About two hours past noon of Planet Maggie's twenty-seven hour day, a
man called, "Criminal Alien Ube Kinlock!"
Surrounded by guards, I stiffly walked into an auditorium with a high,
peaked ceiling supported by heavy wooden beams. A few spectators sat in
rows of wooden benches. Tall windows stood open, and mechanisms with
rotating blades fanned the air, but the room was stifling. Toothies
chased each other across the beams.
At the end of the room, a man sat in a high box. As we approached, I
saw that he was a replica of the Joe Nordo portrait in the vestibule.
Carved in the molding around the top of the box was the legend, "His
Perfectness, Spencer Gaius Quesnay, the Joe Nordo Ideal."
The guards halted and made peculiar gestures, swiftly touching their
foreheads with extended hands. One announced, "Your Perfectness, we
bring Criminal Alien Ube Kinlock."
Behind a long desk below Spencer Gaius Quesnay's box sat five
men--large, tanned, and well provided with noses. A placard identified
the man in the center, who had gray in his hair, as, "Foreman Maximum
Rory J. N. Eijkman." He said, "Criminal Alien Kinlock broke many
Ordinances." He picked up a paper and read from it. "Broke 320 by
refusing to show papers to the shuttle pilot, Ypsilanti. Broke 419 when
attempted to ride the upper deck. Broke 481 by conversing with the
pilot."
The list of my defections grew. My movements had been observed from the
wall by something called scopeplate. Any slight suspicion that I had
flaunted an Ordinance was assumed to be proven fact. Even my use of
the cargo hoist was criminal, and my relationship with Betty Toal was
filled with offenses. I grunted indignantly in the head harness, but no
one listened. Perspiration drained from my body.
After weary minutes, Eijkman read the last of my foul deeds, which
was speaking to Toal in the outer room. Eijkman said, "Because of
many crimes, suggest he be charged with breaking 792, which covers
disrespect to people and customs of Planet Maggie."
An unusual noise came from the spectators. I twisted my head and saw
that they were slapping the palms of their hands together.
Eijkman glanced at the other men behind the desk. He frowned at me
and said, "Were you Maggiese, should recommend that you be reduced
to Farmer. Are reportedly an agent of the creeping monster, Galactic
Government. Were sent to kill the Hog. One alien with nothing but small
weapons cannot kill the Hog. Am always opposed to asking Government
aid. So--"
A man named Maximum Qasim Pierre Macready, according to his sign,
exclaimed, "Foreman, object! If the Hog is not killed, may as well find
another continent or island. If this alien--"
"The case concerns the alien, not the Hog," Eijkman said.
"Think it silly for an entire population to be scared by the Hog!"
cried J. N. Zengo Bartok, a man leaner than the others. "The alien is a
well known hunter. Suppose--"
Eijkman said, "Order!" He glared at me. "Sentencing the alien would
require appeal to foul Galactic Government. Recommend deportation."
I had anticipated being dragged away to a gas chamber, or an electric
chair, or some other savage torture device; but I still did not like
Eijkman's decree.
Eijkman said, "Ordinance 30: Alien tourists shall not stay on Maggie
longer than one week. That is, nine days or 243 hours. Must be above
air by 26:47 Threeday night."