“Anyway,” said Angus, “all I’m trying to tell you is that the mass of the moon didn’t change, so far as gravitic influence is concerned. In that coldness, the resulting gas has kind of gone liquid and the moon is a sort of bubble with a much bigger diameter. I think you could fly through it.”
“Great,” said Jonnie. “Don’t.”
Angus finished up his noodles. “I just thought you’d like to know that destroying that moon won’t upset our coordinate tables. A shift of mass could throw every coordinate out eventually.”
“Ah,” said Jonnie. “You do have a point! That was clever of you.”
Angus thought so, too.
But news from other areas was not so encouraging. It was not that anything bad was adding up. It was just the nonexistence of news so far as the fate of Chrissie and the people in Scotland was concerned, and the fate of his people in the Russian base.
They had found the chief of Clanfearghus outside, very close to death, and after emergency transfusions had rushed him up to the old underground hospital in Aberdeen. There was not much hope.
They had drilled holes through rubble that blocked the tunnels and they hoped they had gotten air hoses into the shelters. There were rumors they had heard voices, but there had been no mine radios in those shelter areas to begin with, and you couldn’t tell much while trying to shout down an air hose, pumps running and all.
The city was just towers of smoke, as was Castle Rock.
They were having a terrible time trying to open the approach tunnels, working around the clock.
The Russian base news was not much better. They had put the surface coal fires out, but the mine was burning underground, and they did not know whether it was reaching the actual levels of the base. The huge doors were so warped they could not be opened even with burning torches, and they were now driving in a brand-new entrance to bypass them, a drift through solid rock, working over ground that was still burning under them down deep. The ventilator shafts were too tortuous and too barred with armor and filter to be of any use.
To add to the tension in Kariba, the original small gray man, Dries Gloton, had vanished. The one antiaircraft gunner on duty said that the man had simply come out about dawn, ordered a new set of signal lights and radio beacon signals near where his ship was parked, and sailed off, wham, into the sky, and they couldn’t even track where he had gone to. The lights were out there now, two reds flashing, and the radio beacon was telling all ships to stay clear from a conference area.
Lord Voraz, when asked, had shrugged and said it probably came under the heading of prerogatives of a branch manager and was probably bank business, and he had gone on eating the perpetual bites-between-meals the cook served him up. He was no help.
But what gave Jonnie a shock in those two days was the sudden arrival of Captain Rogodeter Snowl.
The conference had called him in as a witness, and they didn’t tell Jonnie and didn’t tell the antiaircraft gunner.
The first Jonnie knew of it was the antiaircraft gun going off.
Lord Dom came rolling into operations like a liquid jelly fish, roaring and rumbling to cease fire!
Jonnie got the gunner to quit. Fortunately, it had been at very extreme range and Angus had not been using the rig. But Rogodeter Snowl, omitting to ask permission to land a small launchcraft, almost got himself shot down.
“He’s been called as a witness!” shouted Lord Dom. “Don’t you know there’s a trial going on?”
Trial or no trial, Jonnie stuck a Smith and Wesson with thermit bullets in his belt and plugs in his ears and went out to personally con the launchcraft down with a hand radio, and make sure the Tolnep remained blind to their defenselessness.
Suppressing an urge to shoot Rogodeter on sight, he limited himself to confiscating his vision filter, making sure the Tolnep had no spare, and personally escorting him to the conference room. He left the Tolnep there, but told them that when they were through with him, they better call ops to escort him out because Rogodeter was going to be stone blind all the time he was around Kariba.
About five hours later they did call him again and he collected Rogodeter and guided him out to the launchcraft. But before he gave him back the filter faceplate, he had Chief Chong-won smear the inside of the launchcraft dome with black water ink. Whether Rogodeter complained or not that he would have to wipe holes in it somehow to find his orbiting ship was unknown to Jonnie: he still had his earplugs in.
Jonnie gave Rogodeter back the filter for his eyes, and from the look of his mouth, the Tolnep, staring at him, said “You!”
