E. S. P. Worm

  Yes, this was it. The Strumbermians had had their test for True Humanoidism, and the Jamborangs would now unveil their variant. Was I expected to go through the whole charade again?

  Was there a choice?

  Qubuc was waiting for me to reply. My first impulse was to ask for a lawyer, but I realized that this would hardly impress anybody with my confidence and competence.

  “Do you mean I have to stand trial too?” I asked.

  “There is no word in your language precisely analogous to the process we have in mind. ‘Trial’ does suggest part of it, however.”

  My mouth went dry. “When? How long do I have to wait before learning what you are planning for me?”

  The Swarm Tyrant untwined his tentacles. “The issue remains unresolved without prejudice until the hearing. You are under no compulsion. You may invoke it whenever you wish. A year from now, two years, ten years—”

  “Thirty years?” I hazarded.

  “If you prefer.”

  “And what do I do in the meantime—rot in jail?”

  “You will be a guest of the planet, with complete freedom of movement. Or you may choose to travel the galaxy. Since it was a Jamborangan national who precipitated your journey here, you will be entertained at our expense.”

  “For thirty years?” I still wasn’t sure what I was fencing with.

  “Jamborango can afford it.”

  “Suppose not at all? Suppose I get a ride back to Earth instead of signing up for this trial?”

  “That is your privilege, naturally. But then the issue would be held in doubt. If Earthians do not have the courage to reexamine their own standards and conduct, they cannot petition for admittance to galactic affairs.”

  Yes, it was clear enough. More subtle, more sophisticated than the Strumbermian process, but essentially the same. I was hostage for my world. If I did not cooperate, Earth could be in serious trouble. But if I did cooperate, did I have even half the chance that I had had in gravbop?

  “I protest,” I said, far less confident than I hoped I sounded. “You’re no better than the Strumbermians. If dealing with them was wrong, then so is dealing with you on this basis!”

  “You misunderstand,” Qubuc replied imperturbably. “We do not put you in any arena, even figuratively. We do not make any judgment concerning you. The charges are made by your own conscience. With the help of the Galactic Court you will decide for yourself whether you really did commit treason to your own species and betray a willful disregard for morality as you comprehend it. Your actions suggest that you gambled the welfare of your world in order to save your own life, Nancy Dilsmore’s, and my son Qumax’s.”

  “For saving your larva, I get blamed?”

  “Not by me. But the legitimacy of the method must be ascertained to your own satisfaction.”

  Nancy spoke up. “But aren’t there extenuating circumstances?”

  “If there are,” said Qubuc, “Harold Prodkins must consider them in making his judgment.”

  “Harold,” Nancy said. “I don’t like this.” She took my hand and squeezed it. “Really, I don’t think you should—”

  But I knew that she, along with everyone else, here and home on Earth, would look down on me if I were to refuse. A man who submits willingly to evil—not that I had done so!—and then declines to examine his reasons isn’t worthy of much respect. “Suppose I’m guilty,” I said. “And I—atone. Will that make a difference in the way Earth is regarded?”

  “Yes.”

  I shook my head. “If I’m tried, I probably get it in the neck. Explosively, on a galactic network. If I’m not tried, my world probably gets it.”

  “Harold, that isn’t—”

  “Shut up, Nancy.” I wasn’t sure whether I loved her or hated her. Had not been sure for some time, in fact.

  “No,” said Qubuc. “Your world will not be punished.”

  “Not directly, you mean. All that will happen is that Earth will be effectively prevented from becoming part of things, galaxywise. Earth will be like a small island surrounded by great nations—given subsistence aid if she begs prettily enough, or laughed at or ignored—but never helped or permitted to become powerful and civilized.”

  Qubuc did not answer. He did not need to.

  “How soon can I have my trial?”

  “Immediately, if you prefer.”

  “Sooner, if you please.” Nothing like calling a bluff.

  Qubuc slid a tentacle down his right chair-arm. “Sooner it will be, Harold Prodkins of Earth. Your presentation began when you entered this chamber.”

