The next morning, the third of the trial, opened with the defense witnesses, character-witnesses for the three killers and witnesses to the political iniquities of Silas Cumshaw.

Neither Goodham nor I bothered to cross-examine the former.  I couldn’t see how any lawyer as shrewd as Sidney had shown himself to be would even dream of getting such an array of thugs, cutthroats, sluts and slatterns into court as character witnesses for anybody.

The latter, on the other hand, we went after unmercifully, revealing, under their enmity for Cumshaw, a small, hard core of bigoted xenophobia and selfish fear.  Goodham did a beautiful job on that; he seemed able, at a glance, to divine exactly what each witness’s motivation was, and able to make him or her betray that motivation in its least admirable terms.  Finally the defense rested, about a quarter-hour before noon.

I rose and addressed the court: 

“Your Honor, while both the prosecution and the defense have done an admirable job in bringing out the essential facts of how my predecessor met his death, there are many features about this case which are far from clear to me.  They will be even less clear to my government, which is composed of men who have never set foot on this planet.  For this reason, I wish to call, or recall, certain witnesses to clarify these points.”

Sidney, who had begun shouting objections as soon as I had gotten to my feet, finally managed to get himself recognized by the court.

“This Solar League Ambassador, Your Honor, is simply trying to use the courts of the Planet of New Texas as a sounding-board for his imperialistic government’s propaganda....”

“You may reassure yourself, Mr. Sidney,” Judge Nelson said.  “This court will not allow itself to be improperly used, or improperly swayed, by the Ambassador of the Solar League.  This court is interested only in determining the facts regarding the case before it.  You may call your witnesses, Mr. Ambassador.”  He glanced at his watch.  “Court will now recess for an hour and a half; can you have them here by 1330?”

I assured him I could after glancing across the room at Ranger Captain Nelson and catching his nod.

My first witness, that afternoon was Thrombley.  After the formalities of getting his name and connection with the Solar League Embassy on the record, I asked him, “Mr. Thrombley, did you, on the morning of April 22, receive a call from the Hickock ranch for Mr. Cumshaw?”

“Yes, indeed, Mr. Ambassador.  The call was from Mr. Longfellow, Colonel Hickock’s butler.  He asked if Mr. Cumshaw were available.  It happened that Mr. Cumshaw was in the same room with me, and he came directly to the screen.  Then Colonel Hickock appeared in the screen, and inquired if Mr. Cumshaw could come out to the ranch for the day; he said something about superdove shooting.”

“You heard Mr. Cumshaw tell Colonel Hickock that he would be out at the ranch at about 1030?” Thrombley said he had.  “And, to your knowledge, did anybody else at the Embassy hear that?”

“Oh, no, sir; we were in the Ambassador’s private office, and the screen there is tap-proof.”

“And what other calls did you receive, prior to Mr. Cumshaw’s death?”

“About fifteen minutes after Mr. Cumshaw had left, the z’Srauff Ambassador called, about a personal matter.  As he was most anxious to contact Mr. Cumshaw, I told him where he had gone.”

“Then, to your knowledge, outside of yourself, Colonel Hickock, and his butler, the z’Srauff Ambassador was the only person who could have known that Mr. Cumshaw’s car would be landing on Colonel Hickock’s drive at or about 1030.  Is that correct?”

“Yes, plus anybody whom the z’Srauff Ambassador might have told.”

“Exactly!” I pounced.  Then I turned and gave the three Bonney brothers a sweeping glance.  “Plus anybody the z’Srauff Ambassador might have told....  That’s all.  Your witness, Mr. Sidney.”

Sidney got up, started toward the witness stand, and then thought better of it.

“No questions,” he said.

The next witness was a Mr. James Finnegan; he was identified as cashier of the Crooked Creek National Bank.  I asked him if Kettle-Belly Sam Bonney did business at his bank; he said yes.

“Anything unusual about Mayor Bonney’s account?” I asked.

“Well, it’s been unusually active lately.  Ordinarily, he carries around two-three thousand pesos, but about the first of April, that took a big jump.  Quite a big jump; two hundred and fifty thousand pesos, all in a lump.”

“When did Kettle-Belly Sam deposit this large sum?” I asked.

“He didn’t.  The money came to us in a cashier’s check on the Ranchers’ Trust Company of New Austin with an anonymous letter asking that it be deposited to Mayor Bonney’s account.  The letter was typed on a sheet of yellow paper in Basic English.”

“Do you have that letter now?” I asked.

