Letter Of The Law

: Letter Of The Law

The place was dark and damp, and smelled like moldy leaves. Meyerhoff

followed the huge, bear-like Altairian guard down the slippery

flagstones of the corridor, sniffing the dead, musty air with distaste.

He drew his carefully tailored Terran-styled jacket closer about his

shoulders, shivering as his eyes avoided the black, yawning cell-holes

they were passing. His foot slipped on the slimy flags from time to

time, and
finally he paused to wipe the caked mud from his trouser leg.

"How much farther is it?" he shouted angrily.



The guard waved a heavy paw vaguely into the blackness ahead. Quite

suddenly the corridor took a sharp bend, and the Altairian stopped,

producing a huge key ring from some obscure fold of his hairy hide. "I

still don't see any reason for all the fuss," he grumbled in a wounded

tone. "We've treated him like a brother."



One of the huge steel doors clicked open. Meyerhoff peered into the

blackness, catching a vaguely human outline against the back wall.

"Harry?" he called sharply.



There was a startled gasp from within, and a skinny, gnarled little man

suddenly appeared in the guard's light, like a grotesque, twisted ghost

out of the blackness. Wide blue eyes regarded Meyerhoff from beneath

uneven black eyebrows, and then the little man's face broke into a

crafty grin. "Paul! So they sent you! I knew I could count on it!" He

executed a deep, awkward bow, motioning Meyerhoff into the dark cubicle.

"Not much to offer you," he said slyly, "but it's the best I can do

under the circumstances."



Meyerhoff scowled, and turned abruptly to the guard. "We'll have some

privacy now, if you please. Interplanetary ruling. And leave us the

light."



The guard grumbled, and started for the door. "It's about time you

showed up!" cried the little man in the cell. "Great day! Lucky they

sent you, pal. Why, I've been in here for years--"



"Look, Zeckler, the name is Meyerhoff, and I'm not your pal," Meyerhoff

snapped. "And you've been here for two weeks, three days, and

approximately four hours. You're getting as bad as your gentle guards

when it comes to bandying the truth around." He peered through the dim

light at the gaunt face of the prisoner. Zeckler's face was dark with a

week's beard, and his bloodshot eyes belied the cocky grin on his lips.

His clothes were smeared and sodden, streaked with great splotches of

mud and moss. Meyerhoff's face softened a little. "So Harry Zeckler's in

a jam again," he said. "You look as if they'd treated you like a

brother."



The little man snorted. "These overgrown teddy-bears don't know what

brotherhood means, nor humanity, either. Bread and water I've been

getting, nothing more, and then only if they feel like bringing it

down." He sank wearily down on the rock bench along the wall. "I thought

you'd never get here! I sent an appeal to the Terran Consulate the first

day I was arrested. What happened? I mean, all they had to do was get a

man over here, get the extradition papers signed, and provide

transportation off the planet for me. Why so much time? I've been

sitting here rotting--" He broke off in mid-sentence and stared at

Meyerhoff. "You brought the papers, didn't you? I mean, we can leave

now?"



Meyerhoff stared at the little man with a mixture of pity and disgust.

"You are a prize fool," he said finally. "Did you know that?"



Zeckler's eyes widened. "What do you mean, fool? So I spend a couple of

weeks in this pneumonia trap. The deal was worth it! I've got three

million credits sitting in the Terran Consulate on Altair V, just

waiting for me to walk in and pick them up. Three million credits--do

you hear? That's enough to set me up for life!"



Meyerhoff nodded grimly. "If you live long enough to walk in and pick

them up, that is."



"What do you mean, if?"



Meyerhoff sank down beside the man, his voice a tense whisper in the

musty cell. "I mean that right now you are practically dead. You may not

know it, but you are. You walk into a newly opened planet with your

smart little bag of tricks, walk in here with a shaky passport and no

permit, with no knowledge of the natives outside of two paragraphs of

inaccuracies in the Explorer's Guide, and even then you're not content

to come in and sell something legitimate, something the natives might

conceivably be able to use. No, nothing so simple for you. You have to

pull your usual high-pressure stuff. And this time, buddy, you're paying

the piper."



"You mean I'm not being extradited?"



