Las Vegas, Nevada
Rick and Scotty picked up their luggage at the baggage counter, then
paused to survey their surroundings. McCarran Field, the airport for Las
Vegas, Nevada, was modern and attractive. But there was no mistaking
that this was desert country. Beyond the airport they saw the barren
mountains of the Charleston Range, and behind the motels clustered
around the airport, they saw flat desert, thinly populated with mesquite
and creosote brush.
"Welcome to the wild West," Rick said with a grin.
"Not a cowboy in sight," Scotty commented. "Plenty of dudes, though." He
gestured at a group dressed in loud sports clothes. "What now?"
"Let's take a taxi into town, register at the hotel, and then go to
Lomac."
"Okay." Scotty hailed a cab from the front of the taxi line. They loaded
their baggage and climbed in.
"El Cortez," Rick directed. John Gordon had suggested that hotel, since
it was close to Lomac's office in downtown Las Vegas, and the food was
good and not expensive.
The taxi rolled through the gateway of McCarran Field and turned toward
town. In a few moments they began to pass the fabulous resort hotels on
the famous "Strip."
"Wow!" Scotty exclaimed. "Some bunch of fancy shanties!"
The taxi left The Strip, traversed the long lines of motels on Fifth
Street, and emerged on Fremont a block from the Cortez. A few minutes
later they had checked in and were unpacking their bags in a comfortable
room in the Cortez Annex.
Scotty picked up the telephone directory and leafed through it until he
found Logan and Macklin. "We have to go to Sixth Street and First
Avenue. Any idea where that is?"
"Just a couple of blocks from here." While riding in the taxi, Rick had
watched street signs and quickly figured out the simple street plan of
the town. "Let's go."
The Lomac offices were on the second floor of a building less than five
minutes walk from the hotel. The boys received application forms from a
bored clerk and sat down at a table to fill them out according to
previous plan. In his application Rick emphasized his experience with
electronic equipment and in wiring circuits. Scotty stressed his
mechanical experience with standard machine-shop equipment, and with
motor repair. This had been John Gordon's suggestion, since it would
result in their being placed in different departments at the rocket
base, thus enabling them to cover more ground.
The clerk checked their forms, then nodded. "Okay. We can use both of
you, if you pass the security check. Ever been cleared?"
"We're both cleared for top secret," Rick told him.
"What agency?"
"JANIG."
The clerk glanced up but made no comment. Rick guessed that JANIG
clearances were not common. He was a little surprised that the clerk
knew the agency; not many people did, because JANIG's activities were
never publicized.
"It will take anywhere from a few days to two weeks to get your
clearances verified and your files transferred. We can't do anything for
you until then. When we want you, we'll call you. That's all."
Rick hesitated at the door. "Where are the used-car dealers located?"
"Fifth Street and Main Street."
Rick thanked him and the boys walked out into the brilliant sunlight.
"Feel up to getting the jeep?" Rick asked. The boys had taken off from
New York shortly after midnight and had ridden all night on a plane
that, as Scotty had said, "landed in every cow pasture west of Chicago."
They had not slept much.
"Let's get the jeep," Scotty replied. "We can catch up on our sleep
after lunch."
However, getting the jeep was not as simple as they had expected. Not
until they reached the fifth used-car dealer did they find one for sale.
Scotty put the jeep through its paces, then drove it back to the car
lot. He looked at it thoughtfully and shrugged. "I wouldn't call it a
pile of junk, but that's only because I'm polite."
The salesman, a lean Westerner, looked pained. "What do you want for the
price? A Jaguar?"
"No," Scotty said. "Just something that runs."
"This runs."
"Not exactly. It limps. Put a new timer in, replace the front-wheel
bearings, grind the valves, and we'll take it."
Rick smothered a grin. Scotty's wink had told him the jeep would do. His
pal was trying to get the price down.
The salesman sighed. "How are you going to pay for it?"
"Cash. Either repair it, or knock off the cost of repairs, and it's a
deal."