  Oops! Well, I had asked for it. The Tyrant had called my bluff. He was as sharp a politician as cousin Freddy, unsurprisingly. Of course when I specified sooner than immediately I was asking for retroactivity.

  Drapes rippled with flashes of silver. Nancy, Qumax and I were abruptly surrounded by aliens.

  “You may not be familiar with Galactic procedure,” said Qubuc. “Our courts, whose jurors are selected by lot from all the civilized populations of the Galaxy, function merely as aids to the individual conscience. There is therefore very little of what you call due process. No prosecutor, no defending attorney, no real judging, other than by yourself. No traps or deceptions or evasions, no authority other than your own. The entities you see about you are experts in psychology, integrity and ethics. They are not present in person, but only by projected image, for they reside as far away as fifty thousand light years. They are here to assist you, Harold Prodkins—to help you decide for yourself.”

  “To brainwash me, you mean!”

  “No, Harold Prodkins. Your conclusions will be freely formed and you will not be externally guided to them. The court’s assistance will be only such as you yourself direct.”

  “I’ll believe that when I experience it,” I said.

  I looked at the faces—flat faces, long faces, big faces, bug faces, smug faces, firm faces, worm faces. It was nice that they were there to help me: had they been my prosecutors I could not have stood it. “What do I do?”

  “Think over what happened without a mind-block. Let your thoughts come out openly—uncontrived, without conscious attempt to conceal or justify. Be afraid of revealing nothing. There are machines and drugs that would aid you in this process, but unless you request them, we prefer . . .”

  “This is the Galactic Court? This is really my trial?”

  From the assembled aliens there came one united, massive thought: THE GALACTIC COURT IS NOW IN SESSION. HAROLD PRODKINS, EARTH’S OFFICIAL MINISTER OF INNER-GALACTIC WORLD AFFAIRS, IS CHARGED BY HIS OWN LOGIC WITH HIGH TREASON—TO BOTH HIS SPECIES AND THE GREATER WELFARE OF THE GALAXY.

  It was the Galactic Court, all right. Now I wished I’d waited a decade or three. I fastened my eyes on the huge, fat, remotely manlike alien that seemed to be nearest. He was checking a machine that looked suspiciously like a lie-detector. “I thought no machines,” I said.

  “Machines will be used to check fluctuations in your electrical pattern,” Qubuc explained. “In this way it will be known whether you are being honest with yourself, without the intrusion of any other mind. The machines thus help preserve your privacy in these difficult deliberations—though it would be best for you to be completely open.”

  “Oh, hell,” I said. “What chance have I got?”

  “Just think through recent events—the area of your life that troubles you,” Qubuc advised. “The truth will emerge.”

  Like offal, I thought. The truth would kill me! But what else was there?

  Rapidly, not giving myself a chance to think about the manner I was destroying myself, I opened my mind to the entire assemblage and thought back to the area that troubled me: the first time I had gravbopped.

  I had been afraid of Crog. I had been confused, worried about attempting this violent sport. I had been fearful for the Strumbermian child Ogue, though obviously she meant nothing to me. But fear of being judged Non-Humanoid—that had been uppermost. Strange, for that concept di
dn’t bother me now. Why had it been so important then?

  Reluctantly I had agreed to play . . . and I had played reluctantly until Ogue taught me that I could be killed that way. Somehow I had been convinced that it would be planetary disaster for the human species to be labeled Non-True-Humanoid. Therefore what I was doing was pro-survival for my world. I had fought bitterly and hard . . . and I had won the first match.

  I still did not like what I had done to Ogue; that bothered me, of course. But at the time I had had no choice. How could I be blamed, when I had protested more than once having to fight Ogue, but been overruled?

  But then, having defeated the Strumbermian child, I had found myself recognized as a True Humanoid. I knew then that if I defeated Crog I would not only secure my own release from the Strumbermian stronghold, but would also establish Earth’s independence and respectability. It was, I’d thought, a slick way of doing things.

