“Oh, dear, I always dread these things!” Palme was saying.
“Yes, absolutely anything could happen,” Thrombley twittered.
“Man, this is a real barbecue!” Hoddy gloated. “Now I really feel at home!”
“Over this way, Mr. Silk,” Palme said, guiding me toward the short end of the plaza, on our left. “We will see the President and then . . .”
He gulped.
. . then we will all go to the barbecue.”
In the center of the short end of the plaza, dwarfed by the monster bulks of steel and concrete and glass around it, stood a little old building of warm-tinted adobe. I had never seen it before, but somehow it was familiar-looking. And then I remembered. Although I had never seen it before, I had seen it pictured many times; pictured under attack, with gunsmoke spouting from windows and parapets.
I plucked Thrombley’s sleeve.
“Isn’t that a replica of the Alamo?”
He was shocked. “Oh, dear, Mr. Ambassador, don’t let anybody hear you ask that. That’s no replica. It is the Alamo. The Alamo.”
I stood there a moment, looking at it. I was remembering, and finally understanding, what my psycho-history lessons about the “Romantic Freeze” had meant.
They had taken this little mission-fort down, brick by adobe brick, loaded it carefully into a spaceship, brought it here, forty two light-years away from Terra, and reverently set it up again. Then they had built a whole world and a whole social philosophy around it.
It had been the dissatisfied, of course, the discontented, the dreamers, who had led the vanguard of man’s explosion into space following the discovery of the hyperspace drive. They had gone from Terra cherishing dreams of things that had been dumped into the dust bin of history, carrying with them pictures of ways of life that had passed away, or that had never really been. Then, in their new life, on new planets, they had set to work making those dreams and those pictures live.
And, many times, they had come close to succeeding.
These Texans, now: they had left behind the cold fact that it had been their state’s great industrial complex that had made their migration possible. They ignored the fact that their life here on Capella IV was possible only by application of modem industrial technology. That rodeo down the plaza—tank-tilting instead of bronco-busting. Here they were, living frozen in a romantic dream, a world of roving cowboys and ranch kingdoms.
No wonder Hoddy hadn’t liked the books I had been reading on the ship. They shook the fabric of that dream.
There were people moving about, at this relatively quiet end of the plaza, mostly in the direction of the barbecue. Ten or twelve Rangers loitered at the front of the Alamo, and with them I saw the dress blues of my two Marines. There was a little three-wheeled motorcart among them, from which they were helping themselves to food and drink. When they saw us coming, the two Marines shoved their sandwiches into the hands of a couple of Rangers and tried to come to attention.
“At ease, at ease,” I told them. "Have a good time, boys. Hoddy, you better get in on some of this grub; I may be inside for quite a while.”
As soon as the Rangers saw Hoddy, they hastily got things out of their right hands. Hoddy grinned at them.
“Take it easy, boys,” he said. “I’m protected by the game laws. I’m a diplomat, I am.”
There were a couple of Rangers lounging outside the door of the President’s office and both of them carried autorifles, implying things I didn’t like.
I had seen the President of the Solar League wandering around the dome-city of Artemis unattended, looking for all the world like a professor in his academic halls. Since then, maybe before then, I had always had a healthy suspicion of governments whose chiefs had to surround themselves with bodyguards.
But the President of New Texas, John Hutchinson, was alone in his office when we were shown in. He got up and came around his desk to greet us, a slender, stoop-shouldered man in a black-and-gold laced jacket. He had a narrow, compressed mouth and eyes that seemed to be watching every corner of the room at once. He wore a pair of small pistols in cross-body holsters under his coat, and he always kept one hand or the other close to his abdomen.
He was like, and yet unlike, the Secretary of State. Both had the look of hunted animals; but where Palme was a rabbit, twitching to take flight at the first whiff of danger, Hutchinson was a cat who hears hounds baying—ready to run if he could, or claw if he must.
“Good day, Mr. Silk,” he said, shaking hands with me after the introductions. “I see you’re heeled; you’re smart. You wouldn’t be here today if poor Silas Cumshaw’d been as smart as you are. Great man, though; a wise and far- seeing statesman. He and I were real friends.”
“You know who Mr. Silk brought with him as bodyguard?” Palme asked. "Hoddy Ringo!”
“Oh, my God! I thought this planet was rid of him!” The President turned to me. "You got a good trigger-man, though, Mr. Ambassador. Good man to watch your back for you. But lot of folks here won’t thank you for bringing him back to New Texas.”