So Jonnie said, “Me. And just as a personal goodbye, the next time I see you on this planet’s surface, you won’t like it at all. So get the hell out of here!” And slammed the canopy down on him.
When the launchcraft was gone, Jonnie took the earplugs out and found that the single antiaircraft gunner had been begging him for ten minutes for permission to “accidentally” shoot the ship down. Jonnie sympathized with him. He felt the same way himself.
And still not a whisper from Stormalong. And not a bit of sense from Luxembourg.
No word of Chrissie. No word of his village people. No word of his friends.
It was a horrible two days.
Inaction, he was finding, was a far, far heavier load than the whirlwind existence to which he was accustomed. He was nearing a breaking point of apprehension for the people and planet he had fought so long to save.
At eight that night, it didn’t make things any better to be stopped by Lord Voraz who offered him a job at fifty thousand credits a year to come to the Gredides System and make teleportation consoles for the bank for the rest of his life. Jonnie had to walk away quickly to keep from becoming violent.
A very horrible two days!
2
Things began to change the following day.
Jonnie had spent the night in ops and was sprawled over a table when Lord Dom came in to wake him.
“In two hours,” said Lord Dom, “the trial findings will be read and voted upon.”
“I’m not a member of the government,” said Jonnie.
“We know that,” said Lord Dom. “But you are personally concerned and should be present. Reparations will also be announced. So be there!”
Ah, reparations. A sudden surge of hope. Would they be enough to cover this debt to the Galactic Bank? Or at least enough to make arrangements or first payments or something?
Tinny had had as good a night’s sleep as one could get in a chair, there was very little traffic, and so Jonnie asked Chong-won to stand in for him and went to get dressed.
Mr. Tsung was wearing a little round black-satin pillbox cap with a blue button on the top of it and had not ceased grinning since he had recovered his rank. He bowed and got a bath wheeled in on a mine cart and generally worked to get Jonnie dressed and fed.
Then Mr. Tsung picked up a little thin box on a silk neck cord and put it on and whispered at it, and Jonnie was startled to hear English coming out of it in a flat, electronic monotone.
In response to Jonnie’s raised eyebrows, using the box, Mr. Tsung explained it was a gift from the small gray man, Dries Gloton, before he had left on a trip. A gift for starting a bank account! It seemed that Mr. Tsung’s daughter was painting tigers and birds on big sheets of handmade rice paper and selling them to the emissaries for fifty credits apiece; the lords said they were “primitives” and collector’s items. And his son-in-law had been making pictures of dragons on round metal plates with a molecular sprayer and selling those to the lords for a hundred credits each, and like a good father, even though he despised merchants and the merchant class, he was taking care of their money for them.
Mr. Tsung explained that His Excellency had found the language “court Mandarin Chinese” in his library on the ship and had done the necessary microcopy of it and—you see this little switch here? That’s Mandarin to English in the up position, Mandarin to Psychlo in the middle position, and English to Psychlo
in the down position. And didn’t it sound funny when it turned English into Chinese tones?
But that was not all: it was a vocoreader. See this little light on the end? You passed that over Mandarin characters and it read them aloud in English or Psychlo. And it also read Psychlo and English in Mandarin. So now he couldn’t be fooled or led into mistakes by wrongly worded speeches.
It ran on body heat so it didn’t need any batteries and now he could talk straight to Jonnie! Of course, he’d still learn the languages himself, for he didn’t want to sound so monotone. But wasn’t Dries Gloton a nice man!
He was glad Mr. Tsung could now talk to him without a coordinator, but all the same, it made Jonnie feel surrounded by the Galactic Bank.
Mr. Tsung put it to work right away. “I am told you are going in to hear the sentence and that it somehow includes you. Now since you don’t know whether you are going to be found guilty or not, you just sit respectfully and listen, and if they ask you anything, you just bow—you don’t answer. Just bow. That is how you open the way to demand a new trial.”
