"So what if all the security force aren't from the s.p.a.ce Legion? What if some of them are actors?"

"You mean stand-ins?" Laverna frowned. "That's interesting. I guess if that were the case, I'd be wondering where the soldiers were they were replacing."

Maxine was staring into the distance. "I was just recalling something Mr. Stilman said-about how he wasn't impressed by the security force, but that the complex had the toughest staff he had ever run into. What if young Mr. Phule decided early on that uniformed guards were of limited value, and that instead he was going to put a portion of his force to work under cover, seeding them through the staff as waitresses or cooks?"

"Or bartenders!" Laverna supplied. "That would explain the guy who jumped Stilman!"

"Of course that means he hasn't restricted himself to infiltrating the staff for this complex," Maxine continued thoughtfully. "He could have people anywhere, including as guests." She snapped her fingers suddenly. "Weren't you saying a moment ago that he must have had more information about our plans than Mr. Martin could provide? Who have we shared our plans with recently? In detail."

"Jonesy!" her aide gasped. "You mean-d.a.m.n! Posing as someone from the Yakusa. Now, that takes bra.s.s!"

"Audacity seems to be something young Mr. Phule is not lacking in-or his troops, for that matter," Max said grimly.

The two women lapsed into silence, each a.n.a.lyzing this new hypothesis.

"Well," Laverna said finally, "I guess that clinches it. Without knowing how many he's got scattered around or who they are, I don't see any way we can put something together by the deadline."

"Oh, it's true that we'll probably have to abandon our efforts to gain control of this enterprise," Maxine said, "but that doesn't mean I'm ready to quit the field. Not just yet, anyway."

Her aide frowned. "I don't think I follow you."

"There's a fallback, contingency plan I've had in mind for some time now. Something that will at least recoup our investment and give us a chance to pay young Mr. Phule back for his interference. Now seems an appropriate time to implement it."

"What plan is that?"

"It's really simply a matter of shifting our aim from a target which is defended to one which is not. Actually, Laverna, you deserve at least part of the credit for this. You gave me the idea yourself back when Mr. Phule arrived on Lorelei with his troops."

"I did?"

"Certainly. I recall specifically your pointing out that young Mr. Phule comes from a very rich family."

Beeker was jarred awake by the discordant jangle of the phone next to his bed. Bleary-eyed, he glanced at his watch to see how long he had been asleep, but abandoned the effort when he realized he had no recollection of when it was he had gone to bed. Not for the first time, he found himself annoyed with the Lorelei timetable, or lack thereof, which made any adherence to a schedule next to impossible.

The phone rang again.

Rather than reaching for the instrument immediately, the butler took a moment to compose himself. Perhaps business tyc.o.o.ns could function while giving the impression of being rushed and harried, but that simply wouldn't do for one in his position.

Again the phone jangled.

"Beeker here."

"Beeker, what the h.e.l.l's going on there?"

The voice was a surprise, not so much for its statement as in its ident.i.ty. Even in its agitated condition, the butler had no difficulty recognizing it as belonging to Victor Phule, his employer's father.

"Unfortunately, sir, I am unable to reply to that query-at least until you have calmed yourself sufficiently to properly identify yourself."

"Oh. Sorry. This is Victor Phule, Beeker, and-"

"Ah yes. Good evening, Mr. Phule. How may I help you?"

"You can start by telling me what's going on there on Lorelei!"

The butler rolled his eyes in exasperation. He had hoped that by forcing his caller into following formal protocol, the elder Phule would also be coerced into discussing rationally whatever it was that was bothering him. Clearly, however, this was not to be the case.

"Events on Lorelei are meticulously chronicled by the media, sir," he said. "Or is there something specific you require information on?"

There was a long pause on the other end of the conversation.

"Look, Beeker," the voice came at last, grim but in control. "Are you trying to be cute or do you really not know what's going on? I just got a call from some old dragon who says she's holding Willard, and that unless I pony up a hundred million, they're going to ax him or shove him out an air lock or whatever the h.e.l.l they do to kill someone out there."

"I see," the butler said. "No, Mr. Phule. I a.s.sure you this is the first I've heard about it."

"Do you think it's on the up-and-up?"

"Yes, sir. I believe I know the parties involved, and they do not strike me as the sort to attempt to bluff on something of this magnitude. I'm afraid the probability is quite high both that they have your son and that they'll kill him if you fail to pay the ransom."

"d.a.m.n it, Beeker! How could this happen? He's supposed to have a whole troop of soldier boys around him. No-scratch that. From what I hear of this s.p.a.ce Legion, I wouldn't trust them to guard a piggy bank. But you! How could you let this happen, Beeker? I always thought you were one of the best in the business."

