Lone Star Planet

by John Joseph McGuire and H. Beam Piper

  CHAPTER V

  I looked around.

  We were on a high balcony, at the end of a long, narrow room. In frontof us, windows rose to the ceiling, and it was evident that the floor ofthe room was about twenty feet below ground level. Outside, I could seethe 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, underthe tall windows. To the right of it was a railed stand with a chair init, and in front, arranged in U-shape, were three tables at which anumber of men were hastily conferring. There were nine judges in a rowon the bench, all in black gowns. The spectators' seats below werefilled 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 ofseats where we could be alone.

  "No, Court of Political Justice," she told me. "This is the court that'sgoing to try those three Bonney brothers, who killed Mr. Cumshaw."

  It suddenly occurred to me that this was the first time I had heardanything 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 canarrange to attend. I don't know what this trial is. I only got hometoday, myself."

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

  "Well, those nine men are judges," she began. "The one in the middle isPresident Judge Nelson. You've met his son--the Ranger officer whochased you from the spaceport. He's a regular jurist. The other eightare prominent citizens who are drawn from a panel, like a jury. The menat the table on the left are the prosecution: friends of the politicianwho was killed. And the ones on the right are the defense: they'll tryto prove that the dead man got what was coming to him. The ones in themiddle are friends of the court: they're just anybody who has anyinterest in the case--people who want to get some point of law clearedup, 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 offloor 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 ofPolitical Justice of the Confederate Continents of New Texas is now insession. Case of the friends of S. Austin Maverick, deceased, late ofJames 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 sidesseemed to have piled their exhibits; among the litter I saw some tornclothing, a big white sombrero covered with blood, and a long machete.

  "The general nature of the case," the judge was saying, "is that thedefendant, Wilbur Whately, of Sam Houston Continent, is here chargedwith divers offenses arising from the death of the Honorable S. AustinMaverick, whom he killed on the front steps of the Legislative AssemblyBuilding, here in New Austin...."

  _What goes on here?_ I thought angrily. _This is the rankest instance ofa pre-judged case I've ever seen._ I started to say as much to Gail, butshe 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 herecharged with political irresponsibility and excessive atrocity inexercising his constitutional right of criticism of a practicingpolitician.

  "The specifications are, as follows: That, on the afternoon of MaySeventh, Anno Domini 2193, the defendant here present did arm himselfwith a machete, said machete not being one of his normal and accustomedweapons, and did loiter in wait on the front steps of the LegislativeAssembly Building in the city of New Austin, Continent of Sam Houston,and did approach the decedent, addressing him in abusive, obscene, andindecent language, and did set upon and attack him with the macheteaforesaid, 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 thedefense table.

  There was a brief scraping of chairs; four of five men from the defenseand the prosecution tables got up and advanced to confer in front of thebench, 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 followingstipulations: That the decedent was a practicing politician within themeaning of the Constitution, that he met his death in the manner statedin the coroner's report, and that he was killed by the defendant, WilburWhately."

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

  As though there were any case to get on with! I fully expected them totake it on from there in song, words by Gilbert and music by Sullivan.

  "Well, Your Honor, we have a number of character witnesses," theprosecution--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 aboutthe Life and Miracles of Saint Austin Maverick. We'll agree in advanceto all that; this case is concerned only with his record as apolitician. And as he spent the last fifteen years in the Senate, that'sall a matter of public record. I assume that the prosecution is going tointroduce all that, too?"

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

  "Including his public acts on the last day of his life?" the counsel forthe defense demanded. "His actions on the morning of May seventh aschairman of the Finance and Revenue Committee? You going to introducethat as evidence for the prosecution?"

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

  "Your Honor, we ask to have a certified copy of the proceedings of theSenate Finance and Revenue Committee for the morning of May Seventh,2193, read into the record of this court," the counsel for the defensesaid. "And thereafter, we rest our case."

  "Has the prosecution anything to say before we close the court?" JudgeNelson inquired.

  "Well, Your Honor, this seems ... that is, we ought to hear both sidesof it. My old friend, Aus Maverick, was really a fine man; he did a lotof good for the people of his continent...."

  "Yeah, we'd of lynched him, when he got back, if somebody hadn't choppedhim up here in New Austin!" a voice from the rear of the courtroom brokein.

  The prosecution hemmed and hawed for a moment, and then announced, in ahasty mumble, that it rested.

  "I will now close the court," Judge Nelson said. "I advise everybody tokeep 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. Itstayed 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 himto rise. In the silence that had fallen, I could hear the defendant'sboots squeaking as he went forward to hear his fate. The judge picked upa 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 youhave been unanimously acquitted of the charge of politicalirresponsibility, and of unjustified and excessive atrocity.

