A Planet for Texans (aka Lone Star Planet) Page 5

  “The general nature of the case,” the judge was saying, “is that the defendant, Wilbur Whately, of Sam Houston Continent, is here charged with divers offenses arising from the death of the Honorable S. Austin Maverick, whom he killed on the front steps of the Legislative Assembly Building, here in New Austin . .

  What goes on here? I thought angrily. This is the rankest instance of a pre-judged case I’ve ever seen. I started to say as much to Gail, but she hushed me.

  “I want to hear the specifications,” she said.

  A man at the prosecution table had risen.

  “Please the court," he began, “the defendant, Wilbur Whately, is here charged with political irresponsibility and excessive atrocity in exercising his constitutional right of criticism of a practicing politician.

  “The specifications are, as follows: That, on the afternoon of May Seventh, Anno Domini 2193, the defendant here present did arm himself with a machete, said machete not being one of his normal and accustomed weapons, and did loiter in wait on the front steps of the Legislative Assembly Building in the city of New Austin, Continent of Sam Houston, and did approach the decedent, addressing him in abusive, obscene, and indecent language, and did set upon and attack him with the machete aforesaid, causing the said decedent, S. Austin Maverick, to die.”

  The court wanted to know how the defendant would plead. Somebody, without bothering to rise, said, “Not guilty, Your Honor,” from the defense table.

  There was a brief scraping of chairs; four of five men from the defense and the prosecution tables got up and advanced to confer in front of the bench, comparing sheets of paper. The man who had read the charges, obviously the chief prosecutor, made himself the spokesman.

  “Your Honor, defense and prosecution wish to enter the following stipulations: That the decedent was a practicing politician within the meaning of the Constitution, that he met his death in the manner stated in the coroner’s report, and that he was killed by the defendant, Wilbur Whately.”

  “Is that agreeable to you, Mr. Vincent?” the judge wanted to know.

  The defense answered affirmatively. I sat back, gaping like a fool. Why, that was practically—no, it was—a confession.

  “All right, gentlemen,” the judge said. “Now we have all that out of the way, let’s get on with the case.”

  As though there were any case to get on withl I fully expected them to take it on from there in song, words by Gilbert and music by Sullivan.

  “Well, Your Honor, we have a number of character witnesses,” the prosecution—prosecution, for God’s sakel—announced.

  “Skip them,” the defense said. “We stipulate.”

  “But you can’t stipulate character testimony,” the prosecution argued. “You don’t know what our witnesses are going to testify to.”

  “Sure we do: they’re going to give us a big long shaggy- dog story about the Life and Miracles of Saint Austin Maverick. We’ll agree in advance to all that; this case is concerned only with his record as a politician. And as he spent the last fifteen years in the Senate, that’s all a matter of public record. I assume that the prosecution is going to introduce all that, too?”

  “Well, naturally . . .” the prosecutor began.

  “Including his public acts on the last day of his life?” the counsel for the defense demanded. “His actions on the morning of May seventh as chairman of the Finance and Revenue Committee? You going to introduce that as evidence for the prosecution?”

  "Well, now . . .” the prosecutor began.

  ‘Tour Honor, we ask to have a certified copy of the proceedings of the Senate Finance and Revenue Committee for the morning of May Seventh, 2193, read into the record of this court,” the counsel for the defense said. “And thereafter, we rest our case.”

  “Has the prosecution anything to say before we close the court?” Judge Nelson inquired.

  “Well, Your Honor, this seems . . . that is, we ought to hear both sides of it. My old friend, Aus Maverick, was really a fine man; he did a lot of good for the people of his continent . .

  “Yeah, we’d of lynched him, when he got back, if somebody hadn’t chopped him up here in New Austin!” a voice from the rear of the courtroom broke in.

  The prosecution hemmed and hawed for a moment, and then announced, in a hasty mumble, that it rested.

  “I will now close the court,” Judge Nelson said. “I advise everybody to keep your seats. I don’t think it’s going to be closed very long.”

  And then, he actually closed the court; pressing a button on the bench, he raised a high black screen in front of him and his colleagues. It stayed up for some sixty seconds, and then dropped again.

