He didn’t like it.
The Altman party, including the Senator’s hostile-faced, evil-eyed son and Emerson’s mother and father—both looking very subdued (whether it was Altman’s presence, the current circumstances, or they’d always been that way and he’d never noticed it before, he couldn’t guess and didn’t want to—entered the room and sat down well toward the back, where he had to look past them as well as the little blond from Galena’s, to check on his weapon.
He liked that even less.
“Very well,” Brody announced to the room, taking his place at a corner table where he customarily held forth whether court was in session or not. “Let’s be after startin’ this proper. We’ve strangers among us who don’t know how we do things, so if nobody objects, or even if they do, I’ll be takin’ time to explain as we go along.”
He produced a battered gavel from somewhere on his person and rapped on a tabletop much scarred from such abuse. “First off, the Curringer Trust, in which all Pallatians are shareholders under provisions of the Hyperdemocratic Covenant, is all the government Pallas has or wants or needs. Its only responsibility is t’maintain the atmospheric envelope over our heads. Every manner of dispute, even those held elsewhere t’be of a criminal nature—providin’, of course, the criminal has survived the initial encounter—are settled by professional intermediaries like meself as civil procedures, where the idea of restitution, rather than punishment or ‘rehabilitation,’ is the accepted custom.”
Brody glanced around the room.
“That understood, we’re here today in the matter of Gibson Altman, Chief Administrator of the Greeley Utopian Memorial Project, an inhabitant of the asteroid Pallas within the meanin’ of the Hyperdemocratic Covenant, versus Emerson Ngu, also an inhabitant of Pallas within the meanin’ of the Covenant. It’s me duty to inform y’both that the arbiter, meanin’ meself, may be supplemented, should either party insist, by a jury of individuals fully informed as to their thousand-year-old obligation t’weigh the law itself, as well as the facts of the case.”
He paused, as if formally awaiting an answer from each of them. Emerson didn’t know what was customary or expected of him. He got along with most of the people of Curringer comfortably enough, and they seemed to like him, as well, but he didn’t believe that his fate could be in better hands than it already was.
Before he could compose an answer, the Senator arose and spoke from the back of the room. “Your Honor, I’m somewhat concerned that any jury we choose—as well as you yourself, Your Honor—will necessarily be personally acquainted with this child, who, in any case, is legally disqualified by his age to be a parry in any proceeding such as this. Naturally, I intend no offense.”
Brody smiled. “An’ none taken, considerin’ that there’s no alternative in a town this size. As t’Mr. Ngu’s age an’ qualifications, that remains t’be settled.”
Altman nodded amiably. “I’m sure we can rely on you, Your Honor, to do what’s right in this affair. It’s an open and shut matter, really, once you understand that—”
Brody raised both hands to make erasing motions with them as he shook his head. “And we’ll be after makin’ it all clear soon enough, Senator darlin’. In the meantime, I must hear from the other party, as well.” He shifted his gaze to the middle of the room and to Emerson. “How about it, Mr. Ngu, d’ye want me t’judge this case, or do ye want a jury of twelve good men an’ women tried an’ true?”
Emerson swallowed and rose. “I’d prefer that you be the judge, Mr. Brody.”
“I thank y’both very kindly for yer confidence in me. Now y’may state your case, Senator Altman. I understand that y’want this young fellow handed over t’be returned to the Ant—I mean, the Greeley Utopian Memorial Project, is that correct?”
Like most of the other people in the now-crowded room, Emerson had to strain his neck in order to turn and watch as the Senator, still standing, replied. Aware of the attention and not entirely comfortable with it, Altman cleared his throat.
“Your Honor, the truth is that I’m here primarily to represent this child’s parents, who—”
“Well get to them directly,” Brody interrupted, betraying a trace of irritation. “An’ I suggest fer best results that y’try representin’ yerself, Senator, an’ nobody else, since, one way or another, most of the people on this asteroid came here in the first place to escape a planetful of lawyers an’ their bloody handiwork. In the meantime, have I not stated what y’want correctly?”
The Senator was obviously suppressing annoyance himself. “Essentially, Your Honor.”
Brody nodded. “Now that we understand each other a little better, will y’kindly be after explainin’ why I should allow such a thing when it’s clearly against his will?”
“For two reasons, actually, Your Honor,” replied Altman, “either of which ought to be sufficient in itself, since they’re both inarguably true and speak to long and well-established precedents under the law. In the first place, this child is well under the legal age traditionally prescribed for personal autonomy.”
A low, grumbling noise arose among the onlookers. Emerson couldn’t tell whether it represented disapproval of Altman’s claims, and therefore the public support he’d expected, or whether the people around him were now reconsidering their position.
“In the second place, whatever his age, he had no right to opt out of the Greeley Utopian Memorial Project in violation of the binding and perpetual articles his parents signed on his behalf years ago under the United Nations Charter.”
Now there was no mistaking the reaction of the audience. Emerson hadn’t met an Outsider who wouldn’t have enthusiastically razed every UN building in Sri Lanka so that “not one stone was left standing on another, and salt sown on the ruins.” The words had been those of Aloysius Brody, quoting William Wilde Curringer.
