The H. Beam Piper Megapack

by H. Beam Piper

  We left the Hickock ranch on Sunday afternoon and while Hoddy guided our air-car back to New Austin, I had a little time to revise some of my ideas about New Texas. That is, I had time to think during those few moments when Hoddy wasn’t taking advantage of our diplomatic immunity to invent new air-ground traffic laws.

  My thoughts alternated between the pleasure of remembering Gail’s gay company and the gloom of understanding the complete implications of the Colonel’s clarifying lectures. Against the background of his remarks, I could find myself appreciating the Ghopal-Klüng-Natalenko reasoning: the only way to cut the Gordian knot was to have another Solar League Ambassador killed.

  And, whenever I could escape thinking about the fact that the next Ambassador to be the clay pigeon was me, I found myself wondering if I wanted the League to take over. Annexation, yes; New Texas customs would be protected under a treaty of annexation. But the “justified conquest” urged by Machiavelli, Jr.? No.

  I was still struggling with the problem when we reached the Embassy about 1700. Everyone was there, including Stonehenge, who had returned two hours earlier with the good news that the fleet had moved into position only sixty light-minutes off Capella IV. I had reached the point in my thinking where I had decided it was useless to keep Hoddy and Stonehenge apart except as an exercise in mental agility. Inasmuch as my brain was already weight-lifting, swinging from a flying trapeze to elusive flying rings while doing triple somersaults and at the same time juggling seven Indian clubs, I skipped the whole matter.

  But I’m fairly certain that it wasn’t till then that Hoddy had a chance to deliver his letter-of-credence to Stonehenge.

  After dinner, we gathered in my office for our coffee and a final conference before the opening of the trial the next morning.

  Stonehenge spoke first, looking around the table at everyone except me.

  “No matter what happens, we have the fleet within call. Sir Rodney’s been active picking up those z’Srauff meteor-mining boats. They no longer have a tight screen around the system. We do. I don’t think that anyone, except us, knows that the fleet’s where it is.”

  No matter what happens, I thought glumly, and the phrase explained why he hadn’t been able to look at me.

  “Well, boss, I gave you my end of it, comin’ in,” Hoddy said. “Want me to go over it again? All right. In Bonneyville, we found half a dozen people who can swear that Kettle-Belly Sam Bonney was making preparations to protect those three brothers an hour before Ambassador Cumshaw was shot. The whole town’s sorer than hell at Kettle-Belly for antagonizing the Hickock outfit and getting the place shot up the way it was. And we have witnesses that Kettle-Belly was in some kind of deal with the z’Srauff, too. The Rangers gathered up eight of them, who can swear to the preparations and to the fact that Kettle-Belly had z’Srauff visitors on different occasions before the shooting.”

  “That’s what we want,” Stonehenge said. “Something that’ll connect this murder with the z’Srauff.”

  “Well, wait till you hear what I’ve got,” Parros told him. “In the first place, we traced the gun and the air-car. The Bonney brothers bought them both from z’Srauff merchants, for ridiculously nominal prices. The merchant who sold the aircar is normally in the dry-goods business, and the one who sold the auto-rifle runs a toy shop. In their whole lives, those three boys never had enough money among them to pay the list price of the gun, let alone the car. That is, not until a week before the murder.”

  “They got prosperous, all of a sudden?” I asked.

  “Yes. Two weeks before the shooting, Kettle-Belly Sam’s bank account got a sudden transfusion: some anonymous benefactor deposited 250,000 pesos—about a hundred thousand dollars—to his credit. He drew out 75,000 of it and some of the money turned up again in the hands of Switchblade and Jack-High and Turkey-Buzzard. Then, a week before you landed here, he got another hundred thousand from the same anonymous source and he drew out twenty thousand of that. We think that was the money that went to pay for the attempted knife-job on Hutchinson. Two days before the barbecue, the waiter deposited a thousand at the New Austin Packers’ and Shippers’ Trust.”

  “Can you get that introduced as evidence at the trial?” I asked.

