him his head, and back him to the limit. You’ve never let me down- and God knows I’m glad to see you around again. Venus Section can use you. Nothing’s going right. The indices are down to 3.77 composite for North America when they should be 4.0 and rising. And turnover? God! I’m here recruiting, you know: a little raid on Luna City Inc., Moonmines, and the other outfits for some space-seasoned executives.” It was good to be home. “Who’s heading it up?” I asked. “I am. We rotated a few Board men through the spot and there wasn’t any pickup. In spite of my other jobs I had to take over Venus Section direct. Am I glad to see you!” “Runstead?” “He’s vice-ing for me, poor man. What’s this jam you’re in with the guards? Where’s Kathy?” “Please, later . . . I’m wanted for femicide and CB on Earth. Here I’m a suspicious character without clearance. Also I resisted arrest, clouted a guard, and damaged Luna City property.” He looked grave. “You know, I don’t like the sound of CB,” he said. “I assume there was a flaw in the contract?” “Several,” I assured him. He brightened. “Then we’ll pay off the fines on the rest of the stuff and fight the CB clear up to the Chamber of Commerce if we have to. What firm?” “Chlorella Costa Rica.” “Hmmm. Middling-sized, but solid. Excellent people, all of them. A pleasure to do business with.” Not from the bottom up, I thought, and said nothing. “I’m sure they’ll be reasonable. And if they aren’t, I have a majority of the C of C in my pocket anyway. I ought to get something for my retainers, eh?” He dug me slyly in the ribs. His relief at getting Venus Section off his neck was overwhelming. A dozen of our Brink’s boys churned in. “That should do it,” Fowler Schocken beamed. “Lieutenant, the Luna City Inc. Burns people may try to take Mr. Courtenay here away from us. We don’t want that to happen, do we?” “No, sir,” said the lieutenant, dead-pan. “Then let’s go.” We strolled down Shopping One, amazing a few night-owl tourists. Shopping One gave way to Residential One, Two, and Three, and then to Commercial One.
“Hey, you!” a stray Burns patrolman called. We were in somewhat open order. Evidently he didn’t realize that the Brink’s men were my escort. “Go play with your marbles, Punchy,” a sergeant told him. He went pale, but beeped his alarm, and went down in a tangle of fists and boots. Burns patrolmen came bounding along the tunnel-like street in grotesque strides. Faces appeared in doorways. Our detail’s weapons-squad leader said: “Hup!” and his boys began to produce barrels, legs, belts of ammo, and actions from their uniforms. Snap-snap-snap-snap, and there were two machine guns mounted on the right tripod ready to rake both ends of the street. The Burns men braked grotesquely yards from us and stood unhappily, swinging their nightsticks. Our lieutenant called out: “What seems to be the trouble, gentlemen?” A Burns man called back: “Is that man George Groby?” “Are you George Groby?” the lieutenant asked me. “No. I’m Mitchell Courtenay.” “You hear him,” the lieutenant called. The weapons men full-cocked their guns at a signal from the squad leader. The two clicks echoed from the vaulting, and the few last-ditch rubber-necks hanging from the doors vanished. “Oh,” said the Burns man weakly. “That’s all right then. You can go ahead.” He turned on the rest of the patrolmen. “Well? What are you dummies waiting for? Didn’t you hear me?” They beat it, and we moved on down Commercial One, with the weapons men cradling their guns. The Fowler Schocken Associates Luna City Branch was 75 Commercial One, and we went in whistling. The weapons men mounted their guns in the lobby. It was a fantastic performance. I had never seen its like. Fowler Schocken explained it as he led me down into the heart of the agency. “It’s frontier stuff, Mitch. Something you’ve got to get into your copy. ‘The Equalizer’ is what they call it. A man’s rank doesn’t mean much up here. A well-drilled weapons squad is the law topside of the stratosphere. It’s getting back to the elemental things of life, where a man’s a man no matter how high his Social Security number.” We passed a door. “O’Shea’s room,” he said. “He isn’t in yet, of course. The little man’s out gathering rosebuds while he may-and