"I try, sir," Beeker said, unruffled. "We all do. Your son, however, has a mind of his own as well as an unfortunate flair for the unorthodox. Taking that into account, I'm sure you'll realize the difficulties involved in watching over him."

"I know all about his independence," the elder Phule growled darkly. "I guess I knew this was bound to happen sooner or later."

"Excuse my asking, Mr. Phule," the butler said, seizing the pause in the conversation, "but is it still the policy of Phule-Proof Munitions and yourself that no extortion payments are to be made under any circ.u.mstances, regardless of who or what is being threatened?"

"That's right," the voice confirmed. "Once you start paying, there's no end to it. We pay taxes to the government for protection, and that should be the end of it. If more people were willing to stand up to criminals and terrorists-"

"Yes, I'm familiar with the argument," Beeker interrupted. "Tell me, Mr. Phule, would it be too much of a compromise of your principles to withhold your refusal for a while-say, for forty-eight hours?"

"No. They said they'd call back and broke the connection before I could say much of anything. If they call back, I can try to stall them, but-"

"Fine," the butler said, cutting the elder Phule short again. "Then if you'll be so good as to clear the line, sir, I'll see if anything can be done to bring the situation to a satisfactory conclusion from this end."

"Right ... and Beeker?"

"Yes, Mr. Phule?"

The voice on the other end of the line was suddenly very weary, as if anger had been the only thing giving it strength and now that that emotion had been vented there was nothing left.

"Be careful not to ... I mean ... I know he and I have had our differences, but he's still my son, and ..."

"I understand. I'll try, sir."

As soon as the connection was broken, the butler abandoned any pretense of nonchalance.

His face set in a grim mask, he hurried through the door that connected his bedroom with the suite's main living area. Chocolate Harry was asleep on the sofa, having stubbornly refused to move into one of the beds normally used by the suite's residents, and Beeker moved quietly so as not to wake him. It was his intention to check his employer's bedroom on the vain hope that this was all some sort of ghastly prank, but before he reached the other bedroom door something caught his eye. There, on the chair next to the door into the corridor, were the sidearm the Legionnaire commander normally wore and his wrist communications command unit.

The butler stared at the items for a few moments, then sank into a chair and turned on a lamp.

"Hey, Beeker!" Harry said, awakened by the light. "What's up?"

Beeker ignored him, bending over his own wrist communicator as he depressed the Call b.u.t.ton.

"That you, Beeker?" came Mother's voice. "What are you doing up at this hour? I thought-"

"Give me an open channel to Lieutenants Armstrong and Rembrandt," the butler said tersely. "And Mother? I want to listen in as well. We have an emergency situation, and there's no point wasting time going over the information twice."

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

Journal #245.

As near as I can determine, Maxine Pruet was either ignoring the presence of the s.p.a.ce Legion company under my employer's command or operating under the old a.s.sumption that if you cut off the head, the body dies.

To say the least, this was an error in judgment The removal of my employer from his position of leadership did not cause the company to wither and die, but rather unified and intensified their already substantial energies. That is, it had the effect of removing the emergency brakes from a locomotive and putting it on a straight, downhill stretch of tracks.

One of the Fat Chance's conference rooms had been hastily commandeered for the company's emergency war council, but even that was growing crowded. In an effort to keep the meeting manageable, the room had been cleared of everyone except cadre and officers, which is to say those holding the rank of corporal or higher, and a few concerned individuals, like the Voltron, Tusk-anini, who refused to budge and whom no one had the energy or courage to chase out. A large crowd of Legionnaires loitered and hovered in the hall just outside, however, muttering darkly to each other as they waited for a course of action to be decided upon.

All the undercover Legionnaires had been recalled, though not all had taken time to change into their Legion uniforms, giving the a.s.semblage the appearance of being a catered party rather than a planning session. This impression would be shattered, however, upon viewing the faces of the partic.i.p.ants. The expressions ranged from worried to grim, without a single smile in evidence.

The focus of the group was on the company's two lieutenants, who stood on either side of the conference table reviewing a stack of floor plans, stoically ignoring the faces that peered anxiously over their shoulders from time to time.

"I still don't see what this is supposed to accomplish, Remmie," Armstrong grumbled, picking up another sheet from the stack. "We don't even know for sure that he's still in the complex."

Though he was from a military family and had consequently had more experience with planning, the same background had also made Armstrong a stickler for protocol and chain of command. Lieutenant Rembrandt's commission predated his, making her the senior officer and his superior, and he deferred to her as much from ingrained habit as from courtesy.

