Even in God-forsaken holes like Port Armstrong one had heard of Riordan. Heir to a million-dollar shipping firm which he himself had pyramided into a System-wide monster, he was equally well known as a big game hunter. From the firedrakes of Mercury to the ice crawlers of Pluto, he'd bagged them all. Except, of course, a Martian. That particular game was forbidden now. He sprawled in his chair, big and strong and ruthless, still a young man. He dwarfed the unkempt room with his size and the hard-held dynamo strength in him, and his cold green gaze dominated the trader. "It's illegal, you know," said Wisby. "It's a twenty-year sentence if you're caught at it." "Bah! The Martian Commissioner is at Ares, halfway round the planet. If we go at it right, who's ever to know?" Riordan gulped at his drink. "I'm well aware that in another year or so they'll have tightened up enough to make it impossible. This is the last chance for any man to get an owlie. That's why I'm here." Wisby hesitated, looking out the window. Port Armstrong was no more than a dusty huddle of domes, interconnected by tunnels, in a red waste of sand stretching to the near horizon. An Earthman in airsuit and transparent helmet was walking down the street and a couple of Martians were lounging against a wall. Otherwise nothing--a silent, deadly monotony brooding under the shrunken sun. Life on Mars was not especially pleasant for a human. "You're not falling into this owlie-loving that's corrupted all Earth?" demanded Riordan contemptuously. "Oh, no," said Wisby. "I keep them in their place around my post. But times are changing. It can't be helped." "There was a time when they were slaves," said Riordan. "Now those old women on Earth want to give 'em the vote." He snorted. "Well, times are changing," repeated Wisby mildly. "When the first humans landed on Mars a hundred years ago, Earth had just gone through the Hemispheric Wars. The worst wars man had ever known. They damned near wrecked the old ideas of liberty and equality. People were suspicious and tough--they'd had to be, to survive. They weren't able to--to empathize the Martians, or whatever you call it. Not able to think of them as anything but intelligent animals. And Martians made such useful slaves--they need so little food or heat or oxygen, they can even live fifteen minutes or so without breathing at all. And the wild Martians made fine sport--intelligent game, that could get away as often as not, or even manage to kill the hunter." "I know," said Riordan. "That's why I want to hunt one. It's no fun if the game doesn't have a chance." "It's different now," went on Wisby. "Earth has been at peace for a long time. The liberals have gotten the upper hand. Naturally, one of their first reforms was to end Martian slavery."