His choice would govern a boy's fate--and,
incidentally, Earth's entire future.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Infinity March 1958.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The sun had gone down blood-red, and Colonel John Devall slept poorly
because of it. The atmosphere on Markin was not normally conducive to
blood-red sunsets, though they did happen occasionally on evenings
when the blue of sunlight was scattered particularly well. The Marks
connected red sunsets with approaching trouble. Colonel Devall, who
headed the Terran cultural and military mission to Markin, was more
cultural than military himself, and so was willing to accept the Markin
belief that the sunset was a premonition of conflict.
He was tall, well-made and erect in bearing, with the sharp bright eyes
and crisp manner of the military man. He successfully tried to project
an appearance of authoritative officerhood, and his men respected and
feared the image he showed them.
His degree was in anthropology. The military education was an
afterthought, but a shrewd one; it had brought him command of the
Markin outpost. The Department of Extraterrestrial Affairs insisted
that all missions to relatively primitive alien worlds be staffed and
headed by military men--and, Devall reasoned, so long as I keep up the
outward show, who's to know that I'm not the tough soldier they think I
am? Markin was a peaceful enough world. The natives were intelligent,
fairly highly advanced culturally if not technically, easily dealt with
on a rational being-to-being basis.
Which explains why Devall slept badly the night of the red sun. Despite
his elegant posture and comportment, he regarded himself essentially as
a bookish, un-military man. He had some doubts as to his own possible
behavior in an unforeseen time of crisis. The false front of his
officerhood might well crumble away under stress, and he knew it.
He dozed off, finally, toward morning, having kicked the covers to the
floor and twisted the sheets into crumpled confusion. It was a warmish
night--most of them were, on Markin--but he felt chilled.
He woke late, only a few minutes before officers' mess, and dressed
hurriedly in order to get there on time. As commanding officer, of
course, he had the privilege of sleeping as late as he pleased--but
getting up with the others was part of the task Devall imposed on
himself. He donned the light summer uniform, slapped depilator hastily
on his tanned face, hooked on his formal blaster and belt, and
signalled to his orderly that he was awake and ready.
The Terran enclave covered ten acres, half an hour's drive from one of
the largest Markin villages. An idling jeep waited outside Devall's
small private dome, and he climbed in, nodding curtly at the orderly.
"Morning, Harris."
"Good morning, sit. Sleep well?"
It was a ritual by now. "Very well," Devall responded automatically,
as the jeep's turbos thrummed once and sent the little car humming
across the compound to the mess hall. Clipped to the seat next to
Devall was his daily morning program-sheet, prepared for him by the
staffman-of-the-day while he slept. This morning's sheet was signed by
Dudley, a major of formidable efficiency--Space Service through and
through, a Military Wing career man and nothing else. Devall scanned
the assignments for the morning, neatly written out in Dudley's crabbed
hand.
_Kelly, Dorfman, Mellors, Steber on Linguistic Detail, as usual. Same
assignment as yesterday, in town._
_Haskell on medic duty. Blood samples; urinalysis._
_Matsuoko to maintenance staff (through Wednesday)._
_Jolli on zoo detail._
_Leonards, Meyer, Rodriguez on assigned botanical field trip, two days.
Extra jeep assigned for specimen collection._
Devall scanned the rest of the list, but, as expected, Dudley had done
a perfect job of deploying the men where they would be most useful and
most happy. Devall thought briefly about Leonards, on the botanical
field trip. A two-day trip might take them through the dangerous
rain-forest to the south; Devall felt a faint flicker of worry. The boy
was his nephew, his sister's son--a reasonably competent journeyman
botanist with the gold bar still untarnished on his shoulder. This was
the boy's first commission; he had been assigned to Devall's unit at
random, as a new man. Devall had concealed his relationship to Leonards
from the other men, knowing it might make things awkward for the boy,
but he still felt a protective urge.
_Hell, the kid can take care of himself_, Devall thought, and
scribbled his initials at the bottom of the sheet and clipped it back
in place; it would be posted while the men were cleaning their quarters
and the officers ate, and by 0900 everyone would be out on his day's
assignment. There was so much to do, Devall thought, and so little time
to do it. There were so many worlds--
He quitted the jeep and entered the mess hall. Officers' mess was a
small well-lit alcove to the left of the main hall; as Devall entered
he saw seven men standing stiffly at attention, waiting for him.
He knew they hadn't been standing that way all morning; they had
snapped to attention only when their lookout--probably Second
Lieutenant Leonards, the youngest--had warned them he was coming.
Well, he thought, it doesn't matter much. As long as appearance is
preserved. The form.