  I stopped thinking, feeling morally justified. The problem was not so fraught with guilt after all. True, I could have been more gentle with the child Ogue—but that was hard to do in the heat of battle. I was certain that I had exonerated myself.

  Nothing happened. There were no thoughts of approval from the aliens. No expressions on their vastly varied faces. Merely an oppressive mental silence.

  Well, what more do you want? I was feeling self-righteous and indignant.

  A character who looked like a dark blue warthog put a bilious green finger to the side of his bristly gray snout. Small eyes, murderously red, stared from the monster-mask. Why, Harold Prodkins? Are you your species’ keeper? I don’t know how I knew he was the one communicating, but I knew.

  “Of course not!” I exclaimed. And paused. It was as though I heard Cain making the same denial to God. And if I were not my species’ keeper, who had appointed me to decide Earth’s fate?

  The warthog waited, and the court with him, and Nancy and Qumax too.

  Who had appointed me to make any representations on behalf of Earth? Why was it up to me to decide the fate of humanity?

  I had an answer for that: my cousin Freddy, President of Earth, had appointed me. My mission was Official, even though Freddy had tried to coop me up in Lucifernia to make sure I wouldn’t bungle it.

  I stopped thinking, again feeling morally justified. There was no doubt my audience would see the perfect case I had established.

  Were you obligated to gravbop? thought an apple-cheeked cockatrice.

  Well, naturally! I’d had no choice. If I was not a True Humanoid, by Strumbermian definitions, Earth would be judged inferior. I would have been mind-probed, then probably killed along with Nancy and Qumax, and Earth would have been invaded. I had had to fight—to gravbop—to save the lives of those dear to me and to preserve my world.

  The court waited noncommittally. Evidently they did not feel it was over yet. What did they want?

  The lie-detector-operator thought: That is not the whole truth, Harold Prodkins. Your body is tense and afraid.

  But I had clarified everything! What trick was this?

  Silence.

  Of course there had been that cruelty to Ogue. Once I had her down, I shouldn’t have brained her again, at least not so hard. But I had been under stress, and in a violent mood; I had kicked at rats and despised bugs.

  In fact, I hadn’t thought so much of worms either. Or Earthian females. Strange. But irrelevant. I had done what I had to do.

  So why was my body so tight I could hardly breathe?

  “Harold, tell them about the interrogation,” Nancy said.

  I looked at her, blue-eyed and desirable. I knew then that I had loved her; that I still loved her even though I had lusted after the—

  Irrelevant.

  “That doesn’t concern this court,” I said.

  “Yes it does!” She opened her mind to the court: Harold Prodkins was interrogated privately by the Strumbermians aboard their raider. Something happened to him during that interview. Something I don’t understand. After that he was somehow changed.

  “Nancy, stop that!” I cried, furiously embarrassed. I tried to grab her shoulders, to shake her out of it before she destroyed my case. She executed a skillful half-twist and I had to drop to my knees to avoid being thrown into the image of a pulsing jellyfish.

  Galactic Court, make Harold Prodkins reveal what happened during the interrogation—for there, if anywhere, you find the extenuating circumstances.

  “Extenuating circumstances! You idiot blonde, I’ve already won my case!”

  “You’ve lost it,” she said simply.

  The court waited. And then I knew that I had lost. They did not buy my reasoning about the gravbop contests.

  We can force you to look at yourself, thought a black alien with blue eyes that seemed like starholes. It was a kindly offer, not a threat. But I did not want to be forced into anything.

  “I’ll help you, Harold,” Nancy said. She took my hand, held it, and looked earnestly at me. It was as though a lot of things had never been . . .

  Vividly I recalled how I had felt when the Strumbermians had come for me. I had been scared, both for myself and for the others. But more than that, I had been determined to prove myself—to myself. If Qumax could do it, why not I?

  Crog had offered me scrotch. I had glugged it, not out of camaraderie but out of need. And after I had glugged—so eager, so defiant, and yet with so much acquiescence—I had discovered the Earthians and Strumbermians were really brother species.