  “The Court of Political Justice has reached a verdict,” he announced. “Wilbur Whately, and your attorney, approach and hear the verdict.”

  The defense lawyer motioned a young man who had been sitting beside him to rise. In the silence that had fallen, I could hear the defendant’s boots squeaking as he went forward to hear his fate. The judge picked up a belt and a pair of pistols that had been lying in front of him.

  “Wilbur Whately,” he began, “this court is proud to announce that you have been unanimously acquitted of the charge of political irresponsibility, and of unjustified and excessive atrocity.

  “There was one dissenting vote on acquitting you of the charge of political irresponsibility; one of the associate judges felt that the late unmitigated scoundrel, Austin Maverick, ought to have been skinned alive, an inch at a time. You are, however, acquitted of that charge, too.

  "You all know,” he continued, addressing the entire assemblage, “the reason for which this young hero cut down that monster of political iniquity, S. Austin Maverick. On the very morning of his justly-merited death, Austin Maverick, using the powers of his political influence, rammed through the Finance and Revenue Committee a bill entitled ‘An Act for the Taxing of Personal Incomes, and for the Levying of a Withholding Tax.’ Fellow citizens, words fail me to express my horror of this diabolic proposition, this proposed instrument of tyrannical extortion, borrowed from the Dark Ages of the Twentieth Century! Why, if this young nobleman had not taken his blade in hand, I’d have killed the sonofabitch, myself!”

  He leaned forward, extending the belt and holsters to the defendant.

  “I therefore restore to you your weapons, taken from you when, in compliance with the law, you were formally arrested. Buckle them on, and, assuming your weapons again, go forth from this court a free man, Wilbur Whately. And take with you that machete with which you vindicated the liberties and rights of all New Texans. Bear it reverently to your home, hang it among your lares and penates, cherish it, and dying, mention it within your will, bequeathing it as a rich legacy unto your issue! Court adjourned; next session 0900 tomorrow. For Chrissake, let’s get out of here before the barbecue’s over!”

  Some of the spectators, drooling for barbecued supercow, began crowding and jostling toward the exists; more of them were pushing to the front of the courtroom, cheering and waving their hip-flasks. The prosecution and about half of the friends of the court hastily left by a side door, probably to issue statements disassociating themselves from the deceased Maverick.

  “So that’s the court that’s going to try the men who killed Ambassador Cumshaw,” I commented, as Gail and I went out. “Why, the purpose of that court seems to be to acquit murderers."

  “Murderers?” She was indignant. “That wasn’t murder. He just killed a politician. All the court could do was determine whether or not the politician needed it, and while I never heard about Maverick’s income-tax proposition, I can’t see how they could have brought in any other kind of a verdict. Of all the outrageous things!”

  I was thoughtfully silent as we went out into the plaza, which was still a riot of noise and polychromatic costumes. And my thoughts were as weltered as the scene before me.

  Apparently, on New Texas, killing a politician wasn’t regarded as mallum in se, and was mallum prohibitorum o
nly to the extent that what happened to the politician was in excess of what he deserved. I began to understand why Palme was such a scared rabbit, why Hutchinson had that hunted look and kept his hands always within inches of his pistols.

  I began to feel more pity than contempt for Thrombley, too. He’s been on this planet too long and he should never have been sent here in the first place. I’ll rotate him home as soon as possible. . . .

  Then the full meaning of what I had seen finally got through to me: if they were going to try the killers of Cum- shaw in that court, that meant that on New Texas, foreign diplomats were regarded as practicing politicians.

  That made me a practicing politician too!

  And that’s why, when we got back to the vicinity of the bandstand, I had my right hand close to my pistol, with my thumb on the inconspicuous little spot of silver inlay that operated the secret holster mechanism.

  I saw Hutchinson and Palme and Thrombley ahead. With them was a newcomer, a portly, ruddy-faced gentleman with a white mustache and goatee, dressed in a white suit. Gail broke away from me and ran toward him. This, I thought, would be her father; now I would be introduced and find out just what her last name was. I followed, more slowly, and saw a waiter, with a wheeled serving-table, move in behind the group which she had joined.

