She was telling what she knew of wormface conduct, as dispassionately as if describing something under a microscope, like a traffic officer testifying: "At 9.17 on the fifth, while on duty at—" etc. The facts. The Mother Thing was finishing her account of events on Pluto. She chopped it off at the point of the explosion.
Another voice spoke, in English. It was flat with a nasal twang and reminded me of a Vermont grocer we had dealt with one summer when I was a kid. He was a man who never smiled nor frowned and what little he said was all in the same tone, whether it was, "She is a good woman," or, "That man would cheat his own son," or, "Eggs are fifty-nine cents," cold as a cash register. This voice was that sort.
It said to the Mother Thing: "Have you finished?"
"I have finished."
"The other witnesses will be heard. Clifford Russell..."
I jumped, as if that grocer had caught me in the candy jar.
The voice went on: "—listen carefully." Another voice started.
My own—it was the account I had dictated, flat on my back on Vega Five.
But it wasn't all of it; it was just that which concerned wormfaces. Adjectives and whole sentences had been cut —as if someone had taken scissors to a tape recording. The facts were there; what I thought about them was missing.
It started with ships landing in the pasture back of our house; it ended with that last wormface stumbling blindly down a hole. It wasn't long, as so much had been left out—our hike across the Moon, for example. My description of Wormface was left in but had been trimmed so much that I could have been talking about Venus de Milo instead of the ugliest thing in creation.
My recorded voice ended and the Yankee-grocer voice said, "Were those your words?"
"Huh? Yes."
"Is the account correct?"
"Yes, but—"
"Is it correct?"
"Yes."
"Is it complete?"
I wanted to say that it certainly was not—but I was beginning to understand the system. "Yes."
"Patricia Wynant Reisfield—'
Peewee's story started earlier and covered all those days when she had been in contact with wormfaces while I was not. But it was not much longer, for, while Peewee has a sharp eye and a sharper memory, she is loaded with opinions. Opinions were left out.
When Peewee had agreed that her evidence was correct and complete the Yankee voice stated, "All witnesses have been heard, all known facts have been integrated. The three individuals may speak for themselves."
I think the wormfaces picked a spokesman, perhaps the Wormface, if he was alive and there. Their answer, as translated into English, did not have the guttural accent with which Wormface spoke English; nevertheless it was a wormface speaking. That bone-chilling yet highly intelligent viciousness, as unmistakable as a punch in the teeth, was in every syllable.
Their spokesman was so far away that I was not upset by his looks and after the first stomach-twisting shock of that voice I was able to listen more or less judicially. He started by denying that this court had jurisdiction over his sort. He was responsible only to his mother-queen and she only to their queen-group—that's how the English came out.
That defence, he claimed, was sufficient. However, if the "Three Galaxies" confederation existed—which he had no reason to believe other than that he was now being detained unlawfully before this hiveful of creatures met as a kangaroo court—if it existed, it still had no jurisdiction over the Only People, first, because the organization did not extend to his part of space; second, because even if it were there, the Only People had never joined and therefore its rules (if it had rules) could not apply; and third, it was inconceivable that their queen-group would associate itself with this improbable "Three Galaxies" because people do not contract with animals.
This defence also was sufficient.
But disregarding for the sake of argument these complete and sufficient defences, this trial was a mockery because no offence existed even under the so-called rules of the alleged "Three Galaxies." They (the wormfaces) had been operating in their own part of space engaged in occupying a useful but empty planet, Earth. No possible crime could lie in colonizing land inhabited merely by animals. As for the agent of Three Galaxies, she had butted in; she had not been harmed; she had merely been kept from interfering and had been detained only for the purpose of returning her where she belonged.
He should have stopped. Any of these defences might have stood up, especially the last one. I used to think of the human race as "lords of creation"—but things had happened to me since. I was not sure that this assemblage would think that humans had rights compared with wormfaces. Certainly the wormfaces were ahead of us in many ways. When we clear jungle to make farms, do we worry if baboons are there first?
But he discarded these defences, explained that they were intellectual exercises to show how foolish the whole thing was under any rules, from any point of view. He would now make his defence.
It was an attack.
The viciousness in his voice rose to a crescendo of hatred that made every word slam like a blow. How dared they do this? They were mice voting to bell the cat! (I know—but that's how it came out in translation.) They were animals to be eaten, or merely vermin to be exterminated. Their mercy would be rejected if offered, no negotiation was possible, their crimes would never be forgotten, the Only People would destroy them!
I looked around to see how the jury was taking it. This almost-empty hall had hundreds of creatures around the three sides and many were close to us. I had been too busy with the trial to do more than glance at them. Now I looked, for the wormface's blast was so disturbing that I welcomed a distraction.
They were all sorts and I'm not sure that any two were alike. There was one twenty feet from me who was as horrible as Wormface and amazingly like him—except that this creature's grisly appearance did not inspire disgust. There were others almost human in appearance, although they were greatly in the minority. There was one really likely-looking chick as human as I am—except for iridescent skin and odd and skimpy notions of dress. She was so pretty that I would have sworn that the iridescence was just make-up—but I probably would have been wrong. I wondered in what language the diatribe was reaching her? Certainly not English.