  Mind whirling—knowing things I had always known, yet knowing them with far more immediacy—I had followed Flu into the adjoining stateroom. To a waiting pallet, and then—

  I cut off that thought. I did not like standing naked before this entire alien court.

  Tears brimmed Nancy’s eyes. “Oh, Harold, I’m so sorry for you,” she said. “It must have been terrible!”

  I swallowed and looked past her at the blue warthog. How could I tell her that it hadn’t been terrible? I was disgusted now, but then—well, Nancy had to be aware of the nature of that experience.

  The warthog had his eyes shut. All the aliens had their optics turned off.

  “They are conferring,” said Qubuc. “The jury is out, as you might put it, though it is you and not they who constitute the jury. Soon they will return—to aid you in fathoming the truth and in deciding your sentencing.”

  I now appreciated why Nitti had wanted to die. Eyes popped open. The blue warthog thought at me:

  Harold Prodkins, there are circumstances under which even the most civilized of beings is not considered responsible for its own thoughts and actions. It is our advisory opinion that such is the present case.

  “But—” I had swung from confidence in my exoneration to a complete acceptance of guilt. Prunians!

  Let me explain, thought a purple chipmunk. All highly evolved creatures have minds consisting in part of a conscious, a subconscious and an id—or a top-mind, middle-mind and instinctive mind that holds the energies of your most primitive forebears. The Strumbermians are subcivilized because they lack the means to control this basic energy-source, the id. They lack, properly speaking, a conscience. To them, instinctive behavior is by definition rational behavior. Scrotch dulls the conscience of a normal humanoid—paralyzes it to such an extent that the id is without control. To us, a humanoid in such condition is maimed. To a Strumbermian, this is the state of the True Humanoid.

  Ouch! I thought back, reassessing. I had evaluated Nancy by Prunian standards—and found her far less blatant, and therefore wanting. I had examined the gravbop contests from a politician’s position of expedience with hardly an apology to the ethics involved. I might ordinarily have gray-bopped, but hardly with my world at stake.

  Do you understand about the Prunians? thought the jellyfish.

  I shivered. I did not want that subject explored in public detail!

  Prunians are skilled psychiatric workers, from the Strumbermian view. Other species regard them as interspecies p
rostitutes. While you were under the influence of scrotch, they suggested a view of reality that would make your id-directed urges acceptable. The Strumbermians’ purpose demanded that your thinking be changed, but not so much that their tampering would be evident to you.

  Suddenly I saw that my primary motive—the protection of my home world from invasion—had been spurious. Why should hard-pressed Strumbermians undertake such an expensive project, when what they wanted was allies? They had used that empty threat to prod me into committing Earth to their cause— and my scrotch-addled brain had not cried foul.

  “I really am innocent, then?” I asked, hardly daring to believe it. “Innocent of whatever I thought I was guilty of?”

  That is for you to decide, an alien thought gently.

  “You now have sufficient knowledge to make your decision, Harold Prodkins,” Qubuc said. “You may want to consider the matter for some time. Your hearing before this friendly witnessing and advisory body is over, since the truth has been brought out. That is the only purpose of such a session—to establish the truth. The meaning of the truth is your own concern.” The alien court faded and the silver curtains fell back.

  “That—that’s what Nitti went through?”

  “Yes.”

  “And he decided to—”

  Nancy grabbed my arm. “But not you, Harold! He didn’t have scrotch for an excuse. You’ll find yourself innocent if I have to—well, I will anyway!”

  And she kissed me once, and I know I would never suicide as long as she was near.

  Chapter 14

  “Now,” Nancy remarked as we settled down to informal chat with Qumax and his Swarm Tyrant, “I have to see about that Corcos Lamorcos contract.”

  “Nancy!” I cried, remembering what I had learned about galactic slavery. “You didn’t sign up with the Spevarian—?”

  “No, of course not,” she said, and I sank back, relieved. “We were interrupted by the Strumbermian raid on the ship. And I wanted to discuss it with you. So I’ve asked Bumvelde to come here—”