I looked around.

We were on a high balcony, at the end of a long, narrow room.  In front of us, windows rose to the ceiling, and it was evident that the floor of the room was about twenty feet below ground level.  Outside, I could see the barbecue still going on, but not a murmur of noise penetrated to us.  What seemed to be the judge’s bench was against the outside wall, under the tall windows.  To the right of it was a railed stand with a chair in it, and in front, arranged in U-shape, were three tables at which a number of men were hastily conferring.  There were nine judges in a row on the bench, all in black gowns.  The spectators’ seats below were filled with people, and there were quite a few up here on the balcony.

“What is this?  Supreme Court?” I asked as Gail piloted me to a couple of seats where we could be alone.

“No, Court of Political Justice,” she told me.  “This is the court that’s going to try those three Bonney brothers, who killed Mr. Cumshaw.”

It suddenly occurred to me that this was the first time I had heard anything specific about the death of my predecessor.

“That isn’t the trial that’s going on now, I hope?”

“Oh, no; that won’t be for a couple of days.  Not till after you can arrange to attend.  I don’t know what this trial is.  I only got home today, myself.”

“What’s the procedure here?” I wanted to know.

“Well, those nine men are judges,” she began.  “The one in the middle is President Judge Nelson.  You’ve met his son ­the Ranger officer who chased you from the spaceport.  He’s a regular jurist.  The other eight are prominent citizens who are drawn from a panel, like a jury.  The men at the table on the left are the prosecution:  friends of the politician who was killed.  And the ones on the right are the defense:  they’ll try to prove that the dead man got what was coming to him.  The ones in the middle are friends of the court:  they’re just anybody who has any interest in the case ­people who want to get some point of law cleared up, or see some precedent established, or something like that.”

“You seem to assume that this is a homicide case,” I mentioned.

“They generally are.  Sometimes mayhem, or wounding, or simple assault, but ­”

There had been some sort of conference going on in the open space of floor between the judges’ bench and the three tables.  It broke up, now, and the judge in the middle rapped with his gavel.

“Are you gentlemen ready?” he asked.  “All right, then.  Court of Political Justice of the Confederate Continents of New Texas is now in session.  Case of the friends of S. Austin Maverick, deceased, late of James Bowie Continent, versus Wilbur Whately.”

“My God, did somebody finally kill Aus Maverick?” Gail whispered.

On the center table, in front of the friends of the court, both sides seemed to have piled their exhibits; among the litter I saw some torn clothing, a big white sombrero covered with blood, and a long machete.

“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 with!  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 sake! ­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.

“Your 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 exits; 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 only 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 Cumshaw 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 superbourbon had been a post-graduate course.  I needed that training as I finally learned Gail’s last name.