He looked at his watch. "We have time for a little drink, before we go outside, Mr. Silk,” he said. “Care to join me?” I assented and he got a bottle of superbourbon out of his desk, with four glasses. Palme got some water tumblers and brought the pitcher of ice-water from the cooler.
I noticed that the New Texas Secretary of State filled his three-ounce liquor glass to the top and gulped it down at once. He might act as though he were descended from a long line of maiden aunts, but he took his liquor in blasts that would have floored a spaceport labor-boss.
We had another drink, a little slower, and chatted for a while, and then Hutchinson said, regretfully that we’d have to go outside and meet the folks. Outside, our guards— Hoddy, the two Marines, the Rangers who had escorted us from Palme’s office, and Hutchinson’s retinue—surrounded us, and we made our way down the plaza, through the crowd. The din—ear-piercing yells, whistles, cowbells, pistol shots, the cacaphony of the two dance-bands, and the chorus- singing, of which I caught only the words: The skies of freedom. are above you!—was as bad as New Year’s Eve in Manhattan or Nairobi or New Moscow, on Terra.
“Don’t take all this as a personal tribute, Mr. Silk!” Hutchinson screamed into my ear. “On this planet, to paraphrase Nietzsche, a good barbecue halloweth any cause!”
That surprised me, at the moment. Later I found out that John Hutchinson was one of the leading scholars on New Texas and had once been president of one of their universities. New Texas Christian, I believe.
As we got up onto the platform, close enough to the barbecue pits to feel the heat from them, somebody let off what sounded like a fifty-mm anti-tank gun five or six times. Hutchinson grabbed a microphone and bellowed into it: “Ladies and gentlemen! Your attention, please!”
The noise began to diminish, slowly, until I could hear one voice, in the crowd below:
“Shut up, you damn fools! We can’t eat till this is over!” Hutchinson introduced me, in very few words. I gathered that lengthy speeches at barbecues were not popular on New Texas.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” I yelled into the microphone. “Appreciative as I am of this honor, there is one here who is more deserving of your notice than I; one to whom I, also, pay homage. He’s over there on the fire, and I want a slice of him as soon as possible!”
That got a big ovation. There was, beside the water pitcher, a bottle of superbourbon. I ostentatiously threw the water out of the glass, poured a big shot of the corrosive stuff, and downed it.
“For God’s sake, let’s eat!” I finished. Then I turned to Thrombley, who was looking like a priest who has just seen the bishop spit in the holy-water font. “Stick close to me,” I whispered. “Cue me in on the local notables, and the other members of the Diplomatic Corps.” Then we all got down off the platform, and a band climbed up and began playing one of those raucous “cowboy ballads” which had originated in Manhattan about the middle of the Twentieth Cent
ury.
“The sandwiches’ll be here in a moment, Mr. Ambassador,” Hutchinson screamed—in effect, whispered—in my ear. “Don’t feel any reluctance about shaking hands with a sandwich in your other hand; that’s standard practice, here. You struck just the right note, up there. That business with the liquor was positively inspired!”
The sandwiches—huge masses of meat and hot relish, wrapped in tortillas of some sort—arrived and I bit into one.
I’d been eating supercow all my life, frozen or electron- beamed for transportation, and now I was discovering that I had never really eaten supercow before. I finished the first sandwich in surprisingly short order and was starting on my second when the crowd began coming.
First, the Diplomatic Corps, the usual collection of weirdies, human and otherwise. . . .
There was the Ambassador from Tara, in a suit of what his planet produced as a substitute for Irish homespuns. His Embassy, if it was like the others I had seen elsewhere, would be an outsize cottage with whitewashed walls and a thatched roof, with a bowl of milk outside the door for the Little People . . .
The Ambassador from Alpheratz II, the South African
Nationalist planet, with a full beard, and old fashioned plug hat and tail-coat. They were a frustrated lot. They had gone into space to practice apartheid and had settled on a planet where there was no other intelligent race to be superior to
The Mormon Ambassador from Deseret—Delta Camelopardalis V . . .
The Ambassador from Spica VII, a short jolly-looking little fellow, with a head like a seals, long arms, short legs and a tail like a kangaroo’s . . .
The Ambassador from Beta Cephus VI, who could have passed for human if he hadn’t had blood with a copper base instead of iron. His skin was a dark green and his hair was a bright blue ...
