over the last four years, schmoozing and paying off the county and town councillors to get his partnership with the precinct project, and it had paid off. Townsend Properties was currently involved in developing eight of the zones, with architects working on plans for another three. Having the massive Event Horizon corporation open a memox processing facility on Zone 12 a year ago had been a real triumph for the town; other smaller corporations had immediately begun to nose around, eager for sub-contracts. Quite how the council development officers managed to pull off that coup always baffled Richard. He’d never known a supposedly professional team quite as incompetent as the people who worked at Rutland Council. Every job he undertook was besieged by official delays and endless obstructionist revisions.
The man who walked in at 10:30 prompt wasn’t quite what Richard had expected. He was in his late fifties, nothing like any of those eager young business types who normally came sniffing around the precinct. Alan O’Hagen wore a gray business suit with a pale purple tie. He had a sense of authority which made Richard automatically straighten up in his chair and reach to adjust his own tie. Even the man’s handshake was carefully controlled, an impression of strength held in reserve.
“What can I do for you?” Richard asked as his visitor settled into the leather chair before the desk.
“My company.” Alan O’Hagen held up a silver palmtop cybofax. Its key blinked with a tiny pink light as it squirted a data package into the desktop terminal. Richard scanned the information quickly.
“Firedrake Marketing? I’m afraid I’ve never heard of it.”
O’Hagen smiled. “No reason you should. It’s a small virtual company I own. I trade on-circuit, specializing in albums and multimedia drama games. I have some German software houses signed up, and a couple of African jazz bands who aren’t well distributed in Europe. Naturally, I’d like to rectify that.”
“Uh huh.” Richard made an immediate guess about what kind of German software-the end of the PSP hadn’t seen a total reversal of censorship in England. “So how does the Pillings Precinct fit in with all this?”
“I want Firedrake to become more than a virtual company. At the moment it consists of a circuit site with a few trial samples you can access, and an order form. I subcontract distribution and delivery to a mail-order company in Peterborough. After their fees, I’m not left with much in the way of profit. What I want to do is build up a distribution arm myself.”
“I see.” Richard made sure he wasn’t grinning. It would appear predatory at this point. “And you’d like to build that distribution company here.”
“It’s a possibility.”
“A very advantageous one for you. Event Horizon’s memox plant would be next door, so there’d be no shortage of crystals, and we do have an excellent rail service to both Peterborough and Leicester. Not to mention a generous start-up tax allowance.”
“Every industrial precinct does, these days,” O’Hagen said. “Corby is offering a flat-rate construction loan for anyone starting on either of their new precincts.”
Richard blanked his irritation at the mention of Corby. He’d lost three clients to their precinct developers in the last six weeks. “You’ll find us a competitive match for any other precinct, I assure you.”
“What about construction times?”
“That depends on the size of the operation you’re looking for, of course.”
“Nothing extravagant to start with, but I will require a zone with considerable potential for expansion if things take off.”
“As I’m sure they will.” Richard walked over to the precinct map pinned on the wall. “I have several zones I can offer you.”
It took another two hours of cajoling before O’Hagen left. Richard had squirted just about every brochure and data package he’d got into the businessman’s cybofax. He’d hate to play the man at poker; no hint of how keen he was had leaked from that impassive face. But the good news was that O’Hagen had invited Richard for dinner that night, suggesting the Lord Nelson restaurant in the Market Square.
After lunch, Richard drove to the courthouse in the town’s old castle hall. Jodie Dobson, his solicitor, was waiting for him in the car park. In her mid-thirties, a junior partner in one of the local firms, she was more than capable when it came to corporate legal matters.
“We’ve got plenty of time,” she said, gesturing to the ancient doors. “The land-registry clerk’s only just finished his lunch.”
“Fine.” He paused. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard of a company called Fire-drake?”
“Should I have?”
“Not really.” He waved his cybofax. “I was checking their site this lunchtime. They sell a response formulator for interactives. Once you’ve plugged into a drama, it’ll take your character wherever you want to go inside the arena. The plotlines will reconfigure to incorporate your movements and speech into the story. They’re claiming a much better reaction time than other software.”
“Sounds fairly standard to me.”
“Yes, but it’s not just for flatscreens, it can handle a total VR immersion. It’s fully compatible with all the major multimedia formats; you can supplement it to whatever drama you buy.”
“Why the interest?”
He shrugged and gestured her through the doorway. “I think it could be quite successful.”
The old stone hall had a vaulted ceiling, and whitewashed plaster walls hung with hundreds of horseshoes. Prior to the Warming the hall had been little more than a historical tourist attraction, used only occasionally for a magistrate’s court. Then in the aftermath of the seas flooding the Lincolnshire fens, the vast influx of refugees had more than doubled Rutland’s population. The hall’s legal activities had expanded to become full-time. Modern partitioning had been used to break up the rear of the hall into small office cubicles. Jodie and Richard maneuverd along a narrow corridor between the transparent sound-proofed walls. The Land Registry amp; Claims cubicle was barely large enough to hold the two of them as well as the clerk.
Jodie had the petition already prepared, and handed over the two memox crystals detailing the case, including the original farmer’s title to the land. Richard, as the claimee, had to sign a host of papers verifying the action.
“Any idea when the case will be heard?” he asked.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Townsend.” The clerk’s hand fluttered over the pile of memox crystals and paper folders on his desk. “We have over eight hundred ownership cases filed in this court alone. The local PSP Land Rights allocation committee confiscated a lot of property.”
“Yes, I appreciate that, but this is land for a commercial venture which will benefit many people in the town. It’ll create jobs, and bring wealth into the area. Surely that warrants some additional attention.”
“I would say yes,” the clerk murmured diplomatically. “But it’s not up to me.”
“Nevertheless…I’d be grateful if you could point this out to the powers that be.”
“I’ll do what I can.”
When they were back outside in the scorching sunlight Jodie frowned. “That was sailing close to the wind. You don’t do backroom deals in a civic office.”
“I’ll bear it in mind. And you should remember that we need that leisure complex; your partnership will scoop up a big fee for steering it through the legal stages.”
“I am aware of basic marketplace economics, thank you.”
“Good. There’s a lot of new industry moving into town right now. That means wealthy educated people looking for somewhere to relax, and prepared to pay for the privilege. Rutland Water is a fabulous commercial resource, which is tragically underused. Can you believe there’s only three hotels on the shore?”
Jodie nudged him softly. He looked around to see a bicycle entering the castle hall grounds. It was Andy Broady peddling heavily, his ruddy young face glistening with sweat. Richard almost laughed out loud.
Even in this weather the kibbutzniks still wore their thick dark dungarees.
Andy dismounted and leaned the bike against a wall. It was an ancient contraption of black steel tubes, with a wicker basket on the front of broad handlebars. The County Museum would be proud to possess a specimen like it.
Richard gave him a pleasant nod. Andy glared back furiously. For a moment Richard thought he might stalk over and swing a punch. Eventually, he pulled a bundle of papers out of the basket and made for the hall doors.
“My relocation offer stands,” Richard said. “There’s no need for either of us to go through this. It is my land.”