Meyerhoff grinned unpleasantly. "I mean precisely that. You've committed

a crime here--a major crime. The Altairians are sore about it. And the

Terran Consulate isn't willing to sell all the trading possibilities

here down the river just to get you out of a mess. You're going to stand

trial--and these natives are out to get you. Personally, I think they're

going to get you."



Zeckler stood up shakily. "You can't believe anything the natives say,"

he said uneasily. "They're pathological liars. Why, you should see what

they tried to sell me! You've never seen such a pack of liars as these

critters." He glanced up at Meyerhoff. "They'll probably drop a little

fine on me and let me go."



"A little fine of one Terran neck." Meyerhoff grinned nastily. "You've

committed the most heinous crime these creatures can imagine, and

they're going to get you for it if it's the last thing they do. I'm

afraid, my friend, that your con-man days are over."



Zeckler fished in the other man's pocket, extracted a cigarette, and

lighted it with trembling fingers. "It's bad, then," he said finally.



"It's bad, all right."



Some shadow of the sly, elfin grin crept over the little con-man's face.

"Well, at any rate, I'm glad they sent you over," he said weakly.

"Nothing like a good lawyer to handle a trial."



"Lawyer? Not me! Oh, no. Sorry, but no thanks." Meyerhoff chuckled.

"I'm your advisor, old boy. Nothing else. I'm here to keep you from

botching things up still worse for the Trading Commission, that's all. I

wouldn't get tangled up in a mess with those creatures for anything!" He

shook his head. "You're your own lawyer, Mr. Super-salesman. It's all

your show. And you'd better get your head out of the sand, or you're

going to lose a case like it's never been lost before!"



* * * * *



Meyerhoff watched the man's pale face, and shook his head. In a way, he

thought, it was a pity to see such a change in the rosy-cheeked, dapper,

cocksure little man who had talked his way glibly in and out of more

jams than Meyerhoff could count. Trading brought scalpers; it was almost

inevitable that where rich and unexploited trading ground was uncovered,

it would first fall prey to the fast-trading boys. They spread out from

Terra with the first wave of exploration--the slick, fast-talking

con-men who could work new territories unfettered by the legal

restrictions that soon closed down the more established planets. The

first men in were the richest out, and through some curious quirk of the

Terrestrial mind, they knew they could count on Terran protection,

however crooked and underhand their methods.



But occasionally a situation arose where the civilization and social

practices of the alien victims made it unwise to tamper with them.

Altair I had been recognized at once by the Trading Commission as a

commercial prize of tremendous value, but early reports had warned of

the danger of wildcat trading on the little, musty, jungle-like planet

with its shaggy, three-eyed inhabitants--warned specifically against the

confidence tactics so frequently used--but there was always somebody,

Meyerhoff reflected sourly, who just didn't get the word.



Zeckler puffed nervously on his cigarette, his narrow face a study in

troubled concentration. "But I didn't do anything!" he exploded

finally. "So I pulled an old con game. So what? Why should they get so

excited? So I clipped a few thousand credits, pulled a little fast

business." He shrugged eloquently, spreading his hands. "Everybody's

doing it. They do it to each other without batting an eye. You should

see these critters operate on each other. Why, my little scheme was

peanuts by comparison."



Meyerhoff pulled a pipe from his pocket, and began stuffing the bowl

with infinite patience. "And precisely what sort of con game was it?" he

asked quietly.



Zeckler shrugged again. "The simplest, tiredest, moldiest old racket

that ever made a quick nickel. Remember the old Terran gag about the

Brooklyn Bridge? The same thing. Only these critters didn't want

bridges. They wanted land--this gooey, slimy swamp they call 'farm

land.' So I gave them what they wanted. I just sold them some land."



Meyerhoff nodded fiercely. "You sure did. A hundred square kilos at a

swipe. Only you sold the same hundred square kilos to a dozen different

natives." Suddenly he threw back his hands and roared. "Of all the

things you shouldn't have done--"



"But what's a chunk of land?"



