"If you kill one man, you are an assassin.
If you kill millions, you are a conqueror.
If you kill everyone, you are a god."—Conrad Bland
Orestes Mela walked past the snakes and scorpions, past the elephants and lemurs, past the eight-legged Rigelian herbivores and the bloblike Vegan carnivores and the armored Spican omnivores, marveling that they had all managed to adapt to the hothouse climate of Serengeti, the zoo world of the Terrazane Sector. He began to wipe the sweat from his pudgy face, then decided that he didn't want to call even more attention to the small briefcase that was chained to his wrist, and stopped in midmotion.
He checked his handout map, pinpointed the aviary some six miles away, and flagged down a robotic cart. Serengeti wasn't that fascinating, and there was no sense arriving at his destination too winded to talk.
The cart left him off a few minutes later, and he produced a token that gained him access to the screen-covered path that wound its way through the sanctuary. He walked along it for almost a mile, wondering why they kept the birds of different worlds separated and trying to get used to the odor.
Finally he came to a circular area filled with benches and tables and an automated refreshment stand. Three men and a woman sat at various tables, and an ancient uniformed attendant was painfully picking up rubbish from a number of deserted benches.
Mela surveyed the four. Two of the men were too young, and the woman seemed too frail, though she was a possibility. But the other man seemed to fill the bill: a huge, towering man with hard gray eyes and a deep scar on his left cheek. A gust of hot wind caught the man's empty paper cup and sent it flying off the table, but he caught it before it could land, moving with a fluid animal grace.
Well, thought Mela, at least he looks the part.
Mela waited, uncertain of how to initiate his approach, and a moment later the huge man stood up, stretched like some savage jungle cat, and strode off. Puzzled, Mela thought of walking after him, but chose to remain seated. The two young men left about five minutes later, and a moment after that the woman followed them.
The grizzled attendant approached him.
"Do you mind if I sit down for a moment, sir?" he said in a voice weak with age. "It's hot, thirsty work, cleaning up after the tourists."
"I'd prefer you sat elsewhere," said Mela irritably. "I'm waiting for someone."
"Not any longer," said the attendant, pulling up a chair.
Mela peered at the ancient face.
"Jericho?" he asked at last.
The attendant nodded.
"Well, I'll be damned!" exclaimed Mela.
"Shall we proceed?" said Jericho, and his voice was no longer that of an old man.
"Right here?" asked Mela, frowning.
"We won't be interrupted," said Jericho. "I've seen to that."
Mela shrugged.
"Is there any reason why you picked this particular world for our meeting?" he asked, lifting his briefcase to the table and punching out a fourteen-digit combination on its computer lock.
'I've never been to Serengeti before."
"Odd," commented Mela. "It seems like an ideal, place for you to keep your hand in, so to speak. I understand they sell hunting licenses in certain areas."
"I never kill for pleasure, Mr. Mela," said Jericho emotionlessly.
"Well, to business," said Mela, withdrawing a number of packets. "This," he said, holding up a thick package of discs, "is what he's done. And this," he added, holding up a single disc, "contains everything we know about him. We filled only about two minutes' worth of it. In point of fact, we don't even know, after eighteen years, if he is a him. After all, Conrad Bland is only a name; doubtless he has others."
"Doubtless," said Jericho noncommittally.
"You'll want to go through these, of course," said Mela, sliding the large package across the table. "I've arranged a temporary security clearance for you, so you can take them with you and study them carefully."
"Keep them," said Jericho.
"Keep them?" repeated Mela Incredulously. "But they contain all the details of New Rhodesia, all the pertinent information about Boriga and Quantos and Pilor and—"
"What Conrad Bland did on Boriga and the other worlds is of no concern to me."
"Don't you want to know the nature of the man you'll be facing?" insisted Mela, finally mopping away some of the sweat that streamed down his face.
"I never draw moral judgments," replied Jericho, "It's enough that yon want him dead and that you've agreed to pay my fee. I am merely an executioner."
"More to the point, you are a professional assassin who has been commissioned to terminate a man that the Republic can't extradite," said Mela, twitching his nostrils as the avian odors assailed them. "And I might mention in passing that we know even less about you than we do about him."
"You know that I'm on your side, Mr. Mela. That ought to be sufficient."
"I hate to think how many of us you may have killed over the years," said Mela bitterly. "I find the whole concept of hiring a killer to exterminate another killer distasteful in the extreme."
"And yet here you are doing just that," noted Jericho.
"It's not a matter of choice. I have my orders. By the way, Jericho isn't your real name, is it?"
"Does it make a difference?"
"Not really," said Mela. "But I suspect that it's a code name or an alias or something, just as I suspect you're a much younger man than you presently appear to be."
Jericho stared calmly at him and made no reply.