  So I saw what none of them did—the waiter suddenly reversed his long carving-knife and poised himself for a blow at President Hutchinson’s back. I simply pressed the little silver stud on my belt, the Krupp-Tatta popped obediently out of the holster into my open hand. I thumbed off the safety and swung up; when my sights closed on the rising hand that held the knife, I fired.

  Hoddy Ringo, who had been holding a sandwich with one hand and a drink with the other, dropped both and jumped on the man whose hand I had smashed. A couple of Rangers closed in and grabbed him, also. The group around President Hutchinson had all turned and were staring from me to the man I had shot, and from him to the knife with the broken handle, lying on the ground.

  Hutchinson spoke first. “Well, Mr. Ambassador! My Government thanks your Government! That was nice shooting!” “Hey, you been holdin’ out on me!” Hoddy accused. “I never knew you was that kinda gunfighter!”

  “There’s a new wrinkle,” the man with the white goatee said. “We’ll have to screen the help at these affairs a little more closely.” He turned to me. “Mr. Ambassador, New Texas owes you a great deal for saving the President’s life. If you’ll get that pistol out of your hand, I’d be proud to shake it, sir.”

  I holstered my automatic, and took his hand. Gail was saying, “Stephen, this is my father,” and at the same time, Palme, the Secretary of State, was doing it more formally: “Ambassador Silk, may I present one of our leading citizens and large ranchers, Colonel Andrew Jackson Hickock.” Dumbarton Oaks had taught me how to maintain the proper diplomat’s unchanging expression; drinking super- bourbon had been a post-graduate course. I needed that training as I finally learned Gail’s last name.

  CHAPTER VI

  It was early evening before we finally managed to get away from the barbecue. Thrombley had called the Embassy and told them not to wait dinner for us, so the staff had finished eating and were relaxing in the patio when our car came in through the street gate. Stonehenge and another man came over to meet us as we got out—a man I hadn’t met before.

  He was a little fellow, half-Latin, half-Oriental; in New Texas costume and wearing a pair of pistols like mine, in State Department Special Services holsters. He didn’t look like a Dumbarton Oaks product: I thought he was more likely an alumnus of some private detective agency.

  “Mr. Francisco Parros, our Intelligence man,” Stonehenge introduced him.

  “Sorry I wasn’t here when you arrived, Mr. Silk,” Parros said. “Out checking on some things. But I saw that bit of shooting, on the telecast screen in a bar over town. You know, there was a camera right over the bandstand that caught the whole thing—you and Miss Hickock coming toward the President and his party, Miss Hickock running forward to her father, the waiter going up behind Hutchinson with the knife, and then that beautiful draw and snap shot. They ran it again a couple of times on the half-hourly newscast. Everybody in New Austin, maybe on New Texas, is talking about it, now.”

  “Yes, indeed, sir,” Gomez, the Embassy Secretary, said, joining us. “You’ve made yourself more popular in the eight hours since you landed than poor Mr. Cumshaw had been able to do in the ten years he spent here. But, I’m afraid, sir, you’ve given me a good deal of work, answering your fan-mail.”

  We went over and sat down at one of the big tables under the arches at the side of the patio.

  "Well, that’s all to the good,” I said. "I’m going to need a lot of local good will, in the next few weeks. No thanks, Mr. Parros,” I added, as the Intelligence man picked up a bottle and made to pour for me. “I’ve been practically swimming in superbourbon all afternoon. A little black coffee, if you don’t mind. And now, gentlemen, if you’ll all be seated, we’ll see what has to be done.”

  “A council of war, in effect, Mr. Ambassador?” Stonehenge inquired.

  “Let’s call it a council to estimate the situation. But I’ll have to find out from you first exactly what the situation here is.”

  Thrombley stirred uneasily. “But sir, I confess that I don’t understand. Your briefing on Luna . . .”

  “Was practically nonexistent. I had a total of six hours to get aboard ship, from the moment I was notified that I had been appointed to this Embassy.”