Meyerhoff shook his head hopelessly. "If you hadn't been so greedy,

you'd have found out what a chunk of land was to these natives before

you started peddling it. You'd have found out other things about them,

too. You'd have learned that in spite of all their bumbling and fussing

and squabbling they're not so dull. You'd have found out that they're

marsupials, and that two out of five of them get thrown out of their

mother's pouch before they're old enough to survive. You'd have realized

that they have to start fighting for individual rights almost as soon as

they're born. Anything goes, as long as it benefits them as

individuals."



Meyerhoff grinned at the little man's horrified face. "Never heard of

that, had you? And you've never heard of other things, too. You've

probably never heard that there are just too many Altairians here for

the food their planet can supply, and their diet is so finicky that

they just can't live on anything that doesn't grow here. And

consequently, land is the key factor in their economy, not money;

nothing but land. To get land, it's every man for himself, and the loser

starves, and their entire legal and monetary system revolves on that

principle. They've built up the most confusing and impossible system of

barter and trade imaginable, aimed at individual survival, with land as

the value behind the credit. That explains the lying--of course they're

liars, with an economy like that. They've completely missed the concept

of truth. Pathological? You bet they're pathological! Only a fool would

tell the truth when his life depended on his being a better liar than

the next guy! Lying is the time-honored tradition, with their entire

legal system built around it."



Zeckler snorted. "But how could they possibly have a legal system? I

mean, if they don't recognize the truth when it slaps them in the face?"



Meyerhoff shrugged. "As we understand legal systems, I suppose they

don't have one. They have only the haziest idea what truth represents,

and they've shrugged off the idea as impossible and useless." He

chuckled maliciously. "So you went out and found a chunk of ground in

the uplands, and sold it to a dozen separate, self-centered,

half-starved natives! Encroachment on private property is legal grounds

for murder on this planet, and twelve of them descended on the same

chunk of land at the same time, all armed with title-deeds." Meyerhoff

sighed. "You've got twelve mad Altairians in your hair. You've got a mad

planet in your hair. And in the meantime, Terra's most valuable uranium

source in five centuries is threatening to cut off supply unless they

see your blood splattered liberally all the way from here to the

equator."



Zeckler was visibly shaken. "Look," he said weakly, "so I wasn't so

smart. What am I going to do? I mean, are you going to sit quietly by

and let them butcher me? How could I defend myself in a legal setup like

this?"



Meyerhoff smiled coolly. "You're going to get your sly little con-man

brain to working, I think," he said softly. "By Interplanetary Rules,

they have to give you a trial in Terran legal form--judge, jury, court

procedure, all that folderol. They think it's a big joke--after all,

what could a judicial oath mean to them?--but they agreed. Only thing

is, they're going to hang you, if they die trying. So you'd better get

those stunted little wits of yours clicking--and if you try to implicate

me, even a little bit, I'll be out of there so fast you won't know

what happened."



With that Meyerhoff walked to the door. He jerked it inward sharply, and

spilled two guards over on their faces. "Privacy," he grunted, and

started back up the slippery corridor.



* * * * *



It certainly looked like a courtroom, at any rate. In the front of the

long, damp stone room was a bench, with a seat behind it, and a small

straight chair to the right. To the left was a stand with twelve

chairs--larger chairs, with a railing running along the front. The rest

of the room was filled almost to the door with seats facing the bench.

Zeckler followed the shaggy-haired guard into the room, nodding

approvingly. "Not such a bad arrangement," he said. "They must have

gotten the idea fast."



Meyerhoff wiped the perspiration from his forehead, and shot the little

con-man a stony glance. "At least you've got a courtroom, a judge, and a

jury for this mess. Beyond that--" He shrugged eloquently. "I can't make

any promises."



In the back of the room a door burst open with a bang. Loud, harsh

voices were heard as half a dozen of the huge Altairians attempted to

push through the door at once. Zeckler clamped on the headset to his

translator unit, and watched the hubbub in the anteroom with growing

alarm. Finally the question of precedent seemed to be settled, and a

group of the Altairians filed in, in order of stature, stalking across

the room in flowing black robes, pug-nosed faces glowering with

self-importance. They descended upon the jury box, grunting and

scrapping with each other for the first-row seats, and the judge took

his place with obvious satisfaction behind the heavy wooden bench.

