my client.
“So we have Heinrich Krantz walking down your thoroughfare with, for a reason as yet undetermined, his T-pack off. And what did he do?
“I don't know if there is an analog word, even in Galactic-O, but he sneezed. This is an involuntary action due, one might say, to a biological deficiency in our race. Had someone pointed a deadly weapon at Heinrich Krantz and told him that it would be fired if he made a sound, no matter how great his fear and his desire to live, he could nonetheless not have kept from sneezing at that instant in time. It was an action which was not unique to my client, but one which has been bred into him for untold thousands of generations. I have with me scientific testimony to the effect that sneezing is common not only to Man, but to more than eighty percent of all oxygen-breathing races.” He walked to his table, withdrew a file of papers from a folder, and placed them before the judge. “Your honor,” he concluded, “I will now restate my client's plea. According to Atrian law he must plead guilty, for he was indeed the agent whereby fifty-seven of your citizens died. However, based on the arguments I have offered, and the hypotheses you yourself have agreed to, I strongly request—no, I
that has a lifespan as long as yours can be totally devoid of mercy and compassion. If you cannot find my client innocent, then surely you can agree that he should not be made to pay so high a penalty for an involuntary action that he was and still is physically incapable of avoiding. “On Deluros VIII, as on most of the worlds in the galaxy peopled by Man and non-Man alike, our penal codes allow for degrees of leniency based on degrees of guilt. If your honor could bring himself to delay passing sentence until such time as you can look through our codes—and I will be happy to supply numerous experts, at my own expense, to discuss them with you—I feel that both my client and the cause of Atrian justice will be better served. “I thank you for your patience and tolerance, and hope that in your wisdom you can come to a decision that will be fair both to my client and to the memory of those deceased Atrians, who, though victimized, were no more innocent than was Heinrich Krantz.” Khalinov sat down, sweating profusely. He wished he could see an expression on the Atrian's face, wished he could get an inkling of what the delicate, blue-white, crystalline being was thinking, but there
was no way to tell. He'd just have to sit and wait.
The Atrian judge remained motionless and silent for the better part of an hour. Then, at last, he looked up, and a hush fell over the court as both human and nonhuman waited to hear his verdict. “Man Khalinov,” said the Atrian, “you have caused me to think deeply and seriously over all you have said. It is my regretful conclusion that Man Krantz must be found guilty. He is hereby sentenced to die by heat tomorrow.”
“But your honor!” cried Khalinov, leaping to his feet again. “Allow me to continue,” said the judge. “The court appreciates your arguments, and will go so far as to admit to their validity in certain cases, including the case of Man Krantz.” “Then why not give him a lesser sentence?” “Man Krantz's life span is, in your terms, between ninety and one hundred and ten years. Is that not correct?”
“Yes.”
“The expected life span of an Atrian is approximately thirty-four hundred years. While I will admit that a sentence of perhaps fifty years, or possibly even less, would be appropriate from the point of view of the defendant, you must consider that this would be a worse insult to the families of the deceased and the general populace of Atria XVI, than would be a verdict of innocent. You are fond of hypotheses, so allow me to pose one of my own: What would your reaction be if an entity convicted of slaying fifty-seven Men on the planet Deluros VIII were to be given a prison sentence of two months?” Khalinov closed his eyes. There was no argument to be made. “Thank you, your honor,” he said, and turned to leave.
“Man Khalinov,” said the judge. The barrister stopped. “This does not mean that your logic and efforts have been for naught. If you have time prior to your return flight to Deluros VIII, please accept my invitation to join me in my chambers, and bring along some of your legal books. I would very much like to exchange ideas with you.”
“I'd consider it a rare privilege, your honor,” said Khalinov, wondering if he had won or lost. “Is there any particular subject you'd like to cover?” “I think we shall begin,” said the Atrian, “with involuntary manslaughter.” And then he knew: Krantz had lost.
But Man, just possibly, had won.
9: THE MEDICS
...So while it took Man countless eons to develop his medical science to the point where almost all human diseases could be diagnosed and treated with some degree of certainty that a cure would be effected, he was forced to cover the same ground a thousand times over in an infinitesimal portion of the time when contact with other races was made. And, as if this weren't enough of a problem for those
medics who boldly strode toward these new and incredibly varied horizons, there was always in the
background Man's precarious position in the political schemata of the galaxy... —
“I'm not paying you enough for you to turn prima donna on me,” said Hammett harshly. “Keep making tests until you find out what's affecting him.” “First,” said Darlinski, “you've got to prove to me that it's a him. Second, you're not paying me enough to do very damned much of anything. And third—” “Cure him and you've got a raise,” said Hammett quickly, with more than a touch of irritation. “I don't want a goddamned bloody raise!” yelled Darlinski. “I want a healthy specimen of whatever this is so I can see what the hell the difference is!” “He's all we've got.”
“Didn't it have any friends or subordinates?” demanded Darlinski. “For the twelfth time, no,” said Hammett. “Then, for the thirteenth time, what in blue blazes is a planetary ambassador doing without even a single subordinate around?”
“I keep telling you, I don't know. All I know is he screamed once, collapsed, and couldn't be immediately revived, so they brought him here.” “Of course they couldn't revive it. Hell, if they slapped its face they might have broken every bone in what seems to pass for its head. And for all I know, it'd melt if anyone threw cold water on it.” A light on an intercom unit flashed, and Darlinski pressed a button. “Pathology here, boss,” said a laconic voice. “Got anything for us to work on yet?” Darlinski uttered a few choice but unprintable words into the speaker. “Don't get sore, boss. All you got to do is figure out what makes it tick.” “I know,” snarled Darlinski. “The fat bastard that runs this shop just promised me a raise if I get it right.” “Boy, am I impressed,” said the voice. “The fat bastard that runs the planet just promised us a war if you get it wrong. Have fun.”
“What are you talking about?” demanded Hammett, walking over to the intercom. “Haven't you seen a newstape?” said the voice from Pathology. “Hell, you've had the damned thing up
there for six hours.”
“Just tell me what's going on,” said Hammett. “Seems this joker's buddies back on Pnath are claiming we've either kidnapped or killed it. I gather it was here on a peacemaking mission—a very private little war the powers-that-be didn't see fit to tell us about—and evidently they think we're doing them dirt. According to the media, a tiny skirmish is about to become a full-fledged war unless we can convince the Pnathians, or Pnaths, or whatever they call themselves, that we're acting in good faith.” “Have any of those geniuses down at Central thought to ask for a Pnathian medic?” asked Darlinski. “Yep. But the Pnathians think we've killed or brainwashed this one and they won't send any others until it's returned whole and healthy.”
“Beautiful,” said Darlinski. “What if the damned thing dies on me?” “Well,” chuckled the pathologist, “I guess the Navy can always use another bedpan scrubber. Ta-ta.” The intercom switched off.
Hammett waited until Darlinski's stream of curses had left him momentarily breathless, then walked over to the Pnathian ambassador.
“I didn't realize it was going to turn into this kind of incident,” he said. “Let's get back to work.” “What do you mean, ‘Let's?'” snapped Darlinski. “You wouldn't know a tumor from a wart. Go on back to your goddamned office and worry about how to pay for next week's heating bill.” He turned back to the patient, and Hammett, shrugging, left and closed the door very carefully behind him.
Darlinski took a deep breath, sighed, and looked at the notes he had scribbled down during the past few hours. They weren't much. The Pnathian breathed an oxygen-nitrogen compound, but