"Good morning, gentlemen," he said crisply, and took his place at the
head of the table.
* * * * *
For a while, it looked as if it were going to turn out a pretty good
day. The sun rose in a cloudless sky, and the thermometer tacked to
the enclave flagstaff registered 93 degrees. When Markin got hot, it
got _hot_. By noon, Devall knew by now, they could expect something
like 110 in the shade--and then, a slow, steady decline into the low
eighties by midnight.
The botanical crew departed on time, rumbling out of camp in its two
jeeps, and Devall stood for a moment on the mess hall steps watching
them go, watching the other men head for their assigned posts.
Stubble-faced Sergeant Jolli saluted him as he trotted across the
compound to the zoo, where he would tend the little menagerie of Markin
wildlife the expedition would bring back to Earth at termination. Wiry
little Matsuoko passed by, dragging a carpenter's kit. The linguistic
team climbed into its jeep and drove off toward town, where they would
continue their studies in the Markin tongue.
They were all busy. The expedition had been on Markin just four
months; eight months was left of their time. Unless an extension of
stay came through, they'd pack up and return to Earth for six months
of furlough-cum-report-session, and then it would be on to some other
world for another year of residence.
Devall was not looking forward to leaving Markin. It was a pleasant
world, if a little on the hot side, and there was no way of knowing
what the _next_ world would be like. A frigid ball of frozen methane,
perhaps, where they would spend their year bundled into Valdez
breathing-suits and trying to make contact with some species of
intelligent ammonia-breathing molluscs. Better the devil we know,
Devall felt.
But he had to keep moving on. This was his eleventh world, and there
would be more to come. Earth had barely enough qualified survey teams
to cover ten thousand worlds half-adequately, and life abounded on
ten _million_. He would retain whichever members of the current team
satisfied him by their performance, replace those who didn't fit in,
and go off to his next job eight months from now.
He turned on the office fan and took down the logbook; unfastening the
binder, he slipped the first blank sheet into the autotype. For once he
avoided his standard blunder; he cleared his throat _before_ switching
on the autotype, thereby sparing the machine its customary difficulties
in finding a verbal equivalent for his _Br-ghhumph_!
The guidelight glowed a soft red. Devall said, "Fourth April,
two-seven-zero-five. Colonel John F. Devall recording. One hundred
nineteenth day of our stay on Markin, World 7 of System 1106-sub-a.
"Temperature, 93 at 0900; wind gentle, southerly--"
He went on at considerable length, as he did each morning. Finishing
off the required details, he gathered up the sheaf of specialty-reports
that had been left at his door the night before, and began to read
abstracts into the log; the autotype clattered merrily, and a machine
somewhere in the basement of the towering E-T Affairs Building in Rio
de Janeiro was reproducing his words as the subradio hookup transmitted
them.
It was dull work. Devall often wondered whether he might have been
ultimately happier doing simple anthropological field work, as he had
once done, instead of taking on the onerous burden of routine that an
administrative post entailed. _But someone has to shoulder the burden_,
he thought.
_Earthman's burden. We're the most advanced race; we help the others.
But no one twists our arms to come out to these worlds and share what
we have. Call it an inner compulsion._
He intended to work until noon; in the afternoon a Markin high priest
was coming to the enclave to see him, and the interview would probably
take almost till sundown. But about 1100 he was interrupted suddenly by
the sound of jeeps unexpectedly entering the compound, and he heard the
clamor of voices--both Terran voices and alien ones.
A fearful argument seemed to be in progress, but the group was too far
away and Devall's knowledge of Markin too uncertain for him to be able
to tell what was causing the rumpus. In some annoyance he snapped off
the autotype, rose from his chair, and peered through the window into
the yard.
Two jeeps had drawn up--the botanical crew, gone less than two hours.
Four natives surrounded the three Earthmen. Two of the natives clutched
barbed spears; a third was a woman, the fourth an old man. They were
all protesting hotly over something.
Devall scowled; from the pale, tense, unhappy faces of the men in the
jeep, he could tell something was very wrong. That blood-red sunset had
foretold accurately, he thought, as he dashed down the steps from his
study.
Seven pairs of eyes focussed on him as he strode toward the group:
eight glittering alien eyes, warmly golden, and six shifting, uneasy
Terran eyes.
"What's going on out here?" Devall demanded.
The aliens set up an immediate babble of noise, chattering away like a
quartet of squirrels. Devall had never seen any of them behaving this
way before.
"_Quiet!_" he roared.
In the silence that followed he said very softly, "Lieutenant Leonards,
can you tell me exactly what all this fuss is about?"