"You named it. We'll knock off the repair costs."
In another hour the jeep was theirs and the boys had obtained a vehicle
registration and Nevada driver's licenses. As they drove to the hotel,
Rick asked, "Is it really in good shape?"
"Not bad. It does need some work, but we can do it in a few hours
ourselves."
"Now that we have wheels, let's get cleaned up, have a nap, and then see
the town," Rick suggested.
"I'm with you," Scotty agreed.
It was lunchtime when they returned to the hotel. They settled for ham
and eggs in the Cortez Coffee Shop, then stopped on the way through the
casino to watch the gambling. Even at noontime the dice table was jammed
with customers, and the blackjack tables were nearly full. The roulette
table was not getting much play, however, and they watched for a few
spins of the wheel.
"At least you get an even break on this one," Scotty said. "The odds are
thirty-five to one, and there are only thirty-six numbers."
Rick grinned. "How'd you like to have your life hanging on odds of
thirty-five to one?"
Scotty chuckled. "Anyway, you don't have to play numbers. You can play
black or red, or odd or even. That gives you fifty-fifty odds."
Rick shook his head. "You forgot something. The wheel has zero and
double zero, and they're green, and neither odd nor even. That makes the
odds less than fifty-fifty. You can't win, Scotty."
"Kill-joy. How about the one-arm bandits?" He pointed to several rows of
slot machines.
"No help there, either. It depends on how they're set, but usually out
of every four coins you put in, one drops out of play completely. The
only one who ever sees it again is the man who owns the machine. So, if
you keep feeding money in, eventually the machine will take it all.
Sometimes the machines are set to take one coin out of every three, or
even one out of every two."
"But people do win, gambling," Scotty objected.
"Sure they do. That's why people gamble--and hope. But the great
majority lose." Rick waved at the luxurious casino. "If most people
didn't lose, these casinos couldn't operate."
"Maybe I'd be the lucky one," Scotty said.
A deputy sheriff had been listening to the conversation with amusement.
He tapped Scotty on the shoulder. "I said that once, son. I was going to
be the luckiest ringdangdoo that ever hit Vegas. And what happened? I've
been working in this hotel as a guard for two years, trying to make a
stake big enough to go back home and start where I left off when the bug
bit me."
"Tough," Rick murmured.
"The town is full of people like me. Besides, you lads can't gamble,
anyway. The legal age is twenty-one. Come back in a few years if you
feel rich and foolish, and try bucking the tiger. You'll see what I
mean."
"We'll take your word for it," Scotty assured him. "Come on, Rick. Let's
hit the hay. I can use a nap."
If Las Vegas was spectacular by day, it was a neon nightmare after dark.
The boys dined well, and more than sufficiently, at El Rancho Vegas,
then got in the jeep for a ride around town.
Scotty loosened his belt with a groan. "For once," he admitted, "I
overdid it. Did you ever see so much chow?"
"Not outside of a supermarket," Rick agreed. He let his own belt out a
notch or two.
The boys drove to Fremont Street, past the incredible gambling halls
with their elaborate signs and miles of neon tubing.
Scotty remarked, "I guess you and that deputy sheriff were right. It
takes an awful lot of lost money to keep all these places going."
Tiring of the neon wilderness they turned north on Main Street and
headed out toward Nellis Air Force Base. For a brief stretch the neon
glow faded, then resumed again as they reached North Las Vegas.
Suddenly Scotty pointed. "Hey! We're on another planet."
Rick stared. Towering into the sky was a huge, illuminated figure clad
in a spacesuit. The transparent helmet glowed red, then blue, green,
yellow, and finally red again. In one colossal hand was a supermodern
pistol. Colored flame spurted from the muzzle.
Rick laughed as he noticed another figure in front of the establishment.
"Look! He's got a pup."
Acting as a doorman was another figure, human size, clad in a similar
getup.
Across the building which served as a base for the giant spaceman was a
glowing sign:
THE SPACEMAN CASINO
"What say we drop in?" Scotty suggested.
