Modern Masterpieces of Science Fiction

by Sam Moskowitz

  "Yet you discovered the very asteroid to bring you all the way here? Most astonishing spacemanship, is it not?"

  "It did not bring me all the way. It brought me most of the way."

  "All right," agreed Mr. Prosecutor, with airy contempt. "Ninety-nine millions instead of one hundred millions or whatever the distance is supposed to be. It is still amazing."

  "Moreover," continued Maeth, writing steadily, "I did not select one to bring me here, as you imply. I thankfully used the only visible rock to take me anywhere. I had no specific destination. I fled into the void at random, putting my trust in the fates."

  "So some other rock might have borne you some place else, might it not?"

  "Or no place at all," Maeth put morbidly. "The fates were kind."

  "Don't be too sure of that." Mr. Prosecutor hooked thumbs in vest pockets and studied the other with sinister expression. "If your real purposes, your real motives are in fact those which have been attributed to you by our ever-alert news-services, it is to be expected that you would have a cover-up story replete with plausibility. You have given this court such a story but have offered no concrete evidence in proof. We are left with nothing but your unsupported word —and the word of an ill-formed alien, an unknown quantity, at that!" He paused, ended, "Can you not submit to this court something more material than a series of bald asserta-tions?"

  "I have no way of combating disbelief," wrote Maeth, slowly and tiredly, "except with trust."

  Mr. Prosecutor countered that one by striking hard and ruthlessly. "How many others of your kind are now upon this world, following their dastardly designs while you distract at-tention by posing in the full glare of publicity?" The court, the hidden audience, had not thought of that. Half a dozen reporters quietly kicked themselves for not hav-ing conceived its first and played it up for all it was worth. It had been assumed from the beginning that the alien in their hands was the only one on the planet. Yet there might well be more, a dozen, a hundred, hiding in the less frequented places, skulking in the shadows, biding their time. People stared at each other and fidgeted uneasily.

  "I came alone," Maeth put on the board.

  "I accept that statement. It may be the only truthful one you have made. Experts report that your vessel is a single-seater scout, so obviously you came in it alone. But how many other vessels came about the same time?"

  "None."

  "It would be a comfort to think so," remarked Mr. Prose-cutor, thereby discomforting his listeners. "Doubtless, your world has many other ships, much larger and more powerful than yours?"

  "Many," admitted Maeth. "But they can go no farther or faster. They can only have greater loads."

  "How did you come by your own ship?"

  "I stole it."

  "Indeed?" The prosecuting attorney raised his eyebrows. gave a little laugh. "A self-confessed thief!" He assumed an air of broadminded understanding. "It is expected, of course, that one would suffer less by confessing to theft rather than espionage." He let that sink in before attempting another hard blow. "Would you care to tell us how many other bold and adventurous males are ready or making ready to follow your path to conquest?"

  Defending attorney stood up and said, "I advise my client not to answer." His opponent waved him down, turned to the judges. "Your Honors, I am ready to state my case."

  They consulted the clock, talked in undertones between themselves, then said,

  "Proceed."

  The speech for the prosecution was able, devastating and long. It reviewed the evidence, drew dark conclusions, im-plied many things from which the hidden audience could draw other and still darker conclusions. This is not to say that Mr. Prosecutor had any real hatred of or fear of the stranger at the gate; it was merely that he was doing his spe-cialised job with ability that was considerable.

  "This case, with its own new and peculiar routine," be reminded, "will go down in legal annals. As from today it will constitute a precedent by which we shall determine our atti-tude toward future visitors from space. And the final arbiters of that attitude will be you, the members of the general public, who will reap the reward of outside alliances or"—he paused, hardened his voice—"suffer the sorrows of other-world enmities. Allow me to emphasise that the rewards can be small, pitifully small—while the sorrows can be immense!"

  Clearing his throat, he had a sip of water, started to get into his stride. "In trying to decide what should be done for the best we have no basis for forming conclusions other than that provided by the fantastic example who will be the subject of your verdict."