  "There was one dissenting vote on acquitting you of the char
ge ofpolitical irresponsibility; one of the associate judges felt that thelate unmitigated scoundrel, Austin Maverick, ought to have been skinnedalive, an inch at a time. You are, however, acquitted of that charge,too.

  "You all know," he continued, addressing the entire assemblage, "thereason for which this young hero cut down that monster of politicaliniquity, S. Austin Maverick. On the very morning of his justly-meriteddeath, Austin Maverick, using the powers of his political influence,rammed through the Finance and Revenue Committee a bill entitled 'An Actfor the Taxing of Personal Incomes, and for the Levying of a WithholdingTax.' Fellow citizens, words fail me to express my horror of thisdiabolic proposition, this proposed instrument of tyrannical extortion,borrowed from the Dark Ages of the Twentieth Century! Why, if this youngnobleman had not taken his blade in hand, I'd have killed thesonofabitch, myself!"

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

  "I therefore restore to you your weapons, taken from you when, incompliance 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 vindicatedthe liberties and rights of all New Texans. Bear it reverently to yourhome, hang it among your lares and penates, cherish it, and dying,mention it within your will, bequeathing it as a rich legacy unto yourissue! Court adjourned; next session 0900 tomorrow. For Chrissake, let'sget out of here before the barbecue's over!"

  Some of the spectators, drooling for barbecued supercow, began crowdingand jostling toward the exits; more of them were pushing to the front ofthe courtroom, cheering and waving their hip-flasks. The prosecutionand about half of the friends of the court hastily left by a side door,probably to issue statements disassociating themselves from the deceasedMaverick.

  "So that's the court that's going to try the men who killed AmbassadorCumshaw," I commented, as Gail and I went out. "Why, the purpose of thatcourt seems to be to acquit murderers."

  "Murderers?" She was indignant. "That wasn't murder. He just killed apolitician. All the court could do was determine whether or not thepolitician needed it, and while I never heard about Maverick'sincome-tax proposition, I can't see how they could have brought in anyother kind of a verdict. Of all the outrageous things!"

  I was thoughtfully silent as we went out into the plaza, which was stilla riot of noise and polychromatic costumes. And my thoughts were asweltered 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 thatwhat happened to the politician was in excess of what he deserved. Ibegan to understand why Palme was such a scared rabbit, why Hutchinsonhad that hunted look and kept his hands always within inches of hispistols.

  I began to feel more pity than contempt for Thrombley, too. _He's beenon this planet too long and he should never have been sent here in thefirst place. I'll rotate him home as soon as possible...._

  Then the full meaning of what I had seen finally got through to me: ifthey were going to try the killers of Cumshaw in that court, that meantthat on New Texas, foreign diplomats were regarded as practicingpoliticians....

  That made me a practicing politician too!

  And that's why, when we got back to the vicinity of the bandstand, Ihad my right hand close to my pistol, with my thumb on the inconspicuouslittle spot of silver inlay that operated the secret holster mechanism.

  I saw Hutchinson and Palme and Thrombley ahead. With them was anewcomer, a portly, ruddy-faced gentleman with a white mustache andgoatee, dressed in a white suit. Gail broke away from me and ran towardhim. This, I thought, would be her father; now I would be introduced andfind out just what her last name was. I followed, more slowly, and saw awaiter, with a wheeled serving-table, move in behind the group which shehad joined.

  So I saw what none of them did--the waiter suddenly reversed his longcarving-knife and poised himself for a blow at President Hutchinson'sback. I simply pressed the little silver stud on my belt, theKrupp-Tatta popped obediently out of the holster into my open hand. Ithumbed off the safety and swung up; when my sights closed on the risinghand that held the knife, I fired.

  Hoddy Ringo, who had been holding a sandwich with one hand and a drinkwith the other, dropped both and jumped on the man whose hand I hadsmashed. A couple of Rangers closed in and grabbed him, also. The grouparound President Hutchinson had all turned and were staring from me tothe 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 yourGovernment! That was nice shooting!"

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

  "There's a new wrinkle," the man with the white goatee said. "We'll haveto screen the help at these affairs a little more closely." He turned tome. "Mr. Ambassador, New Texas owes you a great deal for saving thePresident's life. If you'll get that pistol out of your hand, I'd beproud 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 largeranchers, Colonel Andrew Jackson Hickock."

  Dumbarton Oaks had taught me how to maintain the proper diplomat'sunchanging expression; drinking superbourbon had been a post-graduatecourse. I needed that training as I finally learned Gail's last name.