Finally, the prosecuting attorney appeared, flanked by two clerks, who

took their places beside him. The prosecutor eyed Zeckler with cold

malevolence, then turned and delivered a sly wink at the judge.



In a moment the room was a hubbub as it filled with the huge, bumbling,

bear-like creatures, jostling each other and fighting for seats,

growling and complaining. Two small fights broke out in the rear, but

were quickly subdued by the group of gendarmes guarding the entrance.

Finally the judge glared down at Zeckler with all three eyes, and

pounded the bench top with a wooden mallet until the roar of activity

subsided. The jurymen wriggled uncomfortably in their seats, exchanging

winks, and finally turned their attention to the front of the court.



"We are reading the case of the people of Altair I," the judge's voice

roared out, "against one Harry Zeckler--" he paused for a long,

impressive moment--"Terran." The courtroom immediately burst into an

angry growl, until the judge pounded the bench five or six times more.

"This--creature--is hereby accused of the following crimes," the judge

bellowed. "Conspiracy to overthrow the government of Altair I. Brutal

murder of seventeen law-abiding citizens of the village of Karzan at the

third hour before dawn in the second period after his arrival.

Desecration of the Temple of our beloved Goddess Zermat, Queen of the

Harvest. Conspiracy with the lesser gods to cause the unprecedented

drought in the Dermatti section of our fair globe. Obscene exposure of

his pouch-marks in a public square. Four separate and distinct charges

of jail-break and bribery--" The judge pounded the bench for

order--"Espionage with the accursed scum of Altair II in preparation for

interplanetary invasion."



The little con-man's jaw sagged lower and lower, the color draining from

his face. He turned, wide-eyed, to Meyerhoff, then back to the judge.



"The Chairman of the Jury," said the Judge succinctly, "will read the

verdict."



The little native in the front of the jury-box popped up like a puppet

on a string. "Defendant found guilty on all counts," he said.



"Defendant is guilty! The court will pronounce sentence--"



"Now wait a minute!" Zeckler was on his feet, wild-eyed. "What kind of

railroad job--"



The judge blinked disappointedly at Paul Meyerhoff. "Not yet?" he asked,

unhappily.



"No." Meyerhoff's hands twitched nervously. "Not yet, Your Honor. Later,

Your Honor. The trial comes first."



The judge looked as if his candy had been stolen. "But you said I

should call for the verdict."



"Later. You have to have the trial before you can have the verdict."



The Altairian shrugged indifferently. "Now--later--" he muttered.



"Have the prosecutor call his first witness," said Meyerhoff.



Zeckler leaned over, his face ashen. "These charges," he whispered.

"They're insane!"



"Of course they are," Meyerhoff whispered back.



"But what am I going to--"



"Sit tight. Let them set things up."



"But those lies. They're liars, the whole pack of them--" He broke off

as the prosecutor roared a name.



The shaggy brute who took the stand was wearing a bright purple hat

which sat rakishly over one ear. He grinned the Altairian equivalent of

a hungry grin at the prosecutor. Then he cleared his throat and started.

"This Terran riffraff--"



"The oath," muttered the judge. "We've got to have the oath."



The prosecutor nodded, and four natives moved forward, carrying huge

inscribed marble slabs to the front of the court. One by one the chunks

were reverently piled in a heap at the witness's feet. The witness

placed a huge, hairy paw on the cairn, and the prosecutor said, "Do you

swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so

help you--" he paused to squint at the paper in his hand, and finished

on a puzzled note, "--Goddess?"



The witness removed the paw from the rock pile long enough to scratch

his ear. Then he replaced it, and replied, "Of course," in an injured

tone.



"Then tell this court what you have seen of the activities of this

abominable wretch."



The witness settled back into the chair, fixing one eye on Zeckler's

face, another on the prosecutor, and closing the third as if in

meditation. "I think it happened on the fourth night of the seventh

crossing of Altair II (may the Goddess cast a drought upon it)--or was

it the seventh night of the fourth crossing?--" he grinned

apologetically at the judge--"when I was making my way back through town

toward my blessed land-plot, minding my own business, Your Honor, after

weeks of bargaining for the crop I was harvesting. Suddenly from the

shadow of the building, this creature--" he waved a paw at

Zeckler--"stopped me in my tracks with a vicious cry. He had a weapon

I'd never seen before, and before I could find my voice he forced me

back against the wall. I could see by the cruel glint in his eyes that

there was no warmth, no sympathy in his heart, that I was--"



"Objection!" Zeckler squealed plaintively, jumping to his feet. "This

witness can't even remember what night he's talking about!"



