The first was ARCO PRODUCTIONS INC., a large establishment occupying three levels and a bunker on the fashionable west side of the Upper City. According to the Directory they specialized in hunting and shooting expeditions.
The helicab put him down on the apron outside the entrance. Massive steel columns reached up to a reinforced concrete portico, and the whole place looked less like a travel agency than the last redoubt of some interstellar Seigfreid. As he went in a smart jackbooted guard of janissaries in black and silver uniforms snapped to attention and presented arms.
Everyone inside the building was wearing a uniform, moving about busily at standby alert. A huge broad-shouldered woman with sergeant’s stripes handed Tony over to a hard-faced Martian colonel.
‘I’m making some inquiries on behalf of a wealthy Terran and his wife,’ Tony explained. ‘They thought they’d do a little big-game hunting on their vacation this year. I believe you organize expeditions.’
The colonel nodded curtly and led Tony over to a broad map-table. ‘Certainly. What exactly have they in mind?’
‘Well, nothing really. They hoped you’d make some suggestions.’
‘Of course.’ The colonel pulled out a memo-tape. ‘Have they their own air and land forces?’
Tony shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not.’
‘I see. Can you tell me whether they will require a single army corps, a combined task force or—’
‘No,’ Tony said. ‘Nothing as big as that.’
‘An assault party of brigade strength? I understand. Quieter and less elaborate. All the fashion today.’ He switched on the star-map and spread his hands across the glimmering screen of stars and nebulae. ‘Now the question of the particular theatre. At present only three of the game reserves have open seasons. Firstly the Procyon system; this includes about 20 different races, some of them still with only atomic technologies. Unfortunately there’s been a good deal of dispute recently about declaring Procyon a game reserve, and the Resident of Alschain is trying to have it admitted to the Pan-Galactic Conference. A pity, I feel,’ the colonel added, reflectively stroking his steel-grey moustache. ‘Procyon always put up a great fight against us and an expedition there was invariably lively.’
Tony nodded sympathetically. ‘I hadn’t realized they objected.’
The colonel glanced at him sharply. ‘Naturally,’ he said. He cleared his throat. ‘That leaves only the Ketab tribes of Ursa Major, who are having their Millennial Wars, and the Sudor Martines of Orion. They are an entirely new reserve, and your best choice without doubt. The ruling dynasty died out recently, and a war of succession could be conveniently arranged.’
Tony was no longer following the colonel, but he smiled intelligently.
‘Now,’ the colonel asked, ‘what political or spiritual creeds do your friends wish to have invoked?’
Tony frowned. ‘I don’t think they want any. Are they absolutely necessary?’
The colonel regarded Tony carefully. ‘No,’ he said slowly. ‘It’s a question of taste. A purely military operation is perfectly feasible. However, we always advise our clients to invoke some doctrine as a casus belli, not only to avoid adverse publicity and any feelings of guilt or remorse, but to lend colour and purpose to the campaign. Each of our field commanders specializes in a particular ideological pogrom, with the exception of General Westerling. Perhaps your friends would prefer him?’
Tony’s mind started to work again. ‘Schapiro Westerling? The former Director-General of Graves Commission?’
The colonel nodded. ‘You know him?’
Tony laughed. ‘Know him? I thought I was prosecuting him at the current Nova Trials. I can see that we’re well behind with the times.’ He pushed back his chair. ‘To tell the truth I don’t think you’ve anything suitable for my friends. Thanks all the same.’
The colonel stiffened. One of his hands moved below the desk and a buzzer sounded along the wall.
‘However,’ Tony added, ‘I’d be grateful if you’d send them further details.’
The colonel sat impassively in his chair. Three enormous guards appeared at Tony’s elbow, idly swinging energy truncheons.
‘Clifford Gorrell, Stellar Probate Division, Department of Justice,’ Tony said quickly.
He gave the colonel a brief smile and made his way out, cursing Clifford and walking warily across the thickly piled carpet in case it had been mined.
The next one on his list was the A-Z JOLLY JUBILEE COMPANY, alien and unregistered, head office somewhere out of Betelgeuse. According to the Directory they specialized in ‘all-in cultural parties and guaranteed somatic weekends.’ Their premises occupied the top two tiers of a hanging garden in the Colonial Bazaar. They sounded harmless enough but Tony was ready for them.
‘No,’ he said firmly to a lovely Antarean wraith-fern who shyly raised a frond to him as he crossed the terrace. ‘Not today.’
Behind the bar a fat man in an asbestos suit was feeding sand to a siliconic fire-fish swimming round in a pressure brazier.