Mela met his gaze for a long moment, then shook his head. "Damn it!" he said. "I was expecting someone who looked more like a killer!"
"What does a killer look like?" inquired Jericho mildly.
"You blend right in with the scenery!" continued Mela, wondering why he felt so outraged. "Normal height, normal weight, no speech patterns. You're probably the penultimate Average Man under all that makeup."
"I strongly suggest that you stop worrying about my appearance," said Jericho. "You will never see me again after this meeting is over."
"I'll at least have to know what you intend to look like and what identity you expect to be using so our people can be forewarned."
"That won't be necessary."
"The entire planet is under military quarantine," Mela pointed out. "How will you get there?"
"The same way I got here," said Jericho. "Which leads me to another point, Mr. Mela. There are seventeen Republic ships in orbit around Serengeti and some three hundred operatives on the planet itself. Obviously they are not here for your protection, and just as obviously they are not here to defend the planet from any real or imagined attack. I must therefore assume that they are here to scrutinize me and gather such information as may prove useful should you wish to arrest or eliminate me at the conclusion of our transaction. I must warn you that should any member of the Republic make any such effort to invade my privacy at any time in the future I will consider it to be a breach of good faith and will feel free to call the entire affair off without returning your down payment—which I trust you remembered to bring with you."
Mela nodded, withdrew a small titanium container from his briefcase, and handed it to Jericho, who opened it, spilled a number of precious gemstones onto his hand, nodded, and replaced them in the container.
"Don't you want to examine them more closely?" asked Mela irritably.
"No," said Jericho. "I've no intention of beginning my assignment until they have been appraised and converted into currency."
"How long will that take?" demanded Mela, raising his voice to be heard over the screeching of the birds.
"Less time than you suppose," replied Jericho. "And now to business. There are certain things I need to know about Bland."
"I thought you didn't want our information," said Mela petulantly.
"The wholesale slaughter of planetary populations is a matter of complete indifference to me," said Jericho, his gaze leaving Mela's round, sweating face to follow the flight of a hawk as it swooped down to snare a sparrow amid much squawking and fluttering of wings. "But it stands to reason that the Republic wouldn't seek my services unless and until they had lost a number of their own operatives. How many men have tried to assassinate Conrad Bland, and how did they fail?"
"We have sent twenty-three men after him, fifteen on their own and four two-man teams," admitted Mela. "None of them has been heard from again."
"Who were they?" asked Jericho.
"The best men the Republic had," said Mela. "Including Rinehart Guntermann."
"Your people should have known better than to send a used-up old warhorse after someone like Bland."
"I beg your pardon!" snapped Mela, struggling to control his temper. "It so happens that Guntermann was the hero of the Battle of Canphor VII!"
"Which he fought from the flagship of an impenetrable fleet," said Jericho dryly. "Apples and oranges, Mr. Mela; if Bland was where the Navy could get at him, you wouldn't have sought me out and I wouldn't have allowed you to find me."
"Allowed me?" repeated Mela as a hot breeze blew over him, again making him unpleasantly aware of the myriad of pungent odors that surrounded him.
"Of course," Said Jericho. "I watched you make awkward and blundering attempts for almost a year, displaying considerably more obstinacy than skill. It was your very persistence, the frantic nature of your efforts, that convinced me you had to be after Conrad Bland."
"You expected us to come to you about Bland?"
"Sooner or later," said Jericho.
"And you look forward to the challenge?"
"Not at all," answered Jericho. "I look forward to the reward, which is commensurate to the challenge."
"Twenty-three decent and honorable men went after him with no thought of reward," said Mela bitterly.
"Little good it did them," responded Jericho emotionlessly. "By the way, were they all killed on Bland's current world?"
"No," said Mela. "He's been running from us for almost five years. We made our first attempt on Lodin, two more on Bareimus II, another on Belsanidor, three on Nimbus VIII, and the rest on other planets along the way."
"I'll want dossiers on all twenty-three operatives," said Jericho. "I want to know their skills, their specialties, and their previous accomplishments in similar situations, if any."
"It's all in there," said Mela, gesturing toward the thick packet, which Jericho now reached for and took.
"Don't look so angry, Mr. Mela," said Jericho. "Your down payment is nonrefundable. Regardless of your feelings toward me, it is in both of our best interests that I accomplish my mission."
"I am here because I was ordered to come," said Mela coldly. "I will cooperate with you in every way possible. But that doesn't mean I have to like it."
"Fair enough," said Jericho, tossing a few tidbits of food and garbage through the protective fence to a bird that was patiently watching them from the other side. "And now perhaps you'd better tell me something about the planet."
"It's called Walpurgis," said Mela. "Walpurgis III, actually."