The judge looked startled. Then he pawed feverishly through his bundle

of notes. "Overruled," he said abruptly. "Continue, please."



The witness glowered at Zeckler. "As I was saying before this loutish

interruption," he muttered, "I could see that I was face to face with

the most desperate of criminal types, even for Terrans. Note the shape

of his head, the flabbiness of his ears. I was petrified with fear. And

then, helpless as I was, this two-legged abomination began to shower me

with threats of evil to my blessed home, dark threats of poisoning my

land unless I would tell him where he could find the resting place of

our blessed Goddess--"



"I never saw him before in my life," Zeckler moaned to Meyerhoff.

"Listen to him! Why should I care where their Goddess--"



Meyerhoff gave him a stony look. "The Goddess runs things around here.

She makes it rain. If it doesn't rain, somebody's insulted her. It's

very simple."



"But how can I fight testimony like that?"



"I doubt if you can fight it."



"But they can't prove a word of it--" He looked at the jury, who were

listening enraptured to the second witness on the stand. This one was

testifying regarding the butcherous slaughter of eighteen (or was it

twenty-three? Oh, yes, twenty-three) women and children in the suburban

village of Karzan. The pogrom, it seemed, had been accomplished by an

energy weapon which ate great, gaping holes in the sides of buildings. A

third witness took the stand, continuing the drone as the room grew

hotter and muggier. Zeckler grew paler and paler, his eyes turning

glassy as the testimony piled up. "But it's not true," he whispered to

Meyerhoff.



"Of course it isn't! Can't you understand? These people have no regard

for truth. It's stupid, to them, silly, a mark of low intelligence. The

only thing in the world they have any respect for is a liar bigger and

more skillful than they are."



Zeckler jerked around abruptly as he heard his name bellowed out. "Does

the defendant have anything to say before the jury delivers the

verdict?"



"Do I have--" Zeckler was across the room in a flash, his pale cheeks

suddenly taking on a feverish glow. He sat down gingerly on the witness

chair, facing the judge, his eyes bright with fear and excitement.

"Your--Your Honor, I--I have a statement to make which will have a most

important bearing on this case. You must listen with the greatest care."

He glanced quickly at Meyerhoff, and back to the judge. "Your Honor," he

said in a hushed voice. "You are in gravest of danger. All of you. Your

lives--your very land is at stake."



The judge blinked, and shuffled through his notes hurriedly as a murmur

arose in the court. "Our land?"



"Your lives, your land, everything you hold dear," Zeckler said quickly,

licking his lips nervously. "You must try to understand me--" he glanced

apprehensively over his shoulder "now, because I may not live long

enough to repeat what I am about to tell you--"



The murmur quieted down, all ears straining in their headsets to hear

his words. "These charges," he continued, "all of them--they're

perfectly true. At least, they seem to be perfectly true. But in every

instance, I was working with heart and soul, risking my life, for the

welfare of your beautiful planet."



There was a loud hiss from the back of the court. Zeckler frowned and

rubbed his hands together. "It was my misfortune," he said, "to go to

the wrong planet when I first came to Altair from my homeland on Terra.

I--I landed on Altair II, a grave mistake, but as it turned out, a very

fortunate error. Because in attempting to arrange trading in that

frightful place, I made certain contacts." His voice trembled, and sank

lower. "I learned the horrible thing which is about to happen to this

planet, at the hands of those barbarians. The conspiracy is theirs, not

mine. They have bribed your Goddess, flattered her and lied to her,

coerced her all-powerful goodness to their own evil interests, preparing

for the day when they could persuade her to cast your land into the

fiery furnace of a ten-year-drought--"



Somebody in the middle of the court burst out laughing. One by one the

natives nudged one another, and booed, and guffawed, until the rising

tide of racket drowned out Zeckler's words. "The defendant is obviously

lying," roared the prosecutor over the pandemonium. "Any fool knows that

the Goddess can't be bribed. How could she be a Goddess if she could?"