  Turning, he stared at Maeth while he went on. "This crea-ture has not been put on oath because we know of no oath binding upon it. Its ethics—if any—are its own, having little in common with ours. All we do know is that its farfetched and highly imaginative story places such a strain upon human credulity that any one of us might be forgiven for deeming it a shameless liar."

  Maeth's large eyes closed in pain, but Mr. Prosecutor went determinedly on.

  "While the question of its truthfulness or lack of same may remain a matter for speculation, we do have some evidences based upon fact. We know, for instance, that it has no respect for property or the law, which forms of respect are the very foundation-stones of the civili-zation we have builded through the centuries and intend to preserve against all corners."

  He overdid it there. Maeth was too small, too wide-eyed and alone to fit the part of a ruthless destroyer of civiliza-tions. Nevertheless, the picture would serve to sway opinions. Some thousands, probably millions, would argue that when in doubt it is best to play safe.

  "A thief. More than that: a self-admitted thief who steals not only from us but also from his own," declared the prose-cuting attorney, quite unconscious of switching his pronoun from neuter to male. "A destroyer, and an intelligent one, possibly the forerunner of a host of destroyers. I say that ad-visedly, for where one can go an army can follow." Dismiss-ing the question of whence said army was going to get its flock of trans-cosmic asteroids, he added, "A dozen armies!" His voice rising and falling, hardening and softening, he played expertly upon the emotions of his listeners as a master would play on a giant organ, appealing to world patriotism, pandering to parochialism, justifying prejudices, enlarging fears—fear of self, fear of others, fear of the strange in shape, fear of tomorrow, fear of the unknown. Solemnity, ridicule, sonorousness, sarcasm, all were weapons in his vocal armory.

  "He," Mr. Prosecutor said, pointing at Maeth and still using the male pronoun, "he pleads for admission as a citi-zen of this world. Do we take him with all his faults and fol-lies, with all his supernormal powers and eccentric aptitudes, with all his hidden motives that may become clear only when it is too late? Or, if indeed he be as pure and innocent as he would have us believe, would it not be better to inflict upon him a grave injustice rather than court infinitely greater injus-tices to a great number." Challengingly he stared around. "If we take him, as a refu-gee, who will have him?

  Who will accept the society of a creature with which the average human has no joint understanding?" He gave a short, sharp laugh. "Oh, yes, there have been requests for the pleasure of his company. Incredible as it may seem, there are people who want him."

  Holding up a letter for all to see, he continued, "This persons offers him a home. Why? Well, the writer claims that he himself was a spiky thing in Procyon during his eighth incar-nation." He tossed the letter on his desk. "The crackpots are always with us. Fortunately, the course of human history will be decided by calmly reasoning citizens and not by incurable nuts."

  For a further half hour he carried on, a constant flow of words which concluded with, "In human affairs there is a swift end for the human spy, quick riddance for the sus-pected spy. I conceive of no reason why any alien form deserves treatment more merciful than that which we accord to fellow humans. Here, we have before as one who at very least is an undesirable character, at most the first espionage agent of a formidable enemy. It is the prosecution's ca
se that you have to consider only whether it is in the best interest of public safety that he be rewarded with death or with sum-mary expulsion into the space from which he came. The weight of evidence rules out all other alternatives. You will not have failed to note that the witnesses who have appeared are overwhelmingly for the prosecution. Is it not remarkable that there is not one witness for the defense?" He waited to give it time to sink home, then drove it further by repeating, "Not one!" Another sip of water, after which he seated himself, carefully smoothed the legs of his pants.

  One thing seemed fairly clear: Maeth was a stinker.

  Mr. Defender created a mild stir right at the start by rising and saying, "Your Honors, the defense does not intend to state its case."

  The judges peered at him as if he were a sight ten times more strange than his own client. They pawed papers, talked together in whispers.

  In due time, the middle one inquired, "By that, do you mean that you surrender to verdict by public poll?"