It was good advice, but it did not do much to calm Jonnie’s nerves.
Chief Chong-won said the radio was quiet. No, no news of Stormalong, nor Edinburgh nor Russia.
The lords were all assembled. They had rearranged the room. They had a high desk on the platform and Lord Fowljopan was sitting at it. The lords themselves were in orderly rows facing it. Down the side of the room was a line of chairs. Schleim was lying on a mine cart, totally wrapped up in hoist chains, with only his face showing above the links. They had him between the desk and the audience.
Lord Dom indicated that Jonnie should sit on one of the side chairs where Lord Voraz was sitting. It was obvious to Jonnie that they didn’t consider him part of their deliberations. The lords didn’t even look at him. But at least he wasn’t there alongside that mine cart with Schleim!
“They have already discussed all this,” whispered Lord Voraz to Jonnie. “But they have to review and vote on each finding. It’s really more of a treaty than a trial. I’m surprised the Earth emissary isn’t here. But they can proceed without him right up to the signing.”
Lord Fowljopan signaled Lord Browl to call the session to order, which he did.
“We have already agreed upon and committed to treaty form,” said Fowljopan, “the redefinition of the word ‘pirate.’ I wish to call to your attention, however, that the redefinition can have no bearing on the present findings for it was passed upon after the incident under trial. Is that correct, my lords?”
They signified that it was.
“Therefore,” said Fowljopan, “we are basing this trial on existing findings and clauses. Testimony of Captain Rogodeter Snowl has been heard and duly entered in the record to the effect that he was ordered to disregard the sanctity of the conference area by the Tolnep then-emissary Schleim. I believe it is the desire of this conference to accept the testimony and evidences of the said Snowl, particularly in the light of the fact that he considered he was bound to protect the Tolnep emissary. This absolves Snowl. Do you so vote?”
The lords so voted.
“Therefore,” said Fowljopan, “it is considered established by this conference that the said Tolnep emissary, by name Lord Schleim, did willfully and maliciously order the military forces of Tolnep to attack the conference area. Do you so find?”
They voted unanimously that they so found and Schleim in his chains hissed and spat.
“It was further witnessed and established,” continued Fowljopan, “that the said Tolnep emissary did seek to paralyze, shoot, and otherwise injure other emissaries engaged in their lawful and time-honored duties, contrary to specific clauses numbered here but too numerous to read. Is that your finding?”
They definitely so found and Schleim hissed and spat some more.
“Therefore,” said Fowljopan, “it is adjudicated by this conference, lawfully assembled, by the power of treaty hereby made among planets, that Tolnep shall hereinafter, for a space of one hundred years, be regarded as an outlaw nation! Do you so vote?”
They so voted and with deep scowls of determination.
“All treaties with the planet and nation of Tolnep are canceled herewith,” said Fowljopan. “Do you so vote?”
They so voted.
“All embassies and legations and consulates of the Tolnep planet and nation shall be closed and their diplomats expelled, and for the space of the next hundred years, diplomatic functions in minor matters shall be undertaken by the Hawvins’ embassies, legations and consulates at usual charges. Do you concur?”
They concurred.
“Since the personal safety of the said Schleim was promised by this conference and since it guaranteed to return the said Schleim unharmed to his planet, it is the decision of this conference that the said Schleim be deposited naked and in chains in the public slave market of the city of Creeth, Tolnep, as an expression of disfavor of this conference. Is this your wish?”
It was their wish. Schleim hissed and spat. Jonnie wondered when they were going to get around to “reparations.” It was a thin hope, but it was a hope.
