‘All the agencies?’ Tony queried. ‘Don’t you mean just the registered ones?’
‘All of them,’ Margot told him smugly, relishing every moment of her triumph.
Clifford nodded, and smiled at Margot benignly.
‘But there must be 50 or 60 agencies organizing vacations,’ Tony protested. ‘Only about a dozen of them are accredited. Outside Empyrean Tours and Union-Galactic there’ll be absolutely nothing suitable for you.’
‘Never mind,’ Clifford said blandly. ‘We only want an idea of the field. I’m sorry, Tony, but I don’t want this all over the Department and I know you’ll be discreet.’
Tony groaned. ‘It’ll take me weeks.’
‘Three days,’ Clifford told him. ‘Margot and I want to leave here by the end of the week.’ He looked longingly over his shoulder for the absent Trantino. ‘Believe me, Tony, we really need a holiday.’
Fifty-six travel and vacation agencies were listed in the Commercial Directory, Tony discovered when he returned to his office in the top floor of the Justice building in downtown Zenith, all but eight of them alien. The Department had initiated legal proceedings against five, three had closed down, and eight more were fronts for other enterprises.
That left him with forty to visit, spread all over the Upper and Lower Cities and in the Colonial Bazaar, attached to various mercantile, religious and paramilitary organizations, some of them huge concerns with their own police and ecclesiastical forces, others sharing a one-room office and transceiver with a couple of other shoestring firms.
Tony mapped out an itinerary, slipped a flask of Five-Anchor Neptunian Rum into his hip pocket and dialled a helicab.
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.
‘Damn things,’ he grumbled, wiping the sweat off his chin and fiddling aimlessly with the thermostat. ‘They gave me a booklet when I got it, but it doesn’t say anything about it eating a whole beach every day.’ He spaded in another couple of shovels from a low dune of sand heaped on the floor behind him. ‘You have to keep them at exactly 5750°K. or they start getting nervous. Can I help you?’
‘I thought there was a vacation agency here,’ Tony said.
‘Sure. I’ll call the girls for you.’ He pressed a bell.
‘Wait a minute,’ Tony cut in. ‘You advertise something about cultural parties. What exactly are they?’
The fat man chuckled. ‘That must be my partner. He’s a professor at Vega Tech. Likes to keep the tone up.’ He winked at Tony.
Tony sat on one of the stools, looking out over the crazy spiral roof-tops of the Bazaar. A mile away the police patrols circled over the big apartment batteries which marked the perimeter of the Bazaar, keeping their distance.
A tall slim woman appeared from behind the foliage and sauntered across the terrace to him. She was a Canopan slave, hot-housed out of imported germ, a slender green-skinned beauty with moth-like fluttering gills.
The fat man introduced Tony. ‘Lucille, take him up to the arbour and give him a run th
rough.’
Tony tried to protest but the pressure brazier was hissing fiercely. The fat man started feeding sand in furiously, the exhaust flames flaring across the terrace.
Quickly, Tony turned and backed up the stairway to the arbour. ‘Lucille,’ he reminded her firmly, ‘this is strictly cultural, remember.’
Half an hour later a dull boom reverberated up from the terrace.
‘Poor Jumbo,’ Lucille said sadly as a fine rain of sand came down over them.
‘Poor Jumbo,’ Tony agreed, sitting back and playing with a coil of her hair. Like a soft sinuous snake, it circled around his arm, sleek with blue oil. He drained the flask of Five-Anchor and tossed it lightly over the balustrade. ‘Now tell me more about these Canopan prayerbeds . . .’
When, after two days, Tony reported back to the Gorrells he looked hollow-eyed and exhausted, like a man who had been brain-washed by the Wardens.
‘What happened to you?’ Margot asked anxiously, ‘we thought you’d been going round the agencies.’
‘Exactly,’ Tony said. He slumped down in a sofa and tossed a thick folder across to Clifford. ‘Take your pick. You’ve got about 250 schemes there in complete detail, but I’ve written out a synopsis which gives one or two principal suggestions from each agency. Most of them are out of the question.’
Clifford unclipped the synopsis and started to read through it.
(1) ARCO PRODUCTIONS INC. Unregistered. Private subsidiary of Sagittarius Security Police.
