not the lawbreakers had not the slightest notion that they were violating planetary ordinances. In many
cases the laws were simply incomprehensible, totally meaningless to someone raised in a human culture; but even then, Man looked after his own, and, however hopeless the case, one or more barristers were sent in to defend their errant brother. Perhaps no other barrister during the period of the Democracy achieved quite the measure of fame that Ivor Khalinov did. Born at the huge complex on Caliban, he grew to maturity on that incredible world prior to... —
“Son,” said Khalinov, peering out from beneath his gray, bushy eyebrows, “I'm going to be perfectly honest with you: I'd much rather be prosecuting this case than defending it.” “Thanks a lot,” said the blond youth glumly. “Oh, I didn't say I wouldn't take the case,” said Khalinov. “Your parents are paying me far more than you're worth. More than anyone's worth, really. I just remarked that I don't think the odds are in our favor.”
“You've bucked the odds before,” said the youth, almost pleadingly. “That closing argument of yours in the blasphemy case on Lodin XI is still required reading in every school in the Deluros system.” “Well, not quite
“Furthermore, Atria XVI has no plea-bargaining. Manslaughter, murder three, involuntary homicide—none of these terms exist in Atrian law. You either killed them or you didn't, regardless of circumstances. And son, you killed them.” “Then why defend me at all?”
“Aside from the money, you mean?” asked Khalinov. “I guess it's because I still believe that every man has the right to a defense—and on Atria XVI, you need a good defense about as much as any man I ever knew. You know, the simple act of resisting arrest and returning here to Deluros VIII merits the equivalent of a life sentence. You knew we'd extradite you, didn't you?” “I wasn't thinking,” said the youth. “I just couldn't believe what was happening. What's the penalty if I'm convicted, Mr. Khalinov?”
“There's only one penalty for murder in the Atrian system,” said Khalinov. “Death by heat.” The youth's body seemed to shrink into itself. “I kind of guessed that.” “Don't give up the ship just yet, son,” said Khalinov. “All the odds mean is that we'll have to fight a little harder.” He pressed a button on his desk, and four armed guards came in. He nodded to them, then
turned back to the boy. “They'll be taking you to Komornos, a moon of Atria V, to await trial. I've got
your preliminary hearing and bill of indictment here, along with transcripts of our interviews, so unless something comes up, I won't be seeing you until the trial.” As the youth was led out, Khalinov pressed two more buttons to summon his junior partners, Kominsky and Braque. Neither of them ever saw the inside of a courtroom if it was possible to avoid it, for neither had anything approximating Khalinov's eloquence, but that didn't mean they were drawing their salaries for nothing. Kominsky, an Orthodox Jew in an age when almost every other religion had atrophied from lack of interest, knew more about nonhuman criminal law than Khalinov could ever hope to learn, while Braque, a former governor of Praesepe III, was the man who handled the miles upon miles of red tape that magically appeared every time a human stood trial on an alien world. There were other partners and assistants as well, twenty-seven of them to be exact, but most were concerned with corporate law and interstellar commerce, vital fields but totally devoid of the type of publicity that surrounded Khalinov's more famous cases.
“I hear we've got a real stinker this time,” said Braque, pulling out a long yellow legal pad. (Some customs never changed.)
“If I were a betting man,” said Khalinov “and were feeling extremely conservative, I'd offer five million to one that our boy is tried, convicted, sentenced, and executed inside of three hours.” “What did he do?” asked Kominsky.
“He sneezed.”
“Then what?” asked Braque.
“Then he resisted arrest and fled to Deluros VIII.” “That's all?”
“Yep.”
“You're pulling my leg,” said Braque.
“Am I?”
“Not necessarily,” said Kominsky, his eyes alight with interest. “Where did this happen?” “Atria XVI.”
“A methane world?”
Khalinov nodded. “The damned fool had his T-pack off.” Kominsky nodded grimly, but Braque just looked puzzled. “I don't see the problem,” he said. “The problem,” said Khalinov, “is simply this: the Atrians are a crystalline race methane-breathers living at an awfully cold temperature. Young Heinrich Krantz—yes, the Commander's son—was there as a military aide on a trading mission. I don't know if he was drunk or sober, but, for whatever reason, he voluntarily or involuntarily—he swears it was the latter—turned off his T-pack while walking down a
major Atrian thoroughfare. And then, with nothing to blot out or muffle the sound, he sneezed.”
“So?” asked Braque.
“So fifty-seven Atrians shattered like so much fine crystal,” said Khalinov. “Then, when confronted with the civilian police, he panicked and decided to come back here.” “How did he get away?” asked Braque.
“He threatened to remove one of his protective gloves. The heat of his body would have killed every Atrian within two hundred feet of him. He'd have died too, of course, but that doesn't help his case any. So they let him go, radioed ahead, and we took him into custody the second he landed. I've spent the better part of two weeks cajoling and threatening Henderson over at Extradition, but it's no go: we can't keep him. Seems we're cultivating the Atrians’ friendship, so he's got to stand trial.” “Won't you look cute, though,” said Kominsky, “standing there in fifty pounds of protective covering and having all those delightful histrionics come out so soft and tinkling through your T-pack.” “Don't remind me,” said Khalinov, wincing. “Anyway, the trial is set for three weeks from now.” “The Atrians don't waste any time, do they?” said Braque. “They seem to like their justice swift and sure,” said Kominsky with a grimace. “Indeed they do,” agreed Khalinov. “Which means that we've got a lot of work to do and not much time to do it in.” He turned to Braque. “I want you to arrange accommodations for the three of us, half a dozen reporters—not all friendly—and at least two cameramen. If they need any equipment to muffle the heat and noise of their cameras, or even the scratching of their pens, see that it's supplied. Also, if I need any special outfit to enable me to stalk around the courtroom or stamp a foot or anything like that, get me two sets of it. Then find out the political situation there and if we can offer a couple of gifts to the lord high mufti without offending anyone else. Figure out what an animated chandelier would like and get something appropriate. If possible, have us stay on Komornos; it'll probably be more comfortable for us, and we won't have to worry about accidentally shattering any more Atrians. Finally, find out what form their visual media take and hunt me up a couple of experts in it.” He dismissed Braque with a wave of his hand, then turned his attention to Kominsky. “Okay,” he said. “Fill me in.”
“It may come as a shock to you, Ivor,” said Kominsky, “but even I don't have fingertip data on every race in the galaxy.”
“Then tell me what you can about methane-breathers in general before you run off to the library, or wherever it is you run off to when you're trying to convince me you're a genius.” “In general,” began Kominsky, “about ninety percent of all methane-breathing races are crystalline. They're extremely sensitive to sound and heat, but beyond those two forces they're just about unkillable. If you could hit the average methane-breather with the force of a small grenade but without the accompanying heat, he probably wouldn't even feel it. Another interesting point is that since they are virtually indestructible, most methane beings are extremely long-lived, usually surviving thousands of years. This tends to make them pretty placid and contemplative, which is one of the reasons they haven't