  “Sure. Kettle-Belly banks at a town called Crooked Creek, about forty miles from Bonneyville. We have witnesses from the bank.

  “I also got the dope on the line the Bonney brothers are going to take at the trial. They have a lawyer, Clement A. Sidney, a member of what passes for the Socialist Party on this planet. The defense will take the line of full denial of everything. The Bonneys are just three poor but honest boys who are being framed by the corrupt tools of the Big Ranching Interests.”

  Hoddy made an impolite noise. “Whatta we got to worry about, then?” he demanded. “They’re a cinch for conviction.”

  “I agree with that,” Stonehenge said. “If they tried to base their defense on political conviction and opposition by the Solar League, they might have a chance. This way, they haven’t.”

  “All right, gentlemen,” I said, “I take it that we’re agreed that we must all follow a single line of policy and not work at cross-purposes to each other?”

  They all agreed to that instantly, but with a questioning note in their voices.

  “Well, then, I trust you all realize that we cannot, under any circumstances, allow those three brothers to be convicted in this court,” I added.

  There was a moment of startled silence, while Hoddy and Stonehenge and Parros and Thrombley were understanding what they had just heard. Then Stonehenge cleared his throat and said:

  “Mr. Ambassador! I’m sure that you have some excellent reasons for that remarkable statement, but I must say—”

  “It was a really colossal error on somebody’s part,” I said, “that this case was allowed to get into the Court of Political Justice. It never should have. And if we take a part in the prosecution, or allow those men to be convicted, we will establish a precedent to support the principle that a foreign Ambassador is, on this planet, defined as a practicing local politician.

  “I will invite you to digest that for a moment.”

  A moment was all they needed. Thrombley was horrified and dithered incoherently. Stonehenge frowned and fidgeted with some papers in front of him. I could see several thoughts gathering behind his eyes, including, I was sure, a new view of his instructions from Klüng.

  Even Hoddy got at least part of it. “Why, that means that anybody can bump off any diplomat he doesn’t like.…” he began.

  “That is only part of it, Mr. Ringo,” Thrombley told him. “It also means that a diplomat, instead of being regarded as the representative of his own government, becomes, in effect, a functionary of the government of New Texas. Why, all sorts of complications could arise.…”

  “It certainly would impair, shall we say, the principle of extraterritoriality of Embassies,” Stonehenge picked it up. “And it would practically destroy the principle of diplomatic immunity.”

  “Migawd!” Hoddy looked around nervously, as though he could already hear an army of New Texas Rangers, each with a warrant for Hoddy Ringo, battering at the gates.

  “We’ll have to do something!” Gomez, the Secretary of the Embassy, said.

  “I don’t know what,” Stonehenge said. “The obvious solution would be, of course, to bring charges against those Bonney Boys on simple first-degree murder, which would be tried in an ordinary criminal court. But it’s too late for that now. We wouldn’t have time to prevent their being arraigned in this Political Justice court, and once a defendant is brought into court, on this planet, he cannot be brought into court again for the same act. Not the same crime, the same act.”

  I had been thinking about this and I was ready. “Look, we must bring those Bonney brothers to trial. It’s the only effective way of demonstrating to the public the simple fact that Ambassador Cumshaw was murdered at the instigation of the z’Srauff. We dare not allow them to be convicted in the
Court of Political Justice, for the reasons already stated. And to maintain the prestige of the Solar League, we dare not allow them to go unpunished.”

  “We can have it one way,” Parros said, “and maybe we can have it two ways. But I’m damned if I can see how we can have it all three ways.”

  I wasn’t surprised that he didn’t see it; he hadn’t had the same urgency goading him which had forced me to find the answer. It wasn’t an answer that I liked, but I was in the position where I had no choice.

  “Well, here’s what we have to do, gentlemen,” I began, and from the respectful way they regarded me, from the attention they were giving my words, I got a sudden thrill of pride. For the first time since my scrambled arrival, I was really Ambassador Stephen Silk.