  "Eventually, of course, Your Honor, but not just yet. I wish to produce evidence for my side and will be content to let my case rest on that."

  "Proceed," ordered the judge, frowning doubtfully.

  Addressing Maeth, the defending attorney said, "On your home world all are like you, namely, telepathic and non-vocal?"

  "Yes, everyone."

  "They share a common neural band, or, to put it more simply, they think with a communal mind?"

  "Yes."

  "That is the essential feature in which your home world differs from this one of ours: that its people share a racial mind, thinking common thoughts?"

  "Yes," chalked Maeth.

  "Tell this court about your parents."

  Maeth's eyes closed a moment, as if the mind behind them had gone far, far away.

  "My parents were freaks of nature. They drifted from the common band until they had almost lost contact with the race-mind."

  "That was something the race-mind could not tolerate?" asked Mr. Defender gently.

  "No."

  "So they were killed—for having minds of their own?" A long pause and a slow, "Yes." The scrawl on the board was thin, shaky, barely decipherable.

  "As you would have been had you not fled in sheer desper-ation?"

  "Yes."

  Mr. Defender eyed the judges. "I would like to put further questions to the fourth witness."

  They signed agreement, and Professor Allain found his way back to the chair.

  "Professor, as an expert who has made a long, personal study of my client, will you tell this court whether defendant is old or young."

  "Young," said Allain promptly.

  "Very young?"

  "Fairly young," Allain responded. "Not quite an adult." "Thank you." Mr. Defender let his mild, guileless gaze roam over the court. There was nothing in his plump features to warn them of the coming wallop. In quieter tones, he asked, "Male or female?"

  "Female," said Allain.

  A reporter dropped a book. That was the only sound for most of a minute. Then came a deep indrawn hiss of breath, a rapid ticking as cameras traversed to focus on Maeth, a run-ning murmur of surprise from one end of the court to the other. Back of the gallery, the most pungent cartoonist of the day tore up his latest effort, a sketch of defendant strapped to a rocket hell-bent for the Moon. It was captioned, "Spike's Hike." What could one call it—him—her, now? Spikina? He raked his hair, sought a new tack, knowing that there was none. You just can't crucify a small and lonely female.

  Mr. Prosecutor sat with firmed lips and the fatalistic air of one who has had eighty percent of the ground snatched from under his feet. He knew his public. He could estimate their reaction to within ten thousand votes, plus or minus. All stared at the golden eyes. They were still large, but somehow had become soft and luminous in a way not noticed before. You could see that now. Having been told, you could really see that they were feminine. And in some peculiar, inexplicable manner the outlines around them had become sub-dued, less outlandish, even vaguely and remotely human!

  With effective technique, the defending attorney gave them plenty of time to stew their thoughts before carefully he struck again.

  "Your Honors, there is one witness for my side."

  Mr. Prosecutor rocked back, stared searchingly around the court. The judges polished their glasses, looked around also. One of them motioned to a court official who promptly bawled in stentorian tones.

  "Defense witness!"

  It shuttled around the great room in echoing murmurs. "Defense witness! There is a witness for the defense!"

  A bald-headed little man came self-consciously from the public section, bearing a large envelope. Reaching the chair, he did not take it himself, but instead placed upon it a photograph blown up to four feet by three.

  Court and cameras gave the picture no more than the brief-est glance, for it was instantly recognisable. A lady holding a lamp.

  Rising with a disapproving frown, the prosecuting attorney complained, "Your Honors, if my learned opponent is permitted to treat the Statue of Liberty as a witness he will thereby bring into ridicule the proceedings of this—." A judge waved him down with the acid comment, "The bench is fully capable of asserting the dignity of this court." He shifted his attention to Mr. Defender, eyeing him over the tops of his glasses. "A witness may be defined as one able to assist the jury in arriving at a just conclusion."

  "I am aware of that, Your Honor," assured Mr. Defender, not in the least disturbed.

  "Very well." The judge leaned back, slightly baffled. "Let the court hear witness's statement."