Zeckler grew paler. "But--perhaps they were very clever--"



"And how could they flatter her, when she knows, beyond doubt, that she

is the most exquisitely radiant creature in all the Universe? And you

dare to insult her, drag her name in the dirt."



The hisses grew louder, more belligerent. Cries of "Butcher him!" and

"Scald his bowels!" rose from the courtroom. The judge banged for

silence, his eyes angry.



"Unless the defendant wishes to take up more of our precious time with

these ridiculous lies, the jury--"



"Wait! Your Honor, I request a short recess before I present my final

plea."



"Recess?"



"A few moments to collect my thoughts, to arrange my case."



The judge settled back with a disgusted snarl. "Do I have to?" he asked

Meyerhoff.



Meyerhoff nodded. The judge shrugged, pointing over his shoulder to the

anteroom. "You can go in there," he said.



Somehow, Zeckler managed to stumble from the witness stand, amid riotous

boos and hisses, and tottered into the anteroom.



* * * * *



Zeckler puffed hungrily on a cigarette, and looked up at Meyerhoff with

haunted eyes. "It--it doesn't look so good," he muttered.



Meyerhoff's eyes were worried, too. For some reason, he felt a surge of

pity and admiration for the haggard con-man. "It's worse than I'd

anticipated," he admitted glumly. "That was a good try, but you just

don't know enough about them and their Goddess." He sat down wearily. "I

don't see what you can do. They want your blood, and they're going to

have it. They just won't believe you, no matter how big a lie you

tell."



Zeckler sat in silence for a moment. "This lying business," he said

finally, "exactly how does it work?"



"The biggest, most convincing liar wins. It's as simple as that. It

doesn't matter how outlandish a whopper you tell. Unless, of course,

they've made up their minds that you just naturally aren't as big a liar

as they are. And it looks like that's just what they've done. It

wouldn't make any difference to them what you say--unless, somehow,

you could make them believe it."



Zeckler frowned. "And how do they regard the--the biggest liar? I mean,

how do they feel toward him?"



Meyerhoff shifted uneasily. "It's hard to say. It's been my experience

that they respect him highly--maybe even fear him a little. After all,

the most convincing liar always wins in any transaction, so he gets more

land, more food, more power. Yes, I think the biggest liar could go

where he pleased without any interference."



Zeckler was on his feet, his eyes suddenly bright with excitement. "Wait

a minute," he said tensely. "To tell them a lie that they'd have to

believe--a lie they simply couldn't help but believe--" He turned on

Meyerhoff, his hands trembling. "Do they think the way we do? I mean,

with logic, cause and effect, examining evidence and drawing

conclusions? Given certain evidence, would they have to draw the same

conclusions that we have to draw?"



Meyerhoff blinked. "Well--yes. Oh, yes, they're perfectly logical."



Zeckler's eyes flashed, and a huge grin broke out on his sallow face.

His thin body fairly shook. He started hopping up and down on one foot,

staring idiotically into space. "If I could only think--" he muttered.

"Somebody--somewhere--something I read."



"Whatever are you talking about?"



"It was a Greek, I think--"



Meyerhoff stared at him. "Oh, come now. Have you gone off your rocker

completely? You've got a problem on your hands, man."



"No, no, I've got a problem in the bag!" Zeckler's cheeks flushed.

"Let's go back in there--I think I've got an answer!"



The courtroom quieted the moment they opened the door, and the judge

banged the gavel for silence. As soon as Zeckler had taken his seat on

the witness stand, the judge turned to the head juryman. "Now, then," he

said with happy finality. "The jury--"



"Hold on! Just one minute more."



The judge stared down at Zeckler as if he were a bug on a rock. "Oh,

yes. You had something else to say. Well, go ahead and say it."



Zeckler looked sharply around the hushed room. "You want to convict me,"

he said softly, "in the worst sort of way. Isn't that right?"



Eyes swung toward him. The judge broke into an evil grin. "That's

right."



"But you can't really convict me until you've considered carefully any

statement I make in my own defense. Isn't that right?"



