"Hey, I've been ready," said Sushi, punching Do- Wop in the shoulder. "Come on, let's go find out what Escrima's cooking." The three of them entered the dining hall together, took trays, and made their selections. Rev and Sushi went for chicken (there was a choice of Southern fried or curried) with rice, while Do- Wop loaded up his plate with butterfly pasta in a rich alfredo sauce and crisp broccoli tips.
The trio were on their way to the drink station when the trouble started.
Sushi was the first to notice anything out of the ordinary. "Who's the new guy over there?" he asked, pointing to the dessert line. The others turned their heads to see what he was talking about. There was a small figure in a regulation Legion jumpsuit, considerably less dashing than the special uniform Captain Jester had ordered for Omega Company to wear. Sushi just barely had time to notice that the new company member (he assumed that was what the newcomer had to be) had long floppy ears when a familiar sound came from behind them.
"Woof! Woof!" said Barky, the Environmental Dog, baring his fangs and charging full speed in the direction of the little legionnaire.
Chief Inspector Snieff leapt up and called out, "Barky! Sit! Bad dog! Sit!" But nobody, least of all the Environmental Dog, was paying much attention to her at this point. The three Legionnaires made an altogether praiseworthy effort to get out of the dog's way, but (inhibited by full trays of food) they were nowhere near nimble enough. As Barky's well-fed bulk crashed into his shins, Do-Wop's tray tilted, then tipped directly over, dumping a plateful of steaming hot pasta with alfredo sauce on his legs, the floor, I and onto Barky's bare, back. That set off a chorus of woeful howls-from Do- Wop and Barky both.
Barky spun around to find whoever was attacking him. But the wet floor offered no traction, and so the famous Environmental Dog slid full speed into Sushi's legs. That, inevitably, sent Sushi tumbling into Rev, and both men went down in a heap. At the same time, their trays hit the floor, scattering chicken and rice in all directions. There were gasps and shouts from those within range of the flying food, and all over the mess hall heads turned to see what the disturbance was about. They hadn't missed anything to speak of; the chain reaction was just beginning to pick up momentum.
Chocolate Harry, going back to the main serving line for seconds, turned his head to look at what was happening behind him and inevitably put his foot in exactly the wrong place-on a stray chicken leg-and went down with a basso profundo shout of "Goddamn son of a bitch!" in an avalanche of table scraps, dishes, and cutlery. One of his forks bounced twice, flipped over one and a half times, and arrived prongs first in the close vicinity of Barky's tail, sending the galaxy wide star Environmental Dog off yelping in the direction of the dessert stand, where Thumper still stood, surveying the catastrophe unfolding around him with eyes growing steadily wider. One look at Barky was enough to convince Thumper that he had come to the wrong place at the wrong time.
With the finely honed reflexes of a recent graduate of Legion basic training, Thumper dropped his own tray and took off for the nearest cover as if his life depended on it.
Unfortunately, Barky's canine instincts were aroused by the sight of something running, and he redoubled his speed in an attempt to catch the fleeing Lepoid. Meanwhile, an infuriated Chocolate Harry had begun gathering up various articles from the floor around him and throwing them (with an obligato of curses truly worthy of a veteran Legion sergeant) in the general direction of the Environmental Dog.
Unfortunately, Harry's aim was about what one would expect of a Supply sergeant who had moved the trash basket next to his desk so as to avoid bending over to pick up the paper wads that missed their target One of his hastily flung chicken bones caught Do-Wop square in the chest.
Harry couldn't have picked a worse target on purpose.
Never one to back down from a perceived challenge, DoWop scooped up a handful of pasta with alfredo sauce and fired it back at Chocolate Harry.
Do-Wop had no better aim than Harry. His improvised missile went far and wide, hitting Double-X (who had just turned to see what was happening) full. in the face. The legionnaire dropped his tray and fell backwards into the main food station, knocking it over and scattering the contents across the floor and hitting (among others) SuperGnat, who had been right behind Double-X.
That was the final spark to set off an explosion. SuperGnat snatched up a boiled potato and fired it off. The spud hit Do- Wop directly in the snoot. Temporarily blinded, DoWop stepped on another gob of alfredo sauce and fell back on top of Rev, who had almost managed to get up on all fours. The pair went down with an impressive splash in the spilled pasta-but not before Do- Wop managed to fire off an unaimed breast of chicken that landed on a nearby table, knocking a pitcher of orange juice onto the laps of Roadkill, Street, and two of the Gambolts. Almost immediately, food was flying in every direction. Half of Omega Mob enthusiastically joined in, and the other half broke for the exits. Meanwhile, Thumper and Barky were racing around the mess hall as if their lives depended on it, with the AEIOU inspectors following in a dogged attempt to prevent their intergalactic media star from injuring himself. Some of the legionnaires, whether angered at the inspectors' perceived interference in their operation or simply aroused by the challenge of moving targets, concentrated their fire on the AEIOU team, adding to the already considerable chaos.
Mess Sergeant Escrima, an irascible sort in the best of times, emerged from the galley red-faced, with an enormous cleaver in one hand. He took in the scene in a glance, and let out a thunderous roar in some language that, perhaps fortunately, none of the other members of the company understood. Before he took another step, Barky, the Environmental Dog, bowled headlong into Escrima, knocking him off his feet. Escrima went down into a pile of stewed tomatoes, sputtering curses, and threats of bodily harm. A split second later, he retrieved his cleaver and jumped up to join the chase. This, of course, was the very moment at which an unsuspecting Captain Jester, A.K.A. WIllard Phule, and his loyal butler Beeker chose to enter the mess hall...
11
Journal #711
A sufficiently obstinate conviction is immune to all demonstrations of its falsity-in/act, they are the best means to harden the conviction, no matter how wrongheaded, into an unshakeable credo. And when two or more persons who hold such convictions come into contact, there is no hope of any such thing as communication or mutual enlightenment. The best one can hope for, in my experience, is to keep collateral damage to an acceptable minimum.
Predictably enough, Victor Phule was in the High Rollers' Lounge, where the games were scaled to the ultrarich, and the security discreetly steered away anyone whose pockets weren't deep enough-although not until they'd had a glimpse of the upper crust. Every nickel-dime punter who walked in the doors of the Fat Chance had a. dream of breaking the bank and going home in a private space yacht. Giving them a brief look at the big-time players in action reinforced the glamour that was an essential part of any casino's appeal. Let 'em dream, as long as they don't touch, was Tullie Bascomb's credo. And almost everything in the Fat Chance reflected the veteran casino manager's words.
Ernie found it very curious that the richest man in the place-there was no question at all that Victor Phule fit that description-was playing the least glamorous game of all, the quantum slots. Ernie wondered about that, and about the fact that the casino had set up a row of slot machines here in a room where the players were more likely to prefer roulette and baccarat. You didn't need to know very much about the business to see that something funny was going on.
Ernie's latest theory was that, by ostentatiously playing high-priced slots; Victor Phule hoped to entice other high rollers to drop an occasional token into the machines which notoriously offered the worst payoffs (or, from the house's point of view, the highest profits) in any casino. The casino stood to make a substantial gain if it could find a way to make the slots fashionable for the big spenders. A few thousand here, a few thousand there-that could add up to a nice sum of money quickly enough. If that was all that was going on, there wasn't likely to be any chance for Ernie to get an edge. But if Victor Phule was doing more than just playing the shill... Well, that was what Ernie had come here to find out.