One advantage of building a casino on a space station is that it can be a true twenty-four hour operation. With no local cycle of day and night, there is no need for visitors to adjust to the local clock, or to go through what in prespace days used to be called "jet lag". So the Fat Chance Casino was likely to have an eager crowd of gamblers at any hour. This, in turn, meant that Phule's Company had to be alert for trouble at any hour.

            But Moustache, who was in charge of "daytime" security at the casino, wasn't expecting any real trouble. The tall noncom with a balding head and a bright red moustache sat at the bar sipping a brisk "cuppa" tea, scanning the early afternoon crowd with detached interest. He knew he wouldn't spot everything-it wasn't really his job, after all. Other members of the Omega Mob, disguised as waiters, croupiers, or fellow customers, mingled with the crowd, probing for the myriad signs that someone was trying to cheat. Behind the elegant-looking facade, other vigilant eyes performed the same task, aided by state-of-the-art surveillance equipment.

            Of course, since the showdown with Maxine Pruett's hoodlums, there had been less trouble. Word had quickly gone out on the gamblers' grapevine to forget about trying to beat the Fat Chance. Still, there was always a handful of small-time grifters who thought they could outsmart the house security staff. Most of these were quickly spotted and quietly removed from the casino floor to a private lounge to await deportation on the next ship off-station. It was all handled very professionally-and unsuccessful grifters usually accepted their fate with a stoical shrug. After all, it was one of the risks of doing business.

            So it came as a surprise when a voice spoke quietly in Moustache's earphone. It was Rose-"Mother" to the company-the voice of Comm Central, the vital glue that bound the company together. "Wake up, you old buzzard," she said teasingly. "We're about to get some rough trade. I know you senior citizens need your afternoon naps, but it'd be a shame for you to doze through the entertainment."

            "Where?" said Moustache, instantly alert. He spoke under his breath, knowing that the super-sensitive directional microphone on his wrist communicator could pick up a whisper inaudible to someone at the next table.

            "Blackjack tables, darlin'," said Mother. "We've got a mom-and-pop team palming and passing cards at Number Five. I've already tipped the dealer, and she's stalling."

            "Good," said Moustache, standing up from the bar. "Who's covering that sector?"

            "The dealer's a civilian employee. Her orders are to stay clear if trouble starts and let security handle it. We've got a couple of actors playing legionnaire stationed around the room, and they may be all we really need. But Gabriel's on the nearest exit in case they try to run. And if he needs help, we've got Sushi and Do-Wop undercover in that area-they're already closing in on Number Five. You might dodder over, yourself, grandpa just to see how it all comes out. The grifters might accept you as a father figure."

            "Well, Mother, perhaps I'll introduce them to you, as well," said Moustache, smiling to himself. Of course he wouldn't follow through on that threat; there was no reason to let anyone know how thoroughly the gambling tables were monitored. It might inhibit the free-spending attitude the casino wanted to encourage in its legitimate customers. And to give professional gamblers a behind-the-scenes look at security might give them ideas how to beat it.

            Moustache had perfected the art of moving quickly without appearing to be in any particular hurry. If a noncom looked flustered or rushed, the troops might decide there was something for them to worry about. Moustache had been a career noncom in the Regular Army before forced retirement made him join the Space Legion. His crisp military bearing and his carefully polished "British Sergeant-Major" air made him the perfect front man for Phule's undercover surveillance operation in the Fat Chance. While all eyes were on him and his troop of uniformed actors (with a salting of genuine legionnaires to handle any rough stuff), the real security team could work unobserved, ready to respond to any threat before the opposition was aware of them.

            That was exactly what was happening as Moustache rounded a bank of quantum slot machines and entered the blackjack area of the casino. Do-Wop had slouched into a vacant seat at table number five, within an arm's length of a pudgy gray-haired man wearing a well-broken-in business suit over a brightly colored shirt. Beside him sat a woman of similar age, in a slightly too-tight dress and a too-elaborate, blatantly dyed hairdo. A travelling salesman on vacation with his wife, or so it appeared at first glance. But if Mother was correct-and she probably was-the outfits were sheep's clothing, camouflage to make a team of card cheats look like innocent tourists. At the far end of the table stood Sushi, looking for all the world as if he were trying to decide how the cards were running at this table before sitting down to play.