The judge looked uncomfortable. "If you've got something to say, go

ahead and say it."



"I've got just one statement to make. Short and sweet. But you'd better

listen to it, and think it out carefully before you decide that you

really want to convict me." He paused, and glanced slyly at the judge.

"You don't think much of those who tell the truth, it seems. Well, put

this statement in your record, then." His voice was loud and clear in

the still room. "All Earthmen are absolutely incapable of telling the

truth."



Puzzled frowns appeared on the jury's faces. One or two exchanged

startled glances, and the room was still as death. The judge stared at

him, and then at Meyerhoff, then back. "But you"--he stammered.

"You're"--He stopped in mid-sentence, his jaw sagging.



One of the jurymen let out a little squeak, and fainted dead away. It

took, all in all, about ten seconds for the statement to soak in.



And then pandemonium broke loose in the courtroom.



* * * * *



"Really," said Harry Zeckler loftily, "it was so obvious I'm amazed that

it didn't occur to me first thing." He settled himself down comfortably

in the control cabin of the Interplanetary Rocket and grinned at the

outline of Altair IV looming larger in the view screen.



Paul Meyerhoff stared stonily at the controls, his lips compressed

angrily. "You might at least have told me what you were planning."



"And take the chance of being overheard? Don't be silly. It had to come

as a bombshell. I had to establish myself as a liar--the prize liar of

them all, but I had to tell the sort of lie that they simply could not

cope with. Something that would throw them into such utter confusion

that they wouldn't dare convict me." He grinned impishly at Meyerhoff.

"The paradox of Epimenides the Cretan. It really stopped them cold. They

knew I was an Earthmen, which meant that my statement that Earthmen

were liars was a lie, which meant that maybe I wasn't a liar, in which

case--oh, it was tailor-made."



"It sure was." Meyerhoff's voice was a snarl.



"Well, it made me out a liar in a class they couldn't approach, didn't

it?"



Meyerhoff's face was purple with anger. "Oh, indeed it did! And it put

all Earthmen in exactly the same class, too."



"So what's honor among thieves? I got off, didn't I?"



Meyerhoff turned on him fiercely. "Oh, you got off just fine. You scared

the living daylights out of them. And in an eon of lying they never have

run up against a short-circuit like that. You've also completely botched

any hope of ever setting up a trading alliance with Altair I, and that

includes uranium, too. Smart people don't gamble with loaded dice. You

scared them so badly they don't want anything to do with us."



Zeckler's grin broadened, and he leaned back luxuriously. "Ah, well.

After all, the Trading Alliance was your outlook, wasn't it? What a

pity!" He clucked his tongue sadly. "Me, I've got a fortune in credits

sitting back at the consulate waiting for me--enough to keep me on silk

for quite a while, I might say. I think I'll just take a nice, long

vacation."



Meyerhoff turned to him, and a twinkle of malignant glee appeared in his

eyes. "Yes, I think you will. I'm quite sure of it, in fact. Won't cost

you a cent, either."



"Eh?"



Meyerhoff grinned unpleasantly. He brushed an imaginary lint fleck from

his lapel, and looked up at Zeckler slyly. "That--uh--jury trial. The

Altairians weren't any too happy to oblige. They wanted to execute you

outright. Thought a trial was awfully silly--until they got their money

back, of course. Not too much--just three million credits."



Zeckler went white. "But that money was in banking custody!"



"Is that right? My goodness. You don't suppose they could have lost

those papers, do you?" Meyerhoff grinned at the little con-man. "And

incidentally, you're under arrest, you know."



A choking sound came from Zeckler's throat. "Arrest!"



"Oh, yes. Didn't I tell you? Conspiring to undermine the authority of

the Terran Trading Commission. Serious charge, you know. Yes, I think

we'll take a nice long vacation together, straight back to Terra. And

there I think you'll face a jury trial."



Zeckler spluttered. "There's no evidence--you've got nothing on me! What

kind of a frame are you trying to pull?"



"A lovely frame. Airtight. A frame from the bottom up, and you're

right square in the middle. And this time--" Meyerhoff tapped a

cigarette on his thumb with happy finality--"this time I don't think

you'll get off."



More

;