“I see,” Brody replied in what Emerson knew was his most noncommittal tone. “And now will y’kindly be satisfyin’ me personal curiosity as t’why y’waited so long t’come after Emerson? It’s been a trifle more than a year, as I recollect.”
“Well, until recently, Your Honor, we didn’t know for certain where he was, and while it’s true that the number of places he could have been on this asteroid was limited, I’m an extremely busy man with no administrative staff to speak of. You see, there are over ten thousand other lives at the Project—and numerous other important tasks—for which the United Nations holds me personally responsible. Also, Emerson’s parents persuaded me to wait, hoping his experiences here would help him develop sense enough to return where he belongs on his own.”
“I do see,” Brody replied, “indeed. And how did y’happen t’find out where he was?”
Altman cleared his throat again, embarrassed color visible in his face. It was clear he’d rather have not been asked this question. “Er...from my son, Your Honor, Gibson Altman, Junior, who learned of it from a casual remark made by a girl in town he happens to have been, er...dating. That’s her over at that table, isn’t it, Junior? Gretchen Singh, I believe she calls herself.”
Gibson Junior nodded, but his eyes were on Emerson, who felt a sudden unpleasant tightness spread through his body. It wasn’t fear, of the Altman boy or of anybody else. Inexperienced and self-conscious, he’d completely failed to notice that Gretchen had been trying to resolve a personal dilemma. He wasn’t altogether aware of it, even now. All he knew was uncertainty and a bitter feeling of betrayal.
What did it mean, dating?
Were he and Gretchen dating now, too?
Ignoring the personal implications of what the Senator had said, Brody turned to the principal subject of the conversation. “And what have ye got t’say fer yerself in this, young fella? Can y’give me one good reason why I shouldn’t simply hand ye over t’this man—actin’ fer yer parents as he is an’ all?”
With difficulty, Emerson wrenched his mind back to the matter at hand. Naturally, he’d thought a great deal over the past two hours about
what he intended to say at this point. He hadn’t discussed it with Gretchen or her mother. It was his life that was up for grabs. Nor did he want to talk about what was likely to happen if he did go back—Brody knew about that, in any case. In the end, knowing what he knew about the Outsiders, he settled on the simplest truth possible.
“Yes, sir: I don’t want to go.”
Brody turned back to the Senator and sighed, his customary brogue all but inaudible as he spoke. “Chief Administrator Altman, although it may not meet the eye at first, I happen t’be a man of no small number of responsibilities, meself. One of ’em is operatin’ in a manner consistent with Mirelle Stein’s Hyperdemocratic Covenant, under the terms of which, I’m happy t’point out, the notion of a ‘legal age’ is a fallacious concept which the Pallatians wisely left behind on Earth.”
The table Brody was sitting at may have been worse for the wear, but it contained a number of surprises. The arbiter lifted a section immediately before him and punched a number of keys. Instantly the wall behind him became a communications screen displaying a body of text prominently labeled at the top. Brody gave his hidden control board a few more keystrokes and the display scrolled down to the section he was looking for, which he blocked off and highlighted.
“As y’can see, Emerson Ngu’s autonomy is fully established by the fact that he’s self-supportin’. It has nothing whatever t’do with where or when he happened t’be born.”
Outrage on his face, Altman opened his mouth to speak.
Brody stopped him with an upraised hand.
“Moreover, Senator, I vehemently deny the legal or moral power of anyone to bind their children, their heirs, their posterity, to any sort of contract, business, social, or otherwise, in perpetuity—and so does this agreement, which, unlike the benighted and downtrodden denizens of your domain, fer whom a tragic misinterpretation of the terms allowed ye t’sign collectively, each of us ‘Outsiders’ signs on his own hook as soon as he or she feels responsible enough t’do so.
“I might add, somewhat parenthetically, that I don’t believe for a minute the reasons y’had t’give me fer waitin’ so long t’come after Emerson. I suspect it’s because things are goin’ badly for ye inside the Project and you wanna arm these goons of yours with real weapons, usin’ us Outsiders as an excuse.”
He slammed the gavel on the tabletop.
“But that’s irrelevant an’ immaterial. I hereby rule meself outa order an’ warn me not t’let it happen again. In the meantime, Senator darlin’, I support the right of this individual to’ve refugeed outa your Greeley Utopian Memorial Ant Farm and t’remain on the Outside or anyplace else fer as long as he wishes.”
The gavel came down again.
“Case dismissed. Emerson wins.”
“Just a minute!” The Senator, still on his feet, somehow appeared to have just stood up. “I want you—all of you—to understand clearly the implications of what this man Brody has just done, the consequences he and his supporters may have to pay for failing to send Emerson Ngu back to his family.”
He turned a threatening expression on the entire room.
“I tried a peaceful, orderly approach to this matter. Legally I could have sent my entire force of United Nations Education and Morale counselors Outside and seized Emerson Ngu, wreaking God only knows what havoc in the process. But I gave you people an opportunity, and now I’ve been rewarded for my restraint.”