  CHAPTER VIII

  A couple of New Texas Ranger tanks met the Embassy car four blocks from the Statehouse and convoyed us into the central plaza, where the barbecue had been held on the Friday afternoon that I had arrived on New Texas. There was almost as dense a crowd as the last time I had seen the place; but they were quieter, to the extent that there were no bands, and no shooting, no cowbells or whistles. The barbecue pits were going again, however, and hawkers were pushing or propelling their little wagons about, vending sandwiches. I saw a half a dozen big twenty-foot teleview screens, apparently wired from the courtroom.

  As soon as the Embassy car and its escorting tanks reached the plaza, an ovation broke out. I was cheered, with the high-pitched yipeee! of New Texans and adjured and implored not to let them so-and-sos get away with it.

  There was a veritable army of Rangers on guard at the doors of the courtroom. The only spectators being admitted to the courtroom seemed to be prominent citizens with enough pull to secure passes.

  Inside, some of the spectators’ benches had been removed to clear the front of the room. In the cleared space, there was one bulky shape under a cloth cover that seemed to be the air-car and another cloth-covered shape that looked like a fifty-mm dual-purpose gun. Smaller exhibits, including a twenty-mm auto-rifle, were piled on the friends-of-the-court table. The prosecution table was already occupied—Colonel Hickock, who waved a greeting to me, three or four men who looked like well-to-do ranchers, and a delegation of lawyers.

  “Samuel Goodham,” Parros, beside me, whispered, indicating a big, heavy-set man with white hair, dressed in a dark suit of the cut that had been fashionable on Terra seventy-five years ago. “Best criminal lawyer on the planet. Hickock must have hired him.”

  There was quite a swarm at the center table, too. Some of them were ranchers, a couple in aggressively shabby workclothes, and there were several members of the Diplomatic Corps. I shook hands with them and gathered that they, like myself, were worried about the precedent that might be established by this trial. While I was introducing Hoddy Ringo as my attaché extraordinary, which was no less than the truth, the defense party came in.

  There were only three lawyers—a little, rodent-faced fellow, whom Parros pointed out as Clement Sidney, and two assistants. And, guarded by a Ranger and a couple of court-bailiffs, the three defendants, Switchblade Joe, Jack-High Abe and Turkey-Buzzard Tom Bonney. There was probably a year or so age different from one to another, but they certainly had a common parentage. They all had pale eyes and narrow, loose-lipped faces. Subnormal and probably psychopathic, I thought. Jack-High Abe had his left arm in a sling and his left shoulder in a plaster cast. The buzz of conversation among the spectators altered its tone subtly and took on a note of hostility as they entered and seated themselves.

  The balcony seemed to be crowded with press representatives. Several telecast cameras and sound pickups had been rigged to cover the front of the room from various angles, a feature that had been missing from the trial I had seen with Gail on Friday.

  Then the judges entered from a door behind the bench, which must have opened from a passageway under the plaza, and the court was called to order.

  The President Judge was the same Nelson who had presided at the Whately trial and the first thing on the agenda seemed to be the selection of a new board of associate judges. Parros explained in a whisper that the board which had served on the previous trial would sit until that could be done.

  A slip of paper was drawn from a box and a name was called. A man sitting on one of the front rows of spectators’ seats got up and came forward. One of Sidney’s assistants rummaged through a card file he had in front of him and handed a card to the chief of the defense. At once, Sidney was on his feet.

  “Challenged, for cause!” he called out. “This man is known to have declared, in conversation at the bar of the Silver Peso Saloon, here in New Austin, that these three boys, my clients, ought all to be hanged higher than Haman.”

  “Yes, I said that!” the venireman declared. “I’ll repeat it right here: all three of these murdering skunks ought to be hanged higher than—”

  “Your Honor!” Sidney almost screamed. “If, after hearing this man’s brazen declaration of bigoted class hatred against my clients, he is allowed to sit on that bench—”

  Judge Nelson pounded with his gavel. “You don’t have to instruct me in my judicial duties, Counselor,” he said. “The venireman has obviously disqualified himself by giving evidence of prejudice. Next name.”