“No, I don’t.  After we’d recorded the new balance, Kettle-Belly came storming in, raising hell because we’d recorded it.  He told me that if we ever got another deposit like that, we were to turn it over to him in cash.  Then he wanted to see the letter, and when I gave it to him, he took it over to a telescreen booth, and drew the curtains.  I got a little busy with some other matters, and the next time I looked, Kettle-Belly was gone and some girl was using the booth.”

“That’s very interesting, Mr. Finnegan.  Was that the last of your unusual business with Mayor Bonney?”

“Oh, no.  Then, about two weeks before Mr. Cumshaw was killed, Kettle-Belly came in and wanted 50,000 pesos, in a big hurry, in small bills.  I gave it to him, and he grabbed at the money like a starved dog at a bone, and upset a bottle of red perma-ink, the sort we use to refill our bank seals.  Three of the bills got splashed.  I offered to exchange them, but he said, ‘Hell with it; I’m in a hurry,’ and went out.  The next day, Switchblade Joe Bonney came in to make payment on a note we were holding on him.  He used those three bills in the payment.

“Then, about a week ago, there was another cashier’s check came in for Kettle-Belly.  This time, there was no letter; just one of our regular deposit-slips.  No name of depositor.  I held the check, and gave it to Kettle-Belly.  I remember, when it came in, I said to one of the clerks, ‘Well, I wonder who’s going to get bumped off this time.’  And sure enough ...”

Sidney’s yell of, “Objection!” was all his previous objections gathered into one.

“You say the letter accompanying the first deposit, the one in Basic English, was apparently taken away by Kettle-Belly Sam Bonney.  If you saw another letter of the same sort, would you be able to say whether or not it might be like the one you mentioned?”

Sidney vociferating more objections; I was trying to get expert testimony without previous qualification....

“Not at all, Mr. Sidney,” Judge Nelson ruled.  “Mr. Silk has merely asked if Mr. Finnegan could say whether one document bore any resemblance to another.”

I asked permission to have another witness sworn in while Finnegan was still on the stand, and called in a Mr. Boone, the cashier of the Packers’ and Brokers’ Trust Company of New Austin.  He had with him a letter, typed on yellow paper, which he said had accompanied an anonymous deposit of two hundred thousand pesos.  Mr. Finnegan said that it was exactly like the one he had received, in typing, grammar and wording, all but the name of the person to whose account the money was to be deposited.

“And whose account received this anonymous benefaction, Mr. Boone?” I asked.

“The account,” Boone replied, “of Mr. Clement Sidney.”

I was surprised that Judge Nelson didn’t break the handle of his gavel, after that.  Finally, after a couple of threats to clear the court, order was restored.  Mr. Sidney had no questions to ask this time, either.

The bailiff looked at the next slip of paper I gave him, frowned over it, and finally asked the court for assistance.

“I can’t pronounce this-here thing, at all,” he complained.

One of the judges finally got out a mouthful of growls and yaps, and gave it to the clerk of the court to copy into the record.  The next witness was a z’Srauff, and in the New Texan garb he was wearing, he was something to open my eyes, even after years on the Hooligan Diplomats.

After he took the stand, the clerk of the court looked at him blankly for a moment.  Then he turned to Judge Nelson.

“Your Honor, how am I gonna go about swearing him in?” he asked.  “What does a z’Srauff swear by, that’s binding?”

The President Judge frowned for a moment.  “Does anybody here know Basic well enough to translate the oath?” he asked.

“I think I can,” I offered.  “I spent a great many years in our Consular Service, before I was sent here.  We use Basic with a great many alien peoples.”

“Administer the oath, then,” Nelson told me.

“Put up right hand,” I told the z’Srauff.  “Do you truly say, in front of Great One who made all worlds, who has knowledge of what is in the hearts of all persons, that what you will say here will be true, all true, and not anything that is not true, and will you so say again at time when all worlds end?  Do you so truly say?”

“Yes.  I so truly say.”

“Say your name.”

“Ppmegll Kkuvtmmecc Cicici.”

“What is your business?”

“I put things made of cloth into this world, and I take meat out of this world.”

“Where do you have your house?”

“Here in New Austin, over my house of business, on Coronado Street.”

“What people do you see in this place that you have made business with?”

Ppmegll Kkuvtmmecc Cicici pointed a three-fingered hand at the Bonney brothers.

“What business did you make with them?”

“I gave them for money a machine which goes on the ground and goes in the air very fast, to take persons and things about.”

“Is that the thing you gave them for money?” I asked, pointing at the exhibit air-car.

“Yes, but it was new then.  It has been made broken by things from guns now.”

“What money did they give you for the machine?”

“One hundred pesos.”

That started another uproar.  There wasn’t a soul in that courtroom who didn’t know that five thousand pesos would have been a give-away bargain price for that car.