Fowljopan was continuing. “Since Tolnep had the majority of war vessels and since its officer was, according to the testimony of Schleim himself earlier in this conference, the senior and commanding officer of the combined force, it is the finding of this conference that the non-Tolnep nations, which complemented the combined force, are nationally absolved of the offense. But that, as the presence of their forces poses a continued threat in the skies above this conference, this absolution is dependent on the following conditions: (a) that they ensure that the Tolnep fleet deposits any and all prisoners taken unharmed, undamaged, at a spot to be designated by the Earth military commander; (b) that they themselves deposit any prisoners they may have taken, unharmed, undamaged, at the same or similar place; (c) that they then escort, with the use of any military persuasion necessary, the Tolnep fleet back to Tolnep; (d) that they direct the Tolnep fleet to land on the surface of Tolnep, it being known to the conference that the Tolnep fleet cannot, thereafter, take off again, and (e) that they then return to their respective homelands. The forces mandated by this clause are those of the Bolbods, Hawvins, Hockners, Jambitchows and Drawkins, and any and all forces retained by them and any and all forces of any other planet or nation from outside this system. Is it so decreed?”
There was some discussion as to whether the emissaries representing these forces should vote or abstain.
“I suppose,” whispered Voraz, “you can designate a deposit place for the prisoners in the absence of other authority.”
“Yes,” Jonnie whispered back, “but they don’t say what we do with any prisoners we may have of theirs.”
“This isn’t a peace treaty,” whispered Lord Voraz. “This relates to offenses against this conference. I . . . uh . . . put in a word about Earth prisoners. They’re planetary assets, you see. Prisoners you have from the fleet up there would only be mentioned if this were a peace treaty. And I doubt they’d take them back due to possible contamination—you might want to get even through biological warfare. You’re covered since they included ‘unharmed’ and ‘undamaged’ in the clause.”
Assets, thought Jonnie. You’re just concerned about the value of the property you’re trying to repossess. But he didn’t say it. He was glad they’d get any Earth prisoners back.
They had finally decided the emissaries of other combatants had better vote, for it would look better on the record. The conference was then unanimous.
“By conference law,” Fowljopan then said, “mention must be made of personal violence used against a then-emissary, Lord Schleim.”
Lord Voraz touched Jonnie’s knee. “This is you.”
“One designated as Jonnie Goodboy Tyler was seen to throw a cane or scepter at the said Lord Schleim, striking him. It is the wish of this conference to exonerate the said Tyler. Do you so vote?”
They voted to do so and Schleim real
ly spat.
“Now comes the nice part,” whispered Lord Voraz.
“In accordance,” said Fowljopan, “with Clause 103, which covers services in protecting and saving the lives of conference members, for predetermining the intentions of the said Schleim and for disarming him so that his attack was to no avail, one designated as Jonnie Goodboy Tyler is hereby vested with the Order of the Crimson Sash. Is this the wish of the conference?”
There was a spatter of applause, a buzz of comment.
Lord Voraz whispered, “The Empress Beaz of the Chatovarians created that order 83,268 years ago when an attendant saved the life of her lover at a conference. Someone tried to assassinate him and the attendant prevented it, but got a superficial knife slash in the process. Hence ‘Crimson Sash.’” He whisked from his pocket a little book which expanded and he looked up something. “It entitles you to be addressed as ‘Lord’ and it carries with it a pension of two thousand credits a year. We manage the trust fund for it. I must make a note.”
They were still applauding a bit and Lord Browl indicated Jonnie should stand up and bow. Jonnie thought sourly he’d put the sash on Windsplitter. He didn’t want their honors. He sat down. They sure were taking a long time to get around to reparations. Ah, here they were!
Fowljopan was unreeling a long roll of paper with figures on it. “It has also been found that the dignities of the emissaries and their planets have been offended by the unseemly attack or attempted attack upon them by the said Schleim. A fine and reparation in the sum of one trillion Galactic credits is hereby levied upon the planet Tolnep by the conference.”
Fowljopan rattled through the papers. “The emissaries who had ships in the skies at the time of this incident are not to be included as recipients in this indemnity because of a witting or unwitting taint of conspiracy. The sum, as already discussed in previous deliberations, shall be allocated to emissaries in accordance with populations they represent.” He rattled off a lot of figures. “Does the conference so agree?”