Perhaps she felt my stare, for she looked around and unsmilingly examined me, as I might a chimpanzee in a cage. I guess the attraction wasn't mutual.
There was every gradation from pseudo-wormface to the iridescent girl—not only the range between, but also way out in left field; some had their own private aquaria.
I could not tell how the invective affected them. The girl creature was taking it quietly, but what can you say about a walrus thing with octopus arms? If he twitches, is he angry? Or laughing? Or itches where the twitch is?
The Yankee-voiced spokesman let the wormface rave on.
Peewee was holding my hand. Now she grabbed my ear, tilted her face and whispered, "He talks nasty." She sounded awed.
The wormface ended with a blast of hate that must have overtaxed the translator for instead of English we heard a wordless scream.
The Yankee voice said flatly, "But do you have anything to say in your defence?"
The scream was repeated, then the wormface became coherent. "I have made my defence—that no defence is necessary."
The emotionless voice went on, to the Mother Thing. "Do you speak for them?"
She answered reluctantly, "My lord peers... I am forced to say... that I found them to be quite naughty." She sounded grieved.
"You find against them?"
"I do."
"Then you may not be heard. Such is the Law."
"'Three Galaxies, One Law.' I may not speak."
The flat voice went on, "Will any witness speak favourably?"
There was silence.
That was my chance to be noble. We humans were their victims; we were in a position to speak up, point out that from their standpoint they hadn't done anything wrong,
and ask mercy—if they would promise to behave in the future.
Well, I didn't. I've heard all the usual Sweetness and Light that kids get pushed at them—how they should always forgive, how there's some good in the worst of us, etc. But when I see a black widow, I step on it; I don't plead with it to be a good little spider and please stop poisoning people. A black widow spider can't help it—but that's the point.
The voice said to the wormfaces: "Is there any race anywhere which might speak for you? If so, it will be summoned."
The spokesman wormface spat at the idea. That another race might be character witnesses for them disgusted him.
"So be it," answered the Yankee voice. "Are the facts sufficient to permit a decision?"
Almost immediately the voice answered itself: "Yes."
"What is the decision?"
Again it answered itself: "Their planet shall be rotated."
It didn't sound like much—shucks, all planets rotate—and the flat voice held no expression. But the verdict scared me. The whole room seemed to shudder.
The Mother Thing turned and came toward us. It was a long way but she reached us quickly. Peewee flung herself on her; the solid air that penned us solidified still more until we three were in a private room, a silvery hemisphere.
Peewee was trembling and gasping and the Mother Thing comforted her. When Peewee had control of herself, I said nervously, "Mother Thing? What did he mean? 'Their planet shall be rotated.'"
She looked at me without letting go of Peewee and her great soft eyes were sternly sad. ("It means that their planet is tilted ninety degrees out of the space-time of your senses and mine.")
Her voice sounded like a funeral dirge played softly on a flute. Yet the verdict did not seem tragic to me. I knew what she meant; her meaning was even clearer in Vegan than in English. If you rotate a plane figure about an axis in its plane—it disappears. It is no longer in a plane and Mr. A. Square of Flatland is permanently out of touch with it.
But it doesn't cease to exist; it just is no longer where it was. It struck me that the wormfaces were getting off easy. I had halfway expected their planet to be blown up (and I didn't doubt that Three Galaxies could do so), or something equally drastic. As it was, the wormfaces were to be run out of town and would never find their way back—there are so many, many dimensions—but they wouldn't be hurt; they were just being placed in Coventry.
But the Mother Thing sounded as if she had taken unwilling part in a hanging.
So I asked her.
("You do not understand, dear gentle Kip—they do not take their star with them.")
"Oh—" was all I could say.
Peewee turned white.
Stars are the source of life—planets are merely life's containers. Chop off the star... and the planet gets colder... and colder... and colder—then still colder.
How long until the very air freezes? How many hours or days to absolute zero? I shivered and got goose pimples. Worse than Pluto—
"Mother Thing? How long before they do this?" I had a queasy misgiving that I should have spoken, that even wormfaces did not deserve this. Blow them up, shoot them down—but don't freeze them.
("It is done,") she sang in that same dirge-like way.
"What?"
("The agent charged with executing the decision waits for the word... the message goes out the instant we hear it. They were rotated out of our world even before I turned to join you. It is better so.")
I gulped and heard an echo in my mind: "—'twere well it were done quickly."
But the Mother Thing was saying rapidly, ("Think no more on it, for now you must be brave!")
"Huh? What, Mother Thing? What happens now?"
("You'll be summoned any moment—for your own trial.")
I simply stared, I could not speak—I had thought it was all over. Peewee looked still thinner and whiter but did not cry. She wet her lips and said quietly, "You'll come with us, Mother Thing?"
("Oh, my children! I cannot. You must face this alone.")
I found my voice. "But what are we being tried for? We haven't hurt anybody. We haven't done a thing."
("Not you personally. Your race is on trial. Through you.")
