CHAPTER V

I looked around.

We were on a high balcony, at the end of a long, narrow room. In front

of us, windows rose to the ceiling, and it was evident that the floor of

the room was about twenty feet below ground level. Outside, I could see

the barbecue still going on, but not a murmur of noise penetrated to us.

What seemed to be the judge's bench was against the outside wall, under

the tall windows. To the right of it was a railed stand with a chair in

it, and in front, arranged in U-shape, were three tables at which a

number of men were hastily conferring. There were nine judges in a row

on the bench, all in black gowns. The spectators' seats below were

filled with people, and there were quite a few up here on the balcony.

"What is this? Supreme Court?" I asked as Gail piloted me to a couple of

seats where we could be alone.

"No, Court of Political Justice," she told me. "This is the court that's

going to try those three Bonney brothers, who killed Mr. Cumshaw."

It suddenly occurred to me that this was the first time I had heard

anything specific about the death of my predecessor.

"That isn't the trial that's going on now, I hope?"

"Oh, no; that won't be for a couple of days. Not till after you can

arrange to attend. I don't know what this trial is. I only got home

today, myself."

"What's the procedure here?" I wanted to know.

"Well, those nine men are judges," she began. "The one in the middle is

President Judge Nelson. You've met his son--the Ranger officer who

chased you from the spaceport. He's a regular jurist. The other eight

are prominent citizens who are drawn from a panel, like a jury. The men

at the table on the left are the prosecution: friends of the politician

who was killed. And the ones on the right are the defense: they'll try

to prove that the dead man got what was coming to him. The ones in the

middle are friends of the court: they're just anybody who has any

interest in the case--people who want to get some point of law cleared

up, or see some precedent established, or something like that."

"You seem to assume that this is a homicide case," I mentioned.

"They generally are. Sometimes mayhem, or wounding, or simple assault,

but--"

There had been some sort of conference going on in the open space of

floor between the judges' bench and the three tables. It broke up, now,

and the judge in the middle rapped with his gavel.

"Are you gentlemen ready?" he asked. "All right, then. Court of

Political Justice of the Confederate Continents of New Texas is now in

session. Case of the friends of S. Austin Maverick, deceased, late of

James Bowie Continent, versus Wilbur Whately."

"My God, did somebody finally kill Aus Maverick?" Gail whispered.

On the center table, in front of the friends of the court, both sides

seemed to have piled their exhibits; among the litter I saw some torn

clothing, a big white sombrero covered with blood, and a long machete.

"The general nature of the case," the judge was saying, "is that the

defendant, Wilbur Whately, of Sam Houston Continent, is here charged

with divers offenses arising from the death of the Honorable S. Austin

Maverick, whom he killed on the front steps of the Legislative Assembly

Building, here in New Austin...."

_What goes on here?_ I thought angrily. _This is the rankest instance of

a pre-judged case I've ever seen._ I started to say as much to Gail, but

she hushed me.

"I want to hear the specifications," she said.

A man at the prosecution table had risen.

"Please the court," he began, "the defendant, Wilbur Whately, is here

charged with political irresponsibility and excessive atrocity in

exercising his constitutional right of criticism of a practicing

politician.

"The specifications are, as follows: That, on the afternoon of May

Seventh, Anno Domini 2193, the defendant here present did arm himself

with a machete, said machete not being one of his normal and accustomed

weapons, and did loiter in wait on the front steps of the Legislative

Assembly Building in the city of New Austin, Continent of Sam Houston,

and did approach the decedent, addressing him in abusive, obscene, and

indecent language, and did set upon and attack him with the machete

aforesaid, causing the said decedent, S. Austin Maverick, to die."

The court wanted to know how the defendant would plead. Somebody,

without bothering to rise, said, "Not guilty, Your Honor," from the

defense table.

There was a brief scraping of chairs; four of five men from the defense

and the prosecution tables got up and advanced to confer in front of the

bench, comparing sheets of paper. The man who had read the charges,

obviously the chief prosecutor, made himself the spokesman.