Hunting and shooting. Your own war to order. Raiding parties, revolutions, religious crusades. In anything from a small commando squad to a 3,000-ship armada. ARCO provide publicity, mock War Crimes Tribunal, etc. Samples:
(a) Operation Torquemada. 23-day expedition to Bellatrix IV. 20 ship assault corps under Admiral Storm Wengen. Mission: liberation of (imaginary) Terran hostages. Cost: 300,000 credits.
(b) Operation Klingsor. 15-year crusade against Ursa Major. Combined task force of 2,500 ships. Mission: recovery of runic memory dials stolen from client’s shrine.
Cost: 500 billion credits (ARCO will arrange lend-lease but this is dabbling in realpolitik).
(2) ARENA FEATURES INC. Unregistered. Organizers of the Pan-Galactic Tournament held tri-millennially at the Sun Bowl 2-Heliopolis, NGC 3599.
Every conceivable game in the Cosmos is played at the tournament and so formidable is the opposition that a winning contestant can virtually choose his own apotheosis. The challenge round of the Solar Megathlon Group 3 (that is, for any being whose function can be described, however loosely, as living) involves Quantum Jumping, 7-dimensional Maze Ball and Psychokinetic Bridge (pretty tricky against a telepathic Ketos D’Oma). The only Terran ever to win an event was the redoubtable Chippy Yerkes of Altair 5 The Clowns, who introduced the unplayable blank Round Dice. Being a spectator is as exhausting as being a contestant, and you’re well advised to substitute. Cost: 100,000 credits/day.
(3) AGENCE GENERALE DE TOURISME. Registered. Venus.
Concessionaires for the Colony Beatific on Lake Virgo, the Mandrake Casino Circuit and the Miramar-Trauma Senso-channels. Dream-baths, vu-dromes, endocrine-galas. Darleen Costello is the current Aphrodite and Laurence Mandell makes a versatile Lothario. Plug into these two from 30:30 VST.Room and non-denominational bath at the Gomorrah-Plaza on Mount Venus comes to 1,000 credits a day, but remember to keep out of the Zone. It’s just too erotogenous for a Terran.
(4) TERMINAL TOURS LTD. Unregistered. Earth.
For those who want to get away from it all the Dream of Osiris,an astral-rigged, 1,000-foot leisure-liner is now fitting out for the Grand Tour. Round-cosmos cruise, visiting every known race and galaxy. Cost: Doubles at a flat billion, but it’s cheap when you realize that the cruise lasts for ever and you’ll never be back.
(5) SLEEP TRADERS. Unregistered.
A somewhat shadowy group who handle all dealings on the Blue Market, acting as a general clearing house and buying and selling dreams all through the Galaxy.
Sample: Like to try a really new sort of dream? The Set Corrani Priests of Theta Piscium will link you up with the sacred electronic thought-pools in the Desert of Kish. These mercury lakes are their ancestral memory banks. Surgery is necessary but be careful. Too much cortical damage and the archetypes may get restive. In return one of the Set Corrani (polysexual delta-humanoids about the size of a walking dragline) will take over your cerebral functions for a long weekend. All these transactions are done on an exchange basis and SLEEP TRADERS charge nothing for the service. But they obviously get a rake-off, and may pump advertising into the lower medullary centres. Whatever they’re selling I wouldn’t advise anybody to buy.
(6) THE AGENCY. Registered. M33 in Andromeda.
The executive authority of the consortium of banking trusts floating Schedule D, the fourth draw of the gigantic PK pyramid lottery sweeping all through the continuum from Sol III out to the island universes. Trance-cells everywhere are now recruiting dream-readers and ESPerceptionists, and there’s still time to buy a ticket. There’s only one number on all the tickets – the winning one – but don’t think that means you’ll get away with the kitty. THE AGENCY has just launched UNILIV, the emergency relief fund for victims of Schedule C who lost their deposits and are now committed to paying off impossible debts, some monetary, some moral (if you’re unlucky in the draw you may find yourself landed with a guilt complex that would make even a Colonus Rex look sad). Cost: 1 credit – but with an evaluation in the billions if you have to forfeit.
(7) ARCTURIAN EXPRESS. Unregistered.