"So you informed, me," commented Jericho. "I couldn't find it on my star charts. Is it newly settled?"
"Within the past century or so. You'll find it listed as Zeta Tau III."
"Walpurgis," repeated Jericho. "An interesting name."
"It's an interesting world," said Mela. "A psychologist could have a field day with it."
"In what way?" asked Jericho, and Mela sensed that though there was no change in his expression he had suddenly become more attentive.
"During the Great Opening," began the Republic man, "every damned special interest you can think of laid claim to a planet or two. General Combine got four, United Silicon picked up a pair, even the Jesus Pures got a little world of their own."
"Jesus Pures?" inquired Jericho.
"Church of the Purity of Jesus Christ," explained Mela. "There were so many worlds that even the fringe groups started staking claims."
"And what particular fringe group does Walpurgis represent?" asked Jericho.
"Witchcraft," said Mela.
"You're kidding!" said Jericho, smiling for the first time.
"I wish I were," replied Mela, raising his voice again as another flock of birds began screeching.
"But witchcraft doesn't work."
"Neither does believing in the purity of Jesus Christ," said Mela. "The fact remains that a number of covens and Satanic cults staked a claim to Walpurgis, the claim was allowed, and they settled the planet."
"All right, they believe in witchcraft," said Jericho. "How does this cause a problem?"
"Because Conrad Bland fled to Walpurgis and claimed sanctuary." Mela wiped his face again. "My God, it's humid here!"
"I still don't see the problem," said Jericho. "It's a Republic world, isn't it?"
"It's not that simple," said Mela. "These people worship evil, if not in practice then at least in principle. They have a civil government, but in point of fact they're ruled by a theocracy, and the theocracy won't give him up. And after the problem we had on Radillex IV, we're not about to go in after him in force."
Jericho nodded thoughtfully. Radillex IV had given sanctuary to two escaped convicts, the Republic had demanded their return, the planet had refused, the Navy had moved in, and when the dust cleared three million Radillexians were dead and the Republic had a brand-new government. Their successors remained more than a little sensitive about showing their muscle to any colony planet, especially when there were so many alien worlds in real or imagined need of subjugation.
"So we clamped an embargo on Walpurgis and placed it under quarantine," continued Mela, "which probably didn't do a hell of a lot of good, since they never had any commerce with the rest of the Republic anyway."
"And you're sure he's still there?" said Jericho.
"We've got that world sealed up so tight nothing can get in or out," said Mela. "He's there, all right. In fact, we've had some recent secret communications with the civil government concerning him."
"And?"
"They've begged us—literally begged us—to terminate him."
"Did they give any reason?" asked Jericho.
Mela shook his head.
"I'll need histories, guidebooks, and anything else you can give me concerning Walpurgis," said Jericho at last.
"We don't have a damned thing," said Mela.
"Not even a map?"
'Topographical, yes; roads and cities, no," said Mela. "You must understand: the founders viewed themselves as an oppressed minority, and they cut themselves off totally from the rest of the Republic. Both immigration and emigration have been severely restricted throughout their history. They have no commerce with any other world of the Republic—or with any alien world, for that matter. They willingly pay the higher taxes that result from refusing conscription. They allow no video transmissions in or out. Hell, they don't even honor the credit; instead they've got some archaic mixture of dollars, pounds, yen, and rubles."
"I see," said Jericho. "Have you any operatives there at the moment?"
"One, if he's still alive," replied Mela. "A man named Ibo Ubusuku."
"Where is he stationed and how can I contact him if the need arises?"
"We've heard from him only once," said Mela. "He's in a city called Amaymon in the southern hemisphere, and he can be contacted through a coded classified advertisement which is on one of your discs. He hasn't broken radio silence since his initial message, since the Republic isn't very popular on Walpurgis these days."
"Is there anything else I should know?" asked Jericho.
"Probably," said Mela. "Unfortunately, no one in the government is in a position to give it to you."
"Then," said Jericho, rising to his feet, "I think we can consider our meeting concluded. Please make no attempt to follow me."
"One last thing," said Mela. "I am empowered to authorize the purchase of any weapon you feel you may need."
"I'm sure I can find what I need on the planet," said Jericho.
"But our weaponry is much more sophisticated!" protested Mela.
"Mr. Mela," said Jericho slowly, as if weighing each word, "this may come as a surprise to you, possibly even a disappointment, but there are many men and women who are better shots than I am, just as there are many others who are more proficient in hand-to-hand combat. You are not hiring a marksman or a brawler. You are hiring an executioner. I'll get what I need on the planet."
A huge scarlet eagle floated effortlessly down toward the ground, then screeched and pounced on a small mammal. Mela turned momentarily to see the cause of the commotion. When he turned back, the man who called himself Jericho was gone.