  “Incredible!” Thrombley murmured.

  I wondered what he’d say if I told him that I thought it was deliberate.

  “Naturally, I spent some time on the ship reading up on this planet, but I know practically nothing about what’s been going on here in, say, the last year. And all I know about the death of Mr. Cumshaw is that he is said to have been killed by three brothers named Bonney.”

  “So you’ll want just about everything, Mr. Silk,” Thrombley said. “Really, I don’t know where to begin.”

  "Start with why and how Mr. Cumshaw was killed. The rest, I believe, will key into that.”

  So they began; Thrombley, Stonehenge and Parros doing the talking. It came to this:

  Ever since we had first established an Embassy on New Texas, the goal of our diplomacy on this planet had been to secure it into the Solar League. And it was a goal which seemed very little closer to realization now than it had been twenty-three years before.

  “You must know, by now, what politics on this planet are like, Mr. Silk,” Thrombley said.

  “I have an idea. One Ambassador gone native, another gone crazy, the third killed himself, the fourth murdered.”

  “Yes, indeed. I’ve been here fifteen years, myself . . .”

  “That’s entirely too long for anybody to be stationed in this place,” I told him. “If I’m not murdered, myself, in the next couple of weeks, I’m going to see that you and any other member of this staff who’s been here over ten years are rotated home for a tour of duty at Department Headquarters.”

  “Oh, would you, Mr. Silk? I would be so happy . .

  Thrombley wasn’t much in the way of an ally, but at least he had a sound, selfish motive for helping me stay alive. I assured him I would get him sent back to Luna, and then went on with the discussion.

  Up until six months ago, Silas Cumshaw had modeled himself after the typical New Texas politician. He had always worn at least two faces, and had always managed to place himself on every side of every issue at once. Nothing he ever said could possibly be construed as controversial. Naturally, the cause of New Texan annexation to the Solar League had made no progress whatever.

  Then, one evening, at a banquet, he had executed a complete 180-degree turn, delivering a speech in which he proclaimed that union with the Solar League was the only possible way in which New Texans could retain even a vestige of local sovereignty. He had talked about an invasion as though the enemy’s ships were already coming
out of hyperspace, and had named the invader, calling the z’Srauff “our common enemy.” The z’Srauff Ambassador, also present, had immediately gotten up and stalked out, amid a derisive chorus of barking and baying from the New Texans. The New Texans were first shocked and then wildly delighted; they had been so used to hearing nothing but inanities and high-order abstractions from their public figures that the

  Solar League Ambassador had become a hero overnight.

  “Sounds as though there is a really strong sentiment at what used to be called the grass-roots level in favor of annexation,” I commented.

  “There is,” Parros told me. “Of course, there is a very strong isolationist, anti-annexation, sentiment, too. The sentiment in favor of annexation is based on the point Mr. Cum- shaw made—the danger of conquest by the z’Srauff. Against that, of course, there is fear of higher taxes, fear of loss of local sovereignty, fear of abrogation of local customs and institutions, and chauvinistic pride.”

  “We can deal with some of that by furnishing guarantees of local self-government; the emotional objections can be met by convincing them that we need the great planet of New Texas to add glory and luster to the Solar League,” I said. “You think, then, that Mr. Cumshaw was assassinated by opponents of annexation?”

  "Of course, sir,” Thrombley replied. “These Bonneys were only hirelings. Here’s what happened, on the day of the murder:

  "It was the day after a holiday, a big one here on New Texas, celebrating some military victory by the Texans on Terra, a battle called San Jacinto. We didn’t have any business to handle, because all the local officials were home nursing hangovers, so when Colonel Hickock called—” “Who?” I asked sharply.

  “Colonel Hickock. The father of the young lady you were so attentive to at the barbecue. He and Mr. Cumshaw had become great friends, beginning shortly before the speech the Ambassador made at that banquet. He called about 0900, inviting Mr. Cumshaw out to his ranch for the day, and as there was nothing in the way of official business, Mr. Cumshaw said he’d be out by 1030.