"That's Willard Phule," said one guest to a neighbor, a discreet hand muffling his words. "The munitions heir-richer than the mint, and cleaning up at the casino business, too, I hear."

"What's with the uniform?" said the other.

"Oh, he's gone and joined the Space Legion," said the first man with a chuckle. "I hear tell the Legion will never be the same."

"That's the truth," said Miss Shadwell, smiling. "Nor will the Fat Chance Casino-as you'll see when you get to the tables. Now, if there's anyone who'd like to take advantage of our express registration, I'll take your information here..." She pulled out a pocket computer and smiled. The tourists obediently got in line, smiling back at her.

But two figures watched the captain's exit with narrowed eyes, then looked at each other and nodded.

First Sergeant Brandy looked at the line of legionnaires with some satisfaction. The new recruits had begun to shape up much more effectively than she'd have been willing to bet a few short months ago. She certainly hadn't had much to work with in the way of raw material-always excepting the Gambolts, those catlike aliens who were reputed to be, as a species, the finest hand-to-hand fighters in the known Galaxy. Her three Gambolts-Dukes, Rube, and Garbo-had lived up to that image, without much doubt. Their natural ability had been evident from the day they'd arrived. Even if they'd made no progress at all in their training, they'd have been among the finest troops she'd ever seen.

The rest of the new troops hadn't done too badly, either, and she took that as a personal accomplishment.