the two largest musclemen. "Get meat from there and follow me."

At this point, Stilman recovered his wits.

"To hell with this!" he roared, throwing the meat down and brushing at the front of his suit.

With his back turned, he couldn't see what happened next, much less have a chance to counter it. Kong was facing in the right direction, but even he had trouble later describing exactly what happened.

With a pantherlike bound the little man was close behind Stilman. There was a flash of metal, which resolved itself into a long butcher's knife-only visible when it came to rest pressed against the headman's throat.

"You do not throw meat on the ground!" the little man hissed, eyes slit in anger. "Now it ruined! No good! Understand?"

Kong and the other thugs stood rooted to the ground in frozen tableau. They could see that the knife was pressed against Stilman's neck so tightly that the flesh was indented, and knew without being told that the slightest move from the knife or Stilman would lay his throat open.

"Please do not move, gentlemen."

Their attention was drawn to a new figure who had entered the scene.

"What the hell is that?" one of the thugs said, though he echoed the thoughts of the entire group.

"Do not be fooled by my appearance, gentlemen," the singsong, musical voice continued, though they could see now that the sound was actually coming from a mechanical box hung around the neck of the intruder. "I assure you that though my form is not the human standard you are accustomed to, I am a member of the casino security force and authorized to deal with disturbances as I see fit."

The speaker was a sluglike creature with spindly arms and eyestalks. Balanced on a kid's glide board and encased in a tube of black fabric which suggested rather than imitated the familiar Space Legion uniforms, the creature looked more like some bizarre advertising display than an authority figure.

"No, I meant what is that you're holding?" the thug corrected. "That doesn't look like a tranquilizer gun."

The Sinthian had a sinister-looking mechanism tucked under his arm. The tubelike barrel, which was pointing at the thugs, appeared to be a good inch in diameter, though they knew from experience that the muzzle of a weapon always looks bigger when it's pointed at you.

"This?" the Legionnaire chirped, bending one eyestalk to look at his implement. "You are correct that it is a weapon. It is magazine-loaded, however, which enables me to change the loads depending on the situation at hand."

He suddenly pointed the weapon at the fallen side of beef, and it erupted with a soft stutter of air.

The thugs could see a line of impacts on the meat, but no appreciable damage. Then they noticed the surface start to bubble, and a sharp hiss reached their ears.

"As you can see," the Sinthian was saying, "I neglected to bring my tranquilizer darts on duty with me today, an omission which will surely earn me a reprimand if reported. All I have with me are acid balls-and, of course, a few high explosives."

He realigned the weapon with the motionless men.

"Now, if your curiosity is settled, gentlemen, I suggest you begin unloading the van as requested. I'm afraid it may ruin your clothes, but you should have come dressed for the occasion."

The thugs glanced at Stilman.

"Do as he says," the headman croaked, still under the knife.

"And pay for ruined meat before you go," his captor added.

"But I didn't ..."

"You throw meat on the ground, you pay for it!" the little man growled, tightening his grip. "Yes?"

"Okay, okay!" Stilman gasped. "Pay the man ... Now!"

In my privileged position, l was able to hear not one, but two accounts of the loading dock incident: the one which constituted the official report, and the one passed among the Legionnaires over drinks and coffee. As such, I could not help but note that in the account rendered to my employer, both Escrima's role and the use of the acid balls were diplomatically omitted.