            The dealer glanced up as Moustache came into view, and he winked at her. It was time to put an end to this incident. He stepped forward and put a hand lightly on the man's shoulder. "Excuse me, sir," he said. His voice was very polite but carried an unmistakable stamp of authority.

            The man glanced over his shoulder, barely long enough for him to register much more than Moustache's black Legion uniform. What happened next took everyone by surprise. Both the man and the woman abruptly shoved back their chairs, knocking Moustache off balance. In the split second before he could recover, the woman had spun around and begun to throw punches, concentrating on his midsection-which, given the difference in their heights, was her most convenient target.

            The woman was stronger than Moustache had expected. He had to call on all his training to fight off the middle-aged tourist. Using his superior reach, he grabbed the chair she had vacated and shoved her back against the table with it, trying to keep her pinned out of lethal range. Do-Wop was already stepping forward to help subdue her, and there were black-uniformed figures closing in from a distance, so all Moustache had to do was keep her at bay and hope the man didn't come to her assistance. With luck, he'd have nothing more serious than bruises to show for this episode.

            But the woman's companion had ideas of his own. Instead of helping her break free, he leaped up on the table and launched himself in a flying kick at Sushi.

            Sushi had held back from the altercation, ready to cut off either of the pair who tried to escape. So while he was caught by surprise, his reflexes and training got him out of trouble. Instead of trying to duck under the kick, he leaned backward enough to make the attacker's flailing feet miss him, then gave the flying body a hard shove in the ribs as it went past, trying to spoil the attacker's balance. To that extent Sushi succeeded, and the tourist landed ignominiously on a chair that toppled with a loud crack as the back legs gave way.

            But the shove transferred enough momentum to Sushi to knock him off balance, as well. He spun around, bounced off the table behind him, and landed on hands and knees on the floor a short distance from his assailant. Almost at once, he sprang up, ready for action. Sushi expected the man to be halfway to the exit, or more likely, lying dazed on the floor. Instead, he was surprised to find the man already in a compact fighting stance. That made no sense at all. The man must have known he was surrounded by the legionnaires. If he wasn't going to try to escape, he should have given up quietly as soon as his cheating was discovered. Unless...

            Sushi looked more closely at his opponent. Under the baggy suit and graying hair-which upon closer inspection appeared to have been dyed-was a man close to his prime, solidly built and obviously trained in the martial arts. His facial features showed Asian ancestry. Suddenly Sushi understood.

            Sushi rose to his feet and bowed slowly. "I have been expecting you," he said to the man. He kept his voice low, speaking in Japanese. "We have business to tend to, but we should not discuss it in front of outsiders."

            The other man snarled. "My family does not dicker with impostors. Our only business today is your death."

            "Do not judge too quickly," said Sushi. "Look!" He made a surreptitious motion with his left hand and then dropped both arms to his sides, leaving himself open to the other man's attack.

            The other man's face changed in an instant, and he, too, adopted a more relaxed stance. "Ah! I did not know! Perhaps there is something to discuss after all. But you are right-outsiders should not hear what we have to say, though I think there are few here who would understand us."

            "One moment, please," said Sushi. "I will tell the others you have surrendered to me for questioning, and then we will go someplace where we may talk freely. They will not question me because they believe I am loyal to their captain. Your woman will be taken to a safe place and not harmed, and you may retrieve her at your convenience."

            "That is good. I will tell her so," said the Yakuza man. The two turned to the rest of the group. Moustache had one hand on the woman's arm-she had stopped fighting when Sushi had begun talking to his opponent in Japanese; presumably she understood that language.

            "I need to talk to this man;" Sushi said to Moustache. "He says the woman will go with you to the holding lounge, and I don't think she'll cause any trouble now. I'll take responsibility."

            Moustache looked to Do-Wop, who nodded. "Cool with me if you know what you're doing," said Do-Wop. "But be careful just because you know that cat's lingo don't mean you want to turn your back on him."

            "Don't worry, it's under control," said Sushi. He gestured to the Yakuza and together they walked out of the casino. Even before they were gone the normal sounds of gambling had resumed.