I was beginning to correct my first impression that Thrombley was a complete dithering fool. He stood at my left elbow, whispering the names, and governments and home planets of the Ambassadors as they came up, handing me little slips of paper on which he had written phonetically correct renditions of the greetings I would give them in their own language. I was still twittering a reply to the greeting of Nanadabadian, from Beta Cephus VI, when he whispered to me:
“Here it comes, sir. The z’Srauffl”
The z’Srauff were reasonably close to human stature and appearance, allowing for the fact that their ancestry had been canine instead of simian. They had, of course, longer and narrower jaws than we have, and definitely carnivorous teeth.
There were stories floating around that they enjoyed barbecued Terran even better than they did supercow and hot relish.
This one advanced, extending his three-fingered hand.
"I am most happy to make connection with Solar League representative,” he said. “I am named Gglafrr Ddespttann Vuvuvu.”
No wonder Thrombley let him introduce himself. I answered in the Basic English that was all he’d admit to understanding:
"The name of your great nation has gone before you to me. The stories we tell to our young of you are at the top of our books. I have hope to make great pleasure in you and me to be friends.”
Gglafrr Vuvuvu’s smile wavered a little at the oblique reference to the couple of trouncings our Space Navy had administered to z’Srauff ships in the past. “We will be in the same place again times with no number,” the alien replied. “I have hope for you that time you are in this place will be long and will put pleasure in your heart.”
Then the pressure of the line behind him pushed him on. Cabinet Members; Senators and Representatives; prominent citizens, mostly Judge so-and-so, or Colonel this-or-that. It was all a blur, so much so that it was an instant before I recognized the gleaming golden hair and the statuesque figure.
“Thank you! I have met the Ambassador." The lovely voice was shaking with restrained anger:
“Gail!” I exclaimed.
"Your father coming to the barbecue, Gail?” President Hutchinson was asking.
“He ought to be here any minute. He sent me on ahead from the hotel. He wants to meet the Ambassador. That’s why I joined the line.”
"Well, suppose I leave Mr. Silk in your hands for a while,” Hutchinson said. “I ought to circulate around a little.”
"Yes. Just leave him in my hands!” she said vindictively. “What’s wrong, Gail?” I wanted to know. “I know, I was supposed to meet you at the spaceport, but—”
"You made a beautiful fool of me at the spaceport!” “Look, I can explain everything. My Embassy staff insisted on hurrying me off—”
Somebody gave a high-pitched whoop directly behind me and emptied the clip of a pistol. I couldn’t even hear what else I said. I couldn’t hear what she said, either, but it was something angry.
"You have to listen to me!” I roared in her ear. “I can explain everything!”
“Any diplomat can explain anything!” she shouted back.
“Look, Gail, you’re hanging an innocent man!” I yelled back at her. "I’m entitled to a fair trial!”
Somebody on the platform began firing his pistol within inches of the loud-speakers and it sounded like an H-bomb going off. She grabbed my wrist and dragged me toward a door under the platform.
“Down here!” she yelled. “And this better be good, Mr. Silk!”
We went down a spiral ramp, lighted by widely-scattered overhead lights.
“Space-attack shelter,” she explained. “And look: what goes on in space-ships is one thing, but it’s as much as a girl’s reputation is worth to come down here during a barbecue.”
There seemed to be quite few girls at that barbecue who didn’t care what happened to their reputations. We discovered that after looking into a couple of passageways that branched off the entrance.
"Over this way,” Gail said, “Confederate Courts Building. There won’t be anything going on over here, now.”
I told her, with as much humorous detail as possible, about how Thrombley had shanghaied me to the Embassy, and about the chase by the Rangers. Before I was half through, she was laughing heartily, all traces of her anger gone. Finally, we came to a stairway, and at the head of it to a small door.
“It’s been four years that I’ve been away from here,” she said. “I think there’s a reading room of the Law Library up here. Let’s go in and enjoy the quiet for a while."
But when we opened the door, there was a Ranger standing inside.
“Come to see a trial, Mr. Silk? Oh, hello, Gail. Just in time; they’re going to prepare for the next trial.”
As he spoke, something clicked at the door. Gail looked at me in consternation.
“Now we’re locked in,” she said. We can’t get out till the trial’s over.”
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 tom clothing, a big white sombrero covered with blood, and a long machete.
A Planet for Texans (aka Lone Star Planet) Page 4
