Robert Asprin - Phules Paradise

Shuman had also noticed the device in the desk clerk's ear, although, at the time, he had tried to convince himself it was inconsequential.

"I don't think it was a hearing aid," he said. "More likely some kind of paging radio or a hookup with the phones. I haven't been keeping up with all the electronic gizmos they've developed lately."

"I suppose you're right," the woman said, then returned his hug as if he had just given it. "It is hard to believe we're here, isn't it? After all these years?"

Though the implication was that the couple had been working and saving for years planning for a once-in-a-lifetime vacation, the real truth was hidden in this statement.

In actuality, they had been banned from nearly all casinos for close to five years now. Their guise of retired, unsophisticated grandparents was as complete as it was disarming, allowing them to pull off numerous forms of cheating requiring anything from sleight of hand to complex systems which, to the casual eye, would be assumed to be well beyond their abilities. They had, in fact, relieved most of the major gambling centers of sizable amounts of money before the casinos managed to compare notes and realized that they were not the harmless tourists they seemed to be.

They had been lured from "retirement" by a promise that they would not be recognized at this particular casino, as well as by a hefty bankroll to fund their charade. Though they were excited at the possibility of once more being able to dust off their long-practiced performance, they still had to fight off the nervousness that at any moment they might be recognized.

"This place really is something, isn't it?" Henry said, making a show of rubbernecking around as they were escorted into one of the elevators.

"Hold the elevator!"

The bellman caught the door with his hand in response to the call, and a broad-shouldered, chisel-featured young man in a black uniform burst into the car.

"Sorry for the inconvenience," he announced in an offhand tone that didn't sound apologetic at all, "but I have to commandeer the elevator for a moment."

As he spoke, he used a key to override the control panel and punched a button. The door closed, and the car began to move-downward instead of up.

Shuman suppressed a quick feeling of irritation, fearing that to protest would be out of character.

"Is something wrong?" he said instead.

"No. Everything's under control," the man assured him, sparing him only the briefest of glances before returning his gaze to the floor indicator.

"I didn't know this place had a basement," his wife said, tightening her grip on Henry's arm slightly. "Aren't we on a space station?"

Realizing she was making small talk to cover her nervousness, Henry nonetheless played along.

"I imagine it's some kind of storage area," he said. "All the rooms are ..."

He broke off as the elevator stopped and the doors slid open. Framed in the doorway was another black-garbed figure, an older man with a bald head and a theatric handlebar moustache.

"Got two more for you, Sergeant," their fellow passenger announced, nodding at the bellman, who unceremoniously tossed their bag out of the elevator.

"Very good, sahr!" the bald man said, barely sparing the couple a glance as he consulted the clipboard he was holding. "Let's see, you would be Henry and Louise Shuman ... or should I call you Mr. and Mrs. Welling?"

The use of their correct names eliminated any hope Henry might have had of bluffing their way out of the situation with bewildered indignation.

"Whatever," he said, taking his wife's arm and ushering her out of the elevator with as much dignity as he could muster as the doors slid shut behind them.

"I don't suppose you're hard of hearing, are you, Sergeant?" his wife asked their captor.

"Excuse me, mum? Oh, you mean this?" Moustache tapped the device he was wearing in his ear. "No, this is a direct hookup with the folks at the front desk. Mr. Bascom has one, too. He's watching on a closed-circuit camera, and when he spots a familiar face, he tells the clerk and they get relayed down here to us."

"Bascom?" Henry frowned. "You mean Tullie Bascom? I thought he retired."

"That's right, sir," the sergeant confirmed. "Seems you two aren't the only old war-horses being reactivated for this skirmish."

"I see," Henry said. "Well, tell him we said hello, if you get the chance."

"I'll do that, sir," Moustache said, flashing a quick smile. "Now, if you'll both join the others, it shouldn't be long now."

As he spoke, he gestured toward a cluster of chairs and sofas which had been set up in the service corridor. There was an unusual assortment of individuals sprawled across the furnishings, ranging in appearance from businessmen to young married couples to little old ladies and obvious blue-collar workers. While Henry did not recognize any of them, the studied casualness of their postures and the uniform flat, noncommittal looks that were directed at himself and his wife marked them all as being cut from the same bolt of cloth. These were grifters and con artists who, like the Wellings, had been caught in the security net. While the setting was pleasant enough considering the situation, and there was no indication of rough treatment among the captives, Henry could not escape the momentary illusion of a prisoner-of-war compound, possibly due to the black-uniformed armed guards spaced pointedly along the wall.

"What are you going to do with us, Sergeant?" Henry said, eyeing the assemblage.

"Nothing to worry about, sir," Moustache said, flashing another quick smile. "After we've collected a few more, you'll all be loaded into a shuttle bus and given a lift back to the space terminal."

"You mean, we're being forcibly deported?"

"Not at all," the sergeant said. "It's more a courtesy service ... assuming, of course, that you're planning to leave. If you'd prefer to stay on Lorelei, that's your prerogative. As long as you stay out of the Fat Chance."

A vision flashed through Henry's mind, of he and his wife accepting tickets and seed money from Maxine Pruet, then trying to work their scams at one of her casinos instead of the one they had been instructed to hit. He quickly brought the mental picture to a halt before it reached its graphically unpleasant conclusion.

"No, we'll take the ride," he said hastily. "I suspect our reception at the other casinos would be roughly the same as here ... except, perhaps, less polite. My compliments, by the way. Of all the times we've been barred from or asked to leave a casino, this is far and away the most civilized handling of an awkward situation we've encountered ... wouldn't you say, dear?"

His wife nodded brusquely, but failed to smile or otherwise join him in his enthusiasm.

"It's the captain's idea, really," Moustache said, "but I'll be sure to tell him you appreciate it. Now, if you'll just have a seat. There are drinks and doughnuts available while you wait, or, if you're interested, there's a blackjack table set up in back so you can at least do a little playing before you go."

"At normal house odds?" the wife snapped, breaking her silence. "Don't be silly, young man. We aren't gamblers. Do we look stupid?"

"No, ma'am. Sorry, ma'am."

"Lieutenant Armstrong!"

Emerging from the elevator, Armstrong glanced around at the hail to find the company commander walking toward him. Without hesitation, he snapped into a stiff, parade-ground position of attention and fired off his best salute.

"Yes, sir!"

When the captain had taken over the company, one of his main projects had been to get Armstrong to "loosen up" a little, to be more human and less a recruiting-poster caricature. Now it had become a standing joke between the two men. This time, however, the commander seemed distracted, simply returning the salute with a vague wave rather than either smiling or rolling his eyes as had become the norm.