  The next man was challenged: he was a retired packing-house operator in New Austin, and had once expressed the opinion that Bonneyville and everybody in it ought to be H-bombed off the face of New Texas.

  This Sidney seemed to have gotten the name of everybody likely to be called for court duty and had something on each one of them, because he went on like that all morning.

  “You know what I think,” Stonehenge whispered to me, leaning over behind Parros. “I think he’s just stalling to keep the court in session until the z’Srauff fleet gets here. I wish we could get hold of one of those wrist watches.”

  “I can get you one, before evening,” Hoddy offered, “if you don’t care what happens to the mutt that’s wearin’ it.”

  “Better not,” I decided. “Might tip them off to what we suspect. And we don’t really need one: Sir Rodney will have patrols out far enough to get warning in time.”

  * * * *

  We took an hour, at noon, for lunch, and then it began again. By 1647, fifteen minutes before court should be adjourned, Judge Nelson ordered the bailiff to turn the clock back to 1300. The clock was turned back again when it reached 1645. By this time, Clement Sidney was probably the most unpopular man on New Texas.

  Finally, Colonel Andrew J. Hickock rose to his feet.

  “Your Honor: the present court is not obliged to retire from the bench until another court has been chosen as they are now sitting as a court in being. I propose that the trial begin, with the present court on the bench.”

  Sidney began yelling protests. Hoddy Ringo pulled his neckerchief around under his left ear and held the ends above his head. Nanadabadian, the Ambassador from Beta Cephus IV, drew his biggest knife and began trying the edge on a sheet of paper.

  “Well, Your Honor, I certainly do not wish to act in an obstructionist manner. The defense agrees to accept the present court,” Sidney decided.

  “Prosecution agrees to accept the present court,” Goodham parroted.

  “The present court will continue on the bench, to try the case of the Friends of Silas Cumshaw, deceased, versus Switchblade Joe Bonney, Jack-High Abe Bonney, Turkey-Buzzard Tom Bonney, et als.” Judge Nelson rapped with his gavel. “Court is herewith adjourned until 0900 tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER IX

  The trial got started the next morning with a minimum amount of objections from Sidney. The charges and specifications were duly read, the three defendants pleaded not guilty, and then Goodham advanced with a paper in his hand to address the court. Sidney scampered up to take his position beside him.

  “Your Honor, the prosecution wishes, subject to agreement of the defense, to enter the following stipulations, to wit: First, that the late Silas Cumshaw was a
practicing politician within the meaning of the law. Second, that he is now dead, and came to his death in the manner attested to by the coroner of Sam Houston Continent. Third, that he came to his death at the hands of the defendants here present.”

  In all my planning, I’d forgotten that. I couldn’t let those stipulations stand without protest, and at the same time, if I protested the characterization of Cumshaw as a practicing politician, the trial could easily end right there. So I prayed for a miracle, and Clement Sidney promptly obliged me.

  “Defense won’t stipulate anything!” he barked. “My clients, here, are victims of a monstrous conspiracy, a conspiracy to conceal the true facts of the death of Silas Cumshaw. They ought never to have been arrested or brought here, and if the prosecution wants to establish anything, they can do it by testimony, in the regular and lawful way. This practice of free-wheeling stipulation is only one of the many devices by which the courts of this planet are being perverted to serve the corrupt and unjust ends of a gang of reactionary landowners!”

  Judge Nelson’s gavel hit the bench with a crack like a rifle shot.

  “Mr. Sidney! In justice to your clients, I would hate to force them to change lawyers in the middle of their trial, but if I hear another remark like that about the courts of New Texas, that’s exactly what will happen, because you’ll be in jail for contempt! Is that clear, Mr. Sidney?”

  I settled back with a deep sigh of relief which got me, I noticed, curious stares from my fellow Ambassadors. I disregarded the questions in their glances; I had what I wanted.

  They began calling up the witnesses.

  First, the doctor who had certified Ambassador Cumshaw’s death. He gave a concise description of the wounds which had killed my predecessor. Sidney was trying to make something out of the fact that he was Hickock’s family physician, and consuming more time, when I got up.