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Chapter 1

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Milon the Assassin and Jennifer the Complete stepped down off the automated gangway, which led from their interstellar ship to the solid ground of Cartonia Orange 7, a planet they hadn’t seen in a long, long time. Trumpets sang, acrobat somersaulted and huge beasts died for their pleasure. A handful of bejewelled ladies blew kisses, perhaps only to kindle the jealousy of rival ladies or of their own lords.

“I don’t suppose you’re used to such magnificent sights,” Milon teased. “You, from your desolate homeland.”

“Magnificent?” queried Jennifer. “Do you rate such a gaudy farrago as magnificence? You, with your eyes forever trained on violence?”

“Touché!” applauded Milon the Assassin.

The planet had only been recontacted by the Quad-Galactic Alliance a century earlier. For thousands of years, Cartonia Orange 7 had gone its own course, ignorant of the QGA. Memories of star travel had mutated into bizarre myths and half-hearted religions. The human beings there had begun to mutate too, in body and in mind.

Sightless men now saw through psychic eyes. The dumb could talk without tongues or fingers. The mouthless could absorb food through their skins. Milon and Jennifer, both immortal, were disgusted and entranced by the whole thing. Arrogance, however, did not permit them to show their true feelings. A well-maintained guard is the essence of the fully-fledged QGA ego.

The two ambassadors allowed themselves to be led through the planet’s capital city, Offalfisk, and onto the main meeting hall. There, they were presented with an exquisite combination of food and exotic dancers.

“This is less than authentic,” whispered Milon to his companion.

“Dear Milon,” she replied, “it may not be native cuisine, but it certainly tastes good!”

The Master of Ceremonies had overheard the last few words. “Doesn’t it just?” he interjected. “The dance adds a pleasant saltiness to the dish, I find.”

Jennifer feasted until she was full, and Milon danced until he became sore.

Then it was down to business. The ruler of Cartonia Orange 7, a certain Prince Cigarillo, came from across the saltless Ocean of Holes to personally greet the welcomed visitors.

“When I was a child,” said the prince in a heavy Offalfiskian accent, “I used to believe in the legends about Cartonia Orange 7 being a chosen but neglected planet to be reclaimed by humans from beyond the stars, on day.” He coughed politely and Milon and Jennifer acknowledged the courtesy.

“I have spent a lifetime,” Prince Cigarillo continued, “in study of the ancient legends, myths and rituals…”

“What rituals?” Jennifer broke in. “The QGA has never allowed rituals.”

“Yes,” nodded Milon. “Where would it lead?”

“Rituals?” the prince cried. “Did I say ‘rituals’? What I meant to say was... er... I think I meant to say ‘habituals’... Yes! That’s it, habituals. These myths and stories can be very, very habit-forming. Because they’re so good, you see?”

“Phew!” exhaled Milon. “That was lucky. If you had said rituals, we would have had to kill you.”

“Kill you, yes,” repeated Jennifer. “Even now, I’m not so sure...”

“No, no, no,” said the prince. “I definitely said habituals, not rituals.”

“Then that’s all right.”

The complicated business discussion continued well into the early hours of the morning, unfortunately leading to no firm conclusions about what was to be done.

Jennifer looked out of the meeting-hall window, down to the sweeping landscape beneath.

“I can remember,” she said mistily, “when all of this was one big city. It’s nice to see you’ve put some trees there, Mr Cigarillo.”

“Prince Cigarillo, if you please,” said Prince Cigarillo.

“Sorry.”

“Is there a queen in your life, Mr Prince?” winked Milon.

“No,” said the prince. “I am a prince, not a king. How can I have a queen if I am not, myself, a king?”

“You’re a prince,” said Milon. “You can do anything.”

“Good point,” said Jennifer. “It looks like you could do with a queen, actually. She might cheer you up a bit.”

“I don’t need cheering up.”

“No,” said Milon, raising his eyebrows and waving his finger at the prince, “but you might need cheering up one day, so maybe it’s time to start looking.”

The early morning turned slowly to afternoon, and in turn the afternoon warped into early evening. In due course, Prince Cigarillo called to one of his more badly deformed slaves to bring on more food, wine, music and naked dancing things.

Milon and Jennifer, who were still in good humour, chatted idly to each other while the prince made himself busy.

“He’s quite a chap, isn’t he?” said Milon, licking his dry and somewhat scorched (after the previous night’s excitement) lips.

“Oh! Don’t tell me you fancy the horrible little man,” laughed Jennifer.

“No, no, no,” he wailed in answer. “Well, actually, yes, I do. He’s delicious.”

Jennifer reached across to one of the silver plates, picked one of the small blue insects and munched on it happily. “He’d never have you,” she said. “You have no royal blood.”

“My Uncle Jonas was an earl for a couple of days.”

“Yes, but you can’t count that.”

“Why not?” said Milon.

“Because he won it on a game show, that’s why not.”

“And the audience told him not to gamble, you know...”

“Have you ever asked a question with an upside-down question mark¿” Jennifer said smugly.

“How did you do that?”

“Talent.”