"It's a starting point, okay?" Rembrandt snapped back at him. "I just don't think we should start tearing the whole s.p.a.ce station apart, dividing our forces in the process, until we're sure they aren't holding him right here. It's our best bet that he's being held here somewhere, since I don't see them running the risk of being spotted while trying to move him out of the complex. That means we've got to take the time to check out all the out-of-the-way nooks and crannies in this place before we go barging around outside-and there are a lot of them."

"You can say that again," Armstrong said, scowling at the sheet he was holding. "As long as we've been here, I never realized how many access corridors and service areas there were in this place."

"Hey! Look who's here!"

"C.H.! How's it goin', man?"

The officers looked up as the company's supply sergeant made his way into the room through the waiting crowd, smiling and waving his response to the greetings that marked his arrival.

"Come on in, Harry!" Rembrandt called. "Good to see you back in uniform."

Indeed, Chocolate Harry was decked out in his Legionnaire uniform, complete with-or incomplete, as the case may be-the torn-off sleeves that were his personal trademark.

"Good to be back, Lieutenant," the ma.s.sive sergeant said. "Hey, Top! Lookin' good!"

He waved across the room at Brandy, still in her housekeeping uniform, who interrupted her conversation with Moustache long enough to give him a grin and a wink.

"Excuse me, Sergeant," Armstrong said, "but the last thing I heard you were on the inactive list. Aren't you supposed to be convalescing?"

"What? For this?" Harry gestured at the bandages around his torso that peeked through the armholes of his uniform. "Heck, I hardly remember that I got hit ... 'cept if someone should happen to want to give me a good old hug."

He dropped his voice but maintained his grin, though his eyes glittered darkly as he met Armstrong's gaze with a hard stare.

"Besides, there ain't no way I'm gonna sit this one out-not with the cap'n in trouble-and with all due respect, Lieutenant, I'd advise you not to try to change my mind. You ain't nearly big enough-or mean enough."

He waited until Armstrong gave a small, reluctant nod of agreement, then raised his voice again.

"'Sides, I brought along a few goodies just to be sure I'd be welcome. That is, they should be along any-there they are! Bring 'em on in, boys!"

Half a dozen of Harry's team of supply clerks, also known to be the biggest thieves, scroungers, and con artists in the company, were coming into the room, towing or pushing a small caravan of float crates. From their appearance, even while still sealed, it was apparent what they contained, and a small cheer went up from the crowd.

"Just line 'em up along this wall here!" the supply sergeant instructed, grabbing the first long crate himself and manipulating the float dial until it settled on the carpet. With a flourish, he punched a combination into the lock's keyboard, and the crate lid hissed open.

"Help yourself!" he declared, then thought better of it. "No ... cancel that. Form a line! Jason! I want 'em to sign for whatever they take! We gotta be sure we know who's got what so's we can go after 'em if it don't come back in good shape."

As expected, the long, flat cases held the rifles and other long arms that had been packed away when the company was pulled from their old duty as swamp guards. The square crates held ammunition.

"Well, I guess that solves our firepower question," Rembrandt said, frowning at weapons being pa.s.sed out, but making no move to object or interfere as the Legionnaires seized the armaments and scattered through the room, each of them clearing, checking, and loading his or her weapon of choice.

"I just figured that whatever goes down, it don't hurt to have a few extra persuaders close to hand." Harry winked, then his face sobered. "All right, what have we got so far?"

"Not much," the senior lieutenant admitted. "Until we can figure out where they're holding him, there's not much we can do. The trouble is, everyone wants to be here. It's all we've been able to do to keep the duty crew at their posts while we're working this out ... Which reminds me ..."

She raised her wrist communicator to her lips and pressed the Call b.u.t.ton.

"You got Mother!" came the quick response.

"Rembrandt here, Mother," the lieutenant said. "How are you holding up?"

"I'll tell you, if it wasn't for every mother's son and daughter in this outfit wanting personal updates every fifteen minutes, it'd be a real breeze."

The lieutenant smiled despite the pressure she was feeling. "You want some help?"

"Oh, don't you mind my carping. I got it covered-for the time being, anyway. You just keep working on figuring out where the captain is and let me worry about keeping the wolves at bay."

"All right, Mother. But holler if it gets too much for you. Rembrandt out."

She turned her attention to the floor plans once more.

"Now, the way I see it, the most likely places are here and here." She indicated two points with her finger. "We need to have someone run a quick check ... Brandy?"