"Your Honor, defense and prosecution wish to enter the following

stipulations: That the decedent was a practicing politician within the

meaning of the Constitution, that he met his death in the manner stated

in the coroner's report, and that he was killed by the defendant, Wilbur

Whately."

"Is that agreeable to you, Mr. Vincent?" the judge wanted to know.

The defense answered affirmatively. I sat back, gaping like a fool. Why,

that was practically--no, it _was_--a confession.

"All right, gentlemen," the judge said. "Now we have all that out of the

way, let's get on with the case."

As though there were any case to get on with! I fully expected them to

take it on from there in song, words by Gilbert and music by Sullivan.

"Well, Your Honor, we have a number of character witnesses," the

prosecution--prosecution, for God's sake!--announced.

"Skip them," the defense said. "We stipulate."

"But you can't stipulate character testimony," the prosecution argued.

"You don't know what our witnesses are going to testify to."

"Sure we do: they're going to give us a big long shaggy-dog story about

the Life and Miracles of Saint Austin Maverick. We'll agree in advance

to all that; this case is concerned only with his record as a

politician. And as he spent the last fifteen years in the Senate, that's

all a matter of public record. I assume that the prosecution is going to

introduce all that, too?"

"Well, naturally ..." the prosecutor began.

"Including his public acts on the last day of his life?" the counsel for

the defense demanded. "His actions on the morning of May seventh as

chairman of the Finance and Revenue Committee? You going to introduce

that as evidence for the prosecution?"

"Well, now ..." the prosecutor began.

"Your Honor, we ask to have a certified copy of the proceedings of the

Senate Finance and Revenue Committee for the morning of May Seventh,

2193, read into the record of this court," the counsel for the defense

said. "And thereafter, we rest our case."

"Has the prosecution anything to say before we close the court?" Judge

Nelson inquired.

"Well, Your Honor, this seems ... that is, we ought to hear both sides

of it. My old friend, Aus Maverick, was really a fine man; he did a lot

of good for the people of his continent...."

"Yeah, we'd of lynched him, when he got back, if somebody hadn't chopped

him up here in New Austin!" a voice from the rear of the courtroom broke

in.

The prosecution hemmed and hawed for a moment, and then announced, in a

hasty mumble, that it rested.

"I will now close the court," Judge Nelson said. "I advise everybody to

keep your seats. I don't think it's going to be closed very long."

And then, he actually closed the court; pressing a button on the bench,

he raised a high black screen in front of him and his colleagues. It

stayed up for some sixty seconds, and then dropped again.

"The Court of Political Justice has reached a verdict," he announced.

"Wilbur Whately, and your attorney, approach and hear the verdict."

The defense lawyer motioned a young man who had been sitting beside him

to rise. In the silence that had fallen, I could hear the defendant's

boots squeaking as he went forward to hear his fate. The judge picked up

a belt and a pair of pistols that had been lying in front of him.

"Wilbur Whately," he began, "this court is proud to announce that you

have been unanimously acquitted of the charge of political

irresponsibility, and of unjustified and excessive atrocity.

"There was one dissenting vote on acquitting you of the charge of

political irresponsibility; one of the associate judges felt that the

late unmitigated scoundrel, Austin Maverick, ought to have been skinned

alive, an inch at a time. You are, however, acquitted of that charge,

too.

"You all know," he continued, addressing the entire assemblage, "the

reason for which this young hero cut down that monster of political

iniquity, S. Austin Maverick. On the very morning of his justly-merited

death, Austin Maverick, using the powers of his political influence,

rammed through the Finance and Revenue Committee a bill entitled 'An Act

for the Taxing of Personal Incomes, and for the Levying of a Withholding

Tax.' Fellow citizens, words fail me to express my horror of this

diabolic proposition, this proposed instrument of tyrannical extortion,

borrowed from the Dark Ages of the Twentieth Century! Why, if this young

nobleman had not taken his blade in hand, I'd have killed the

sonofabitch, myself!"

He leaned forward, extending the belt and holsters to the defendant.

