The Scarlet Lake Mystery: A Rick Brant Science-Adventure Story. Goodwin Harold Leland

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