Controls all important track events. The racing calendar this year is a causal and not a temporal one and seems a little obscure, but most of the established classics are taking place.
(a) The Rhinosaur Derby. Held this year at Betelgeuse Springs under the rules of the Federation of Amorphs. First to the light horizon. There’s always quite a line-up for this one and any form of vehicle is allowed – rockets, beams, racial migrations, ES thought patterns – but frankly it’s a waste of effort. It’s not just that by the time you’re out of your own sight you’re usually out of your mind as well, but the Nils of Rigel, who always enter a strong team, are capable of instantaneous transmission.
(b) The Paraplegic Handicap. Recently instituted by the Protists of Lambda Scorpio. The course measures only 0.00015 mm, but that’s a long way to urge an Aldebaran Torpid. They are giant viruses embedded in bauxite mountains, and by varying their pressure differentials it’s sometimes possible to tickle them into a little life. K 2 on Regulus IX is holding the big bets, but even so the race is estimated to take about 50,000 years to run.
(8) NEW FUTURES INC. Unregistered.
Tired of the same dull round? NEW FUTURES will take you right out of this world. In the island universes the continuum is extra-dimensional, and the time channels are controlled by rival cartels. The element of chance apparently plays the time role, and it’s all even more confused by the fact that you may be moving around in someone else’s extrapolation.
In the tourist translation manual 185 basic tenses are given, and of these 125 are future conditional. No verb conjugates in the present tense, and you can invent and copyright your own irregulars. This may explain why I got the impression at the bureau that they were only half there.
Cost: simultaneously 3,270 and 2,000,000 credits. They refuse to quibble.
(9) SEVEN SIRENS. Registered. Venus.
A subsidiary of the fashion trust controlling senso-channel Astral Eve. Ladies, like to win your own beauty contest? Twenty-five of the most beautiful creatures in the Galaxy are waiting to pit their charms against yours, but however divine they may be – and two or three of them, such as the Flamen Zilla Quel-Queen (75–9–25) and the Orthodox Virgin of Altair (76–953–?) certainly will be – they’ll stand no chance against you. Your specifications will be defined as the ideal ones.
(10) GENERAL ENTERPRISES. Registered.
Specialists in culture cycles, world struggles
, ethnic trends. Organize vacations as a sideline. A vast undertaking for whom ultimately we all work. Their next venture, epoch-making by all accounts, is starting now, and everybody will be coming along. I was politely but firmly informed that it was no use worrying about the cost. When I asked –
Before Clifford could finish one of the houseboys came up to him.
‘Priority Call for you, sir.’
Clifford handed the synopsis to Margot. ‘Tell me if you find anything. It looks to me as if we’ve been wasting Tony’s time.’
He left them and went through to his study.
‘Ah, Gorrell, there you are.’ It was Thornwall Harrison, the attorney who had taken over Clifford’s office. ‘Who the hell are all these people trailing in to see you night and day? The place looks like Colonial Night at the Arena Circus. I can’t get rid of them.’
‘Which people?’ Clifford asked. ‘What do they want?’
‘You apparently,’ Thornwall told him. ‘Most of them thought I was you. They’ve been trying to sell me all sorts of crazy vacation schemes. I said you’d already gone on your vacation and I myself never took one. Then one of them pulled a hypodermic on me. There’s even an Anti-Cartel agent sleuthing around, wants to see you about block bookings. Thinks you’re a racketeer.’
Back in the lounge Margot and Tony were looking out through the terrace windows into the boulevard which ran from the Gorrells’ villa to the level below.
A long column of vehicles had pulled up under the trees: trucks, half-tracks, huge Telesenso studio location vans and several sleek white ambulances. The drivers and crew-men were standing about in little groups in the shadows, quietly watching the villa. Two or three radar scanners on the vans were rotating, and as Clifford looked down a convoy of trucks drove up and joined the tail of the column.
‘Looks like there’s going to be quite a party,’ Tony said. ‘What are they waiting for?’
‘Perhaps they’ve come for us?’ Margot suggested excitedly.
‘They’re wasting their time if they have,’ Clifford told her. He swung round on Tony. ‘Did you give our names to any of the agencies?’
The Complete Stories of J. G. Ballard Page 51