“Mr. Ambassador,” one of the associate judges interrupted.  “I used to be in the used-car business.  Am I expected to believe that this ... this being ... sold that air-car for a hundred pesos?”

“Here’s a notarized copy of the bill of sale, from the office of the Vehicles Registration Bureau,” I said.  “I introduce it as evidence.”

There was a disturbance at the back of the room, and then the z’Srauff Ambassador, Gglafrr Ddespttann Vuvuvu, came stalking down the aisle, followed by a couple of Rangers and two of his attaches.  He came forward and addressed the court.

“May you be happy, sir, but I am in here so quickly not because I have desire to make noise, but because it is only short time since it got in my knowledge that one of my persons is in this place.  I am here to be of help to him that he not get in trouble, and to be of help to you.  The name for what I am to do in this place is not part of my knowledge.  Please say it for me.”

“You are a friend of the court,” Judge Nelson told him.  “An amicus curiae.”

“You make me happy.  Please go on; I have no desire to put stop to what you do in this place.”

“From what person did you get this machine that you gave to these persons for one hundred pesos?” I asked.

Gglafrr immediately began barking and snarling and yelping at my witness.  The drygoods importer looked startled, and Judge Nelson banged with his gavel.

“That’s enough of that!  There’ll be nothing spoken in this court but English, except through an interpreter!”

“Yow!  I am sad that what I did was not right,” the z’Srauff Ambassador replied contritely.  “But my person here has not as part of his knowledge that you will make him say what may put him in trouble.”

Nelson nodded in agreement.

“You are right:  this person who is here has no need to make answer to any question if it may put him in trouble or make him seem less than he is.”

“I will not make answer,” the witness said.

“No further questions.”

I turned to Goodham, and then to Sidney; they had no questions, either.  I handed another slip of paper to the bailiff, and another z’Srauff, named Bbrarkk Jjoknyyegg Kekeke took the stand.

He put into this world things for small persons to make amusement with; he took out of this world meat and leather.  He had his house of business in New Austin, and he pointed out the three Bonneys as persons in this place that he saw that he had seen before.

“And what business did you make with them?” I asked.

“I gave them for money a gun which sends out things of twenty-millimeters very fast, to make death or hurt come to men and animals and does destruction to machines and things.”

“Is this the gun?” I showed it to him.

“It could be.  The gun was made in my world; many guns like it are made there.  I am certain that this is the very gun.”

I had a notarized copy of a customs house bill in which the gun was described and specified by serial number.  I introduced it as evidence.

“How much money did these three persons give you for this gun?” I asked.

“Five pesos.”

“The customs appraisal on this gun is six hundred pesos,” I mentioned.

Immediately, Ambassador Vuvuvu was on his feet.  “My person here has not as part of his knowledge that he may put himself in trouble by what he says to answer these questions.”

That put a stop to that.  Bbrarkk Jjoknyyegg Kekeke immediately took refuge in refusal to answer on grounds of self-incrimination.

“That is all, Your Honor,” I said, “And now,” I continued, when the witness had left the stand, “I have something further to present to the court, speaking both as amicus curiae and as Ambassador of the Solar League.  This court cannot convict the three men who are here on trial.  These men should have never been brought to trial in this court:  it has no jurisdiction over this case.  This was a simple case of first-degree murder, by hired assassins, committed against the Ambassador of one government at the instigation of another, not an act of political protest within the meaning of New Texan law.”

There was a brief silence; both the court and the spectators were stunned, and most stunned of all were the three Bonney brothers, who had been watching, fear-sick, while I had been putting a rope around their necks.  The uproar from the rear of the courtroom gave Judge Nelson a needed minute or so to collect his thoughts.  After he had gotten order restored, he turned to me, grim-faced.

“Ambassador Silk, will you please elaborate on the extraordinary statement you have just made,” he invited, as though every word had sharp corners that were sticking in his throat.

“Gladly, Your Honor.”  My words, too, were gouging and scraping my throat as they came out; I could feel my knees getting absurdly weak, and my mouth tasted as though I had an old copper penny in it.

“As I understand it, the laws of New Texas do not extend their ordinary protection to persons engaged in the practice of politics.  An act of personal injury against a politician is considered criminal only to the extent that the politician injured has not, by his public acts, deserved the degree of severity with which he has been injured, and the Court of Political Justice is established for the purpose of determining whether or not there has been such an excess of severity in the treatment meted out by the accused to the injured or deceased politician.  This gives rise, of course, to some interesting practices; for instance, what is at law a trial of the accused is, in substance, a trial of his victim.  But in any case tried in this court, the accused must be a person who has injured or killed a man who is definable as a practicing politician under the government of New Texas.