"I therefore restore to you your weapons, taken from you when, in

compliance with the law, you were formally arrested. Buckle them on,

and, assuming your weapons again, go forth from this court a free man,

Wilbur Whately. And take with you that machete with which you vindicated

the liberties and rights of all New Texans. Bear it reverently to your

home, hang it among your lares and penates, cherish it, and dying,

mention it within your will, bequeathing it as a rich legacy unto your

issue! Court adjourned; next session 0900 tomorrow. For Chrissake, let's

get out of here before the barbecue's over!"

Some of the spectators, drooling for barbecued supercow, began crowding

and jostling toward the exits; more of them were pushing to the front of

the courtroom, cheering and waving their hip-flasks. The prosecution

and about half of the friends of the court hastily left by a side door,

probably to issue statements disassociating themselves from the deceased

Maverick.

"So that's the court that's going to try the men who killed Ambassador

Cumshaw," I commented, as Gail and I went out. "Why, the purpose of that

court seems to be to acquit murderers."

"Murderers?" She was indignant. "That wasn't murder. He just killed a

politician. All the court could do was determine whether or not the

politician needed it, and while I never heard about Maverick's

income-tax proposition, I can't see how they could have brought in any

other kind of a verdict. Of all the outrageous things!"

I was thoughtfully silent as we went out into the plaza, which was still

a riot of noise and polychromatic costumes. And my thoughts were as

weltered as the scene before me.

Apparently, on New Texas, killing a politician wasn't regarded as

_mallum in se_, and was _mallum prohibitorum_ only to the extent that

what happened to the politician was in excess of what he deserved. I

began to understand why Palme was such a scared rabbit, why Hutchinson

had that hunted look and kept his hands always within inches of his

pistols.

I began to feel more pity than contempt for Thrombley, too. _He's been

on this planet too long and he should never have been sent here in the

first place. I'll rotate him home as soon as possible...._

Then the full meaning of what I had seen finally got through to me: if

they were going to try the killers of Cumshaw in that court, that meant

that on New Texas, foreign diplomats were regarded as practicing

politicians....

That made me a practicing politician too!

And that's why, when we got back to the vicinity of the bandstand, I

had my right hand close to my pistol, with my thumb on the inconspicuous

little spot of silver inlay that operated the secret holster mechanism.

I saw Hutchinson and Palme and Thrombley ahead. With them was a

newcomer, a portly, ruddy-faced gentleman with a white mustache and

goatee, dressed in a white suit. Gail broke away from me and ran toward

him. This, I thought, would be her father; now I would be introduced and

find out just what her last name was. I followed, more slowly, and saw a

waiter, with a wheeled serving-table, move in behind the group which she

had joined.

So I saw what none of them did--the waiter suddenly reversed his long

carving-knife and poised himself for a blow at President Hutchinson's

back. I simply pressed the little silver stud on my belt, the

Krupp-Tatta popped obediently out of the holster into my open hand. I

thumbed off the safety and swung up; when my sights closed on the rising

hand that held the knife, I fired.

Hoddy Ringo, who had been holding a sandwich with one hand and a drink

with the other, dropped both and jumped on the man whose hand I had

smashed. A couple of Rangers closed in and grabbed him, also. The group

around President Hutchinson had all turned and were staring from me to

the man I had shot, and from him to the knife with the broken handle,

lying on the ground.

Hutchinson spoke first. "Well, Mr. Ambassador! My Government thanks your

Government! That was nice shooting!"

"Hey, you been holdin' out on me!" Hoddy accused. "I never knew you was

that kinda gunfighter!"

"There's a new wrinkle," the man with the white goatee said. "We'll have

to screen the help at these affairs a little more closely." He turned to

me. "Mr. Ambassador, New Texas owes you a great deal for saving the

President's life. If you'll get that pistol out of your hand, I'd be

proud to shake it, sir."

I holstered my automatic, and took his hand. Gail was saying, "Stephen,

this is my father," and at the same time, Palme, the Secretary of State,

was doing it more formally:

"Ambassador Silk, may I present one of our leading citizens and large

ranchers, Colonel Andrew Jackson Hickock."

Dumbarton Oaks had taught me how to maintain the proper diplomat's

unchanging expression; drinking superbourbon had been a post-graduate

course. I needed that training as I finally learned Gail's last name.