  Mr. Defender signed to the little man who immediately produced another large photograph and placed it over the first.

  This was of the enormous plinth, with Liberty's bronze skirt-drapes barely visible at its top. There were words on the plinth, written bold and large. Some in the court gave the picture only another swift look, since they knew the words by heart, but others read them right through, once, twice, even three times.

  Many had never seen the words before, including some who had passed near by them twice daily, for years. Cameras picked up the words, transmitted them pictorially to millions to whom they were new. An announcer recited them over the radio.

  Send me your tired, your poor,

  Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.

  The wretched refuse of your teeming shore,

  Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me—

  I lift my Lamp beside the Golden Door

  In the deep, heart-searching silence that followed nobody noticed that Mr. Defender had bowed deeply to the judges and resumed his seat. The defense rested, having nothing more to add.

  Midnight. A large stone cell with a metal grille, a bed, a table, two chairs and a radio in one corner. Maeth and the plump man sat there conversing, examining correspondence, watching the clock.

  "The opposition picked a sloppy one with that crackpot's letter," remarked Mr. Defender. He could not refrain from expressing himself vocally though he knew full well that the other was hearing only the thoughts within his mind. He tapped a heavy forefinger on the bunch of missives at which they had been looking. "I could easily have countered him with this bunch written from a week ago to way back. But what was the use? They prove nothing except that all people don't think alike." He sighed, stretched his arms wide and yawned, had his twentieth or thirtieth look at the clock, picked up another letter. "Listen to this one." He read it aloud.

  "My son, aged thirteen, keeps pestering us to offer your client a home for at least a little while. I really don't know whether we are being wise in giving way to him, but we shall certainly suffer if we don't. We have a spare room here, and if your client is clean about the house and don't mind a bit of steam around on wash-days—" His voice petered out as he had to yawn again. "They say it will be six in the morning before this public poll is com-plete. Bet you it's at least eight o'clock and maybe ten. They're always late with these things." He jerked around
in vain effort to make himself more comfortable in his hard chair. "However, I'm staying with you until we've seen this through, one way or the other. And don't kid yourself I'm the only friend you've got." He pointed to the letters. "You've plenty there, and none of them certifiable."

  Maeth ceased perusal of a note in uneven spidery writing, reached for pencil and paper and scribbled, "Allain did not teach me enough words. What is a 'veteran'?" Having had it explained, she said, "I like this writer best. He has been hurt. If I am freed I will accept his invitation."

  "Let me see." Taking the note, Mr. Defender read it, mur-muring, "Urn . . . um . .

  ." as he went along. He handed it back. "The choice is yours. You'll have something in com-mon, anyway, since you'll both be coping with a cock-eyed world." Throwing a glance at the wall, he added, "That clock has gone into a crawl. It's going to take us a week to get to morning."

  Somebody opened the grille with a jangle of keys, and Mr. Prosecutor came in. Grinning at his rival, he said, "Al, you sure make it tough for yourself in clink—you don't even use the comforts provided."

  "Meaning what?"

  "The radio."

  Mr. Defender gave a disdainful sniff. "Darn the radio. Noise, noise, noise. We've been busy reading—in peace and quiet." Sudden suspicion flooded his ample features. "What have we missed on the radio, if anything?"

  "The midnight news." Mr. Prosecutor leaned on the edge of the table, still grinning. "They have thrown up the poll."

  "They can't do that!" The defending attorney stood up, flushed with anger. "It was by international agreement that this case was—"

  "They can do it in certain circumstances," interrupted the other. "Which are that a torrent of votes overwhelmingly in favor of your client has already made further counting a waste of time." He turned to Maeth, finished, "Just between you and me, Funny-face, I was never more happy to lose a fight."

  The man in the back room was nearing middle age, prema-turely gray, and had long slender fingers that were sensitive tools. He was listening to the radio when the doorbell rang. There was no video in the room, only the radio softly playing a Polynesian melody. The bell jarred through the music, causing him to switch off and come upright. Very deliberately he moved around the room, through the door and into the passage.