“Speaking for my government, I must deny that these men should have been tried in this court for the murder of Silas Cumshaw.  To do otherwise would establish the principle and precedent that our Ambassador, or any other Ambassador here, is a practicing politician under ­mark that well, Your Honor ­under the laws and government of New Texas.  This would not only make of any Ambassador a permissable target for any marksman who happened to disapprove of the policies of another government, but more serious, it would place the Ambassador and his government in a subordinate position relative to the government of New Texas.  This the government of the Solar League simply cannot tolerate, for reasons which it would be insulting to the intelligence of this court to enumerate.”

“Mr. Silk,” Judge Nelson said gravely.  “This court takes full cognizance of the force of your arguments.  However, I’d like to know why you permitted this trial to run to this length before entering this objection.  Surely you could have made clear the position of your government at the beginning of this trial.”

“Your Honor,” I said, “had I done so, these defendants would have been released, and the facts behind their crime would have never come to light.  I grant that the important function of this court is to determine questions of relative guilt and innocence.  We must not lose sight, however, of the fact that the primary function of any court is to determine the truth, and only by the process of the trial of these depraved murderers-for-hire could the real author of the crime be uncovered.

“This was important, both for the government of the Solar League and the government of New Texas.  My government now knows who procured the death of Silas Cumshaw, and we will take appropriate action.  The government of New Texas has now had spelled out, in letters anyone can read, the fact that this beautiful planet is in truth a battleground.  Awareness of this may save New Texas from being the scene of a larger and more destructive battle.  New Texas also knows who are its enemies, and who can be counted upon to stand as its friends.”

“Yes, Mr. Silk.  Mr. Vuvuvu, I haven’t heard any comment from you....  No comment?  Well, we’ll have to close the court, to consider this phase of the question.”

The black screen slid up, for the second time during the trial.  There was silence for a moment, and then the room became a bubbling pot of sound.  At least six fights broke out among the spectators within three minutes; the Rangers and court bailiffs were busy restoring order.

Gail Hickock, who had been sitting on the front row of the spectators’ seats, came running up while I was still receiving the congratulations of my fellow diplomats.

“Stephen!  How could you?” she demanded.  “You know what you’ve done?  You’ve gotten those murdering snakes turned loose!”

Andrew Jackson Hickock left the prosecution table and approached.

“Mr. Silk!  You’ve just secured the freedom of three men who murdered one of my best friends!”

“Colonel Hickock, I believe I knew Silas Cumshaw before you did.  He was one of my instructors at Dumbarton Oaks, and I have always had the deepest respect and admiration for him.  But he taught me one thing, which you seem to have forgotten since you expatriated yourself ­that in the Diplomatic Service, personal feelings don’t count.  The only thing of importance is the advancement of the policies of the Solar League.”

“Silas and I were attaches together, at the old Embassy at Drammool, on Altair II,” Colonel Hickock said.  What else he might have said was lost in the sudden exclamation as the black screen slid down.  In front of Judge Nelson, I saw, there were three pistol-belts, and three pairs of automatics.

“Switchblade Joe Bonney, Jack-High Abe Bonney, Turkey-Buzzard Tom Bonney, together with your counsel, approach the court and hear the verdict,” Judge Nelson said.

The three defendants and their lawyer rose.  The Bonneys were swaggering and laughing, but for a lawyer whose clients had just emerged from the shadow of the gallows, Sidney was looking remarkably unhappy.  He probably had imagination enough to see what would be waiting for him outside.

“It pains me inexpressibly,” Judge Nelson said, “to inform you three that this court cannot convict you of the cowardly murder of that learned and honorable old man, Silas Cumshaw, nor can you be brought to trial in any other court on New Texas again for that dastardly crime.  Here are your weapons, which must be returned to you.  Sort them out yourselves, because I won’t dirty my fingers on them.  And may you regret and feel shame for your despicable act as long as you live, which I hope won’t be more than a few hours.”

With that, he used the end of his gavel to push the three belts off the bench and onto the floor at the Bonneys’ feet.  They stood laughing at him for a few moments, then stopped, picked the belts up, drew the pistols to check magazines and chambers, and then began slapping each others’ backs and shouting jubilant congratulations at one another.  Sidney’s two assistants and some of his friends came up and began pumping Sidney’s hands.

“There!” Gail flung at me.  “Now look at your masterpiece!  Why don’t you go up and congratulate him, too?”

And with that, she slapped me across the face.  It hurt like the devil; she was a lot stronger than I’d expected.

“In about two minutes,” I told her, “you can apologize to me for that, or weep over my corpse.  Right now, though, you’d better be getting behind something solid.”