Brody shrugged. “Well, Chief Administrator, if y’should happen t’change yer mind, I cordially invite ye not just t’send yer goons, but t’come out an’ play yerself. It’s only fair t’remind ye, though, that I don’t know a soul in Curringer or anyplace on this rock excepting yer own stompin’ grounds who doesn’t own a gun an’ know how t’use it. Even young Mr. Ngu here,” he observed, “seems to’ve become a pretty fair shot, an’ I plan t’be right beside him with both hammers back and both index fingers on the triggers. I’ll also point out that UN blue’s a mighty conspicuous color against the brown-green background of Pallas.”
A low fire burned behind the Senator’s eyes as he curtly signaled his party to get up and follow him out. From their expressions Emerson couldn’t tell what his parents were thinking.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Altman replied. “Rest assured, Your Honor, that the next time I appear in Curringer, I’ll have the requisite resources to make good any claim.”
Across the room, Junior caught Emerson’s eye again, grinned maliciously, and made a throat-cutting gesture with his thumb. Then he turned and followed his father out. Emerson turned for a glance at Gretchen, only to discover that she was gone.
Unfortunately, the dramatic exit Altman had apparently intended was about to be spoiled by the fact that he and his companions would be spending another uncomfortable night in town, crowded together in the rollabout, waiting for their “solar” vehicle’s batteries to recharge for the long trip back to the Project.
Day Before Yesterday
...when Rene relaxed his grip upon her—or when she imagined he had—when he seemed distracted, when he left her in a mood which she took to be indifference or let some time go by without seeing her or replying to her letters and she assumed that he no longer cared to see her and was on the verge of ceasing to love her, then everything was choked and smothered within her. The grass turned black, day was no longer day nor night any longer night, but both merely...part of her torture...She felt as though she were a statue of ashes—bitter, useless, damned...
—Pauline Reage, Story of 0
For as long as he lived, the remainder of that afternoon and most of the next day were nothing more than a blur to him, filled with indistinguishable noises echoing as if in a tunnel and the inexpressible pain of betrayal. Even the stuffed game animals mounted on the walls around him seemed to be leering.
Before Emerson knew what was happening, people all around were on their feet and heading toward him. In other circumstances it might have been a frightening experience for the boy. Those already close were laughing, cheering, clapping him on the back. None of their congratulations meant a thing.
All he knew or felt was a loss he couldn’t quite define. For a few sweet hours he’d believed, without ever consciously realizing he believed it, that Gretchen had given herself to him. Now, suddenly, he was learning, and in the hardest way possible, the second-hardest lesson prerequisite to growing up—that no one ever truly belongs to anybody else. He’d long since learned the hardest lesson, and far less painfully, that other people were as real as he was.
As if in a nightmare, he looked around for Gretchen, every muscle in his body straining with an anguish that was more than physical, trying to see over and between the people mobbing him. She had disappeared and was nowhere to be seen. Preoccupied, he didn’t notice the way Mrs. Singh was watching him, half analytically, half in sympathy, understanding at least a part of what he was going through.
“Whatya say we get the hell outa this riot?” she shouted over the noise, directly into his ear, and seized him by one arm. “I suspect we got a lotta talking to do!”
Several members of the unruly crowd of well-wishers pushing in upon them began to protest. Almost anything constituted a good excuse for a party among this frontier community, especially at the Nimrod, and Emerson’s victory, although it had come as no surprise to any of them, was a better excuse than most. They didn’t intend to let such an opportunity slip through their fingers.
Emerson never knew why he shook his head at his well-meaning landlady and gave in to the demands of those around him. Probably he dreaded hearing from her more unpleasant truths that should have been plain to him if only he’d opened his eyes. In any case, he shook her hand off and let himself be buried in the crowd.
The last thing he remembered clearly—after that it only came in bits and pieces—was being hauled by both wrists to the table where he’d seen that little blond and the other professionals from Galena’s. Come to think of it, it was the little blond who’d done the h
auling, aided by a dark-haired girl with freckles and startlingly blue eyes. Now that the tension of the hearing had begun to dissipate, and despite his personal concerns, he was noticing more about those around him, and one thing he noticed right away was that the girls all smelled strongly of perfume, a dozen varieties competing violently with one another.
Under the circumstances, especially in a hot, crowded, smoky room and wearing a hot, uncomfortable woolen suit, it was almost enough to make him sick.
It didn’t help that they were all laughing and talking noisily and seemed to be making jokes at his expense. Although he thought they were speaking English, for some reason he couldn’t understand a fraction of what they were saying. Perhaps it wasn’t English. There appeared to be as much variety in the colors of their skin, and therefore possibly their nationalities, as in their costumes. The former occupied considerably more surface area than the latter. Only a couple of the girls were like the little blond and her blue-eyed friend. A couple more were black. Others were of various shades between the extremes. One had the same almond-shaped eyes he did and her skin was the same color as his own, but it was the little blond who seemed fascinated with him.
Maybe she thought he had some money.