Peewee turned away from her and looked at me—and I felt a thrill of tragic pride that in our moment of extremity she had turned, not to the Mother Thing, but to me, another human being.
I knew that she was thinking of the same thing I was: a ship, a ship hanging close to Earth, only an instant away and yet perhaps uncounted trillion miles in some pocket of folded space, where no DEW line gives warning, where no radar can reach.
The Earth, green and gold and lovely, turning lazily in the warm light of the Sun—
A flat voice—No more Sun.
No stars.
The orphaned Moon would bobble once, then continue around the Sun, a gravestone to the hopes of men. The few at Lunar Base and Luna City and Tombaugh Station would last weeks or even months, the only human beings left alive. Then they would go—if not of suffocation, then of grief and loneliness.
Peewee said shrilly, "Kip, she's not serious! Tell me she's not!"
I said hoarsely, "Mother Thing—are the executioners already waiting?"
She did not answer. She said to Peewee, ("It is very serious, my daughter. But do not be afraid. I exacted a promise before I surrendered you. If things go against your race, you two will return with me and be suffered to live out your little lives in my home. So stand up and tell the truth . . . and do not be afraid.")
The flat voice entered the closed space: "The human beings are summoned."
CHAPTER 11
We walked out onto that vast floor. The farther we went the more I felt like a fly on a plate. Having Peewee with me was a help; nevertheless it was that nightmare where you find yourself not decently dressed in a public place. Peewee clutched my hand and held Madame Pompadour pressed tightly to her. I wished that I had suited-up in Oscar—I wouldn't have felt quite so under a microscope with Oscar around me.
Just before we left, the Mother Thing placed her hand against my forehead and started to hold me with her eyes. I pushed her hand aside and looked away. "No," I told her. "No treatments! I'm not going to—oh, I know you mean well but I won't take an anaesthetic. Thanks."
She did not insist; she simply turned to Peewee. Peewee looked uncertain, then shook her head. "We're ready," she piped.
The farther out we got on that great bare floor the more I regretted that I had not let the Mother Thing do whatever it was that kept one from worrying. At least I should have insisted that Peewee take it.
Coming at us from the other walls were two other flies; as they got closer I recognized them: the Neanderthal and the Legionary. The cave man was being dragged invisibly; the Roman covered ground in a long, slow, easy lope. We all arrived at the centre at the same time and were stopped about twenty feet apart, Peewee and I at one point of a triangle, the Roman and the cave man each at another.
I called out, "Hail, Iunio!"
"Silence, barbarian.' He looked around him, his eyes estimating the crowd at the walls.
He was no longer in casual dress. The untidy leggings were gone; strapped to his right shin was armour. Over the tunic he wore full cuirass and his head was brave with plumed helmet. All metal was burnished, all leather was clean.
He had approached with his shield on his back, route-march style. But even as we were stopped he unslung it and raised it on his left arm. He did not draw his sword as his right hand held his javelin at the ready—carried easily while his wary eyes assessed the foe.
To his left the cave man hunkered himself small, as an animal crouches who has no place to hide.
"Iunio!" I called out. "Listen!" The sight of those two had me still more worried. The cave man I could not talk to but perhaps I could reason with the Roman. "Do you know why we are here?"
"I know," he tossed over his shoulder. "Today the Gods try us in their arena. This is work for a soldier and a Roman ci
tizen. You're no help so keep out. No—watch behind me and shout. Caesar will reward you."
I started to try to talk sense but was cut off by a giant voice from everywhere:
"YOU ARE NOW BEING JUDGED!"
Peewee shivered and got closer. I twisted my left hand out of her clutch, substituted my right, and put my left arm around her shoulders. "Head up, partner," I said softly. "Don't let them scare you."
"I'm not scared," she whispered as she trembled. "Kip? You do the talking."
"Is that the way you want it?"
"Yes. You don't get mad as fast as I do—and if I lost my temper... well, that'd be awful."
"Okay."
We were interrupted by that flat, nasal twang. As before, it seemed close by. "This case derives from the one preceding it. The three temporal samples are from a small Lanador-type planet around a star in an out-centre part of the Third Galaxy. It is a very primitive area having no civilized races. This race, as you see from the samples, is barbaric. It has been examined twice before and would not yet be up for routine examination had not new facts about it come out in the case which preceded it."
The voice asked itself: "When was the last examination made?"
It answered itself: "Approximately one half-death of Thorium-230 ago." It added, apparently to us only: "About eighty thousand of your years."
Iunio jerked his head and looked around, as if trying to locate the voice. I concluded that he had heard the same figure in his corrupt Latin. Well, I was startled too —but I was numb to that sort of shock.
"Is it necessary again so soon?"
"It is. There has been a discontinuity. They are developing with unexpected speed." The flat voice went on, speaking to us: "I am your judge. Many of the civilized beings you see around you are part of me. Others are spectators, some are students, and a few are here because they hope to catch me in a mistake." The voice added, "This they have not managed to do in more than a million of your years."
I blurted out, "You are more than a million years old?" I did not add that I didn't believe it.
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