"Sure," Rick replied, falling into the role of a science-fiction
spaceman. "We might pick up the latest gossip on that uranium strike on
Venus, or the discovery of live prodsponders on Mars."
Scotty swung into the parking lot. "Tell me, Space Commander, what are
prodsponders?"
"A subspecies of sponprodders. Your ignorance surprises me, Cadet
Scott."
"I haven't been to the inner planets for a week," Scotty apologized. "I
lose touch."
They walked across the driveway, noting that the customary shrubs and
plants were replaced here by artificial ones, made in a form that
represented someone's idea of what plants from other worlds must look
like. The effect was actually pretty good. The place had been built with
imagination.
The spacesuit-clad doorman nodded, and they saw that he was perspiring
freely inside the transparent helmet.
"Who ever heard of a non-airconditioned spacesuit?" Rick murmured. "Bet
he couldn't survive the Venus-Mercury run in that rig."
Inside were the inevitable slot machines, in banks of fifty or more.
Rick decided the objective must be one slot machine for each person in
town. Behind the slot machines were the dice layouts, roulette tables,
and blackjack tables.
Beyond the casino proper, however, was a pleasant lounge that included a
snack bar and tables for dining. The boys wandered over to the snack bar
and sat down on stools, looking around with appreciation. The walls were
decorated with murals--photographic reproductions of a famous artist's
conception of other planets.
"This is nice," Rick said appreciatively.
"Best place I've seen since Callisto Connie's joint on Jupiter," Scotty
agreed whimsically.
A waiter, not much older than they were, wandered down the counter. He
was dressed in a loose tunic that glittered.
"Howdy, fellas," he greeted them.
Rick and Scotty "howdy'd" back.
The counter clerk eyed them with interest. "Haven't seen you in here
before."
"First time," Rick admitted. "Nice place."
"We like it. You from Scarlet Lake?"
The boys stiffened. "What gave you that idea?" Scotty asked quickly.
The waiter admired his fingernails. "Easy. You're not local folks and
you don't look like tourists. So, you came here to work. Maybe the
atomic test site, maybe Nellis, maybe Scarlet Lake. I said Scarlet Lake
because a lot of people from there come in to eat when they're in town.
Some of 'em here right now."
"Where?" Rick asked.
"At the tables over against the wall. What are you going to have?"
Neither boy wanted any more food at the moment, and said so. They agreed
on coffee.
"Here or at a table?"
"Table," Rick said. "Might as well move in with the people from Scarlet
Lake, starting now." He led the way across the room and picked out a
table next to two men in loud sports shirts. One man was big, nearly the
size of Dr. Zircon of the Spindrift staff. He had red hair and a curly
red beard. His eyes were dark and penetrating under bushy red eyebrows.
He looked the boys over with slow deliberation, as though memorizing
what they looked like.
The second man was big, too, although he didn't approach the redhead in
size. He was slightly over six feet, Rick guessed. He was
dark-complexioned and clean-shaven. His eyes, a light blue, were a
surprising contrast to his dark hair and heavily tanned skin.
The redhead leaned over as the boys sat down. "I haven't seen you kids
before. You from Scarlet Lake?"
"We hope to be," Rick replied civilly. "We've applied for jobs at Lomac,
but now we have to wait for a security check."
The redhead turned to his friend. "Catching 'em kind of young these
days, hey, Pancho?"
Pancho showed white teeth in a smile. "Looks like it."
"We can do a day's work," Scotty said shortly.
"Never doubted it for a minute." The redhead thrust out a massive paw.
"I'm Mac McCline. Big Mac, they call me. This here is Pancho Kelly."
The boys shook hands and gave their names.
"Any idea what you're getting into at Scarlet Lake?" Big Mac asked.
"Not much," Rick said truthfully.
Big Mac guffawed. "Well, I'll tell you. Heat, dirt, sidewinders, and
crazy rockets. And if they don't get you, one thing will."
"What's that?" Scotty asked.
"The Earthman."