The boy looked very frightened; his jaws were stiffly clenched, his
lips bloodless. "Y-yes, sir," he said stammeringly. "Begging your
pardon, sir. I seem to have killed an alien."
* * * * *
In the relative privacy of his office, Devall faced them all
again--Leonards, sitting very quietly staring at his gleaming boots;
Meyer and Rodriguez, who had accompanied him on the ill-starred
botanizing journey. The aliens were outside; there would be time to
calm them down later.
"Okay," Devall said. "Leonards, I want you to repeat the story, exactly
as you just told it to me, and I'll get it down on the autotype. Start
talking when I point to you."
He switched on the autotype and said, "Testimony of Second Lieutenant
Paul Leonards, Botanist, delivered in presence of commanding officer on
4 April 2705." He jabbed a forefinger at Leonards.
The boy's face looked waxy, beads of sweat dotted his pale vein-traced
forehead, and his blond hair was tangled and twisted. He clamped his
lips together in an agonized grimace, scratched the back of one hand,
and finally said, "Well, we left the enclave about 0900 this morning,
bound south and westerly on a tour of the out-lying regions. Our
purpose was to collect botanical specimens. I--was in charge of the
group, which also included Sergeants Meyer and Rodriguez."
He paused. "We--we accomplished little in the first half-hour; this
immediate area had already been thoroughly covered by us anyway. But
about 0945 Meyer noticed a heavily wooded area not far to the left of
the main road, and called it to my attention. I suggested we stop and
investigate. It was impossible to penetrate the wooded area in our
jeeps, so we proceeded on foot. I left Rodriguez to keep watch over our
gear while we were gone.
"We made our way through a close-packed stand of deciduous angiosperm
trees of a species we had already studied, and found ourselves in a
secluded area of natural growth, including several species which we
could see were previously uncatalogued. We found one in particular--a
shrub consisting of a single thick succulent green stalk perhaps four
feet high, topped by a huge gold and green composite flower head. We
filmed it in detail, took scent samples, pollen prints, and removed
several leaves."
Devall broke in suddenly. "You didn't pick the flower itself? Devall
speaking."
"Of course not. It was the only specimen in the vicinity, and it's not
our practice to destroy single specimens for the sake of collecting.
But I did remove several leaves from the stalk. And the moment I did
that, a native sprang at me from behind a thick clump of ferns.
"He was armed with one of those notched spears. Meyer saw him first
and yelled, and I jumped back just as the alien came charging forward
with his spear. I managed to deflect the spear with the outside of
my arm and was not hurt. The alien fell back a few feet and shouted
something at me in his language, which I don't understand too well as
yet. Then he raised his spear and menaced me with it. I was carrying
the standard-issue radial blaster. I drew it and ordered him in his own
language to lower his spear, that we meant no harm. He ignored me and
charged a second time. I fired in self-defense, trying to destroy the
spear or at worst wound his arm, but he spun round to take the full
force of the charge, and died instantly." Leonards shrugged. "That's
about it, sir. We came back here instantly."
"Umm. Devall speaking. Sergeant Meyer, would you say this account is
substantially true?"
Meyer was a thin-faced dark-haired man who was usually smiling, but he
wasn't smiling now. "This is Sergeant Meyer. I'd say that Lieutenant
Leonards told the story substantially as it occurred. Except that the
alien didn't seem overly fierce despite his actions, in my opinion.
I myself thought he was bluffing both times he charged, and I was a
little surprised when Lieutenant Leonards shot him. That's all, sir."
Frowning, the colonel said, "Devall speaking. This has been testimony
in the matter of the alien killed today by Lieutenant Leonards." He
snapped off the autotype, stood up, and leaned forward across the desk,
staring sternly at the trio of young botanists facing him. _These next
few days are going to be my test_, he thought tensely.
"Sergeant Rodriguez, since you weren't present at the actual incident
I'll consider you relieved of all responsibility in this matter,
and your testimony won't be required. Report to Major Dudley for
re-assignment for the remainder of the week."
"Thank you, sir." Rodriguez saluted, grinned gratefully, and was gone.
"As for you two, though," Devall said heavily, "you'll both have
to be confined to base pending the outcome of the affair. I don't
need to tell you how serious this can be, whether the killing was in
self-defense or not. Plenty of peoples don't understand the concept of
self-defense." He moistened his suddenly dry lips. "I don't anticipate
too many complications growing out of this. But these are alien people
on an alien world, and their behavior is never certain."
He glanced at Leonards. "Lieutenant, I'll have to ask for your own
safety that you remain in your quarters until further notice."
"Yes, sir. Is this to be considered arrest?"
"Not yet," Devall said. "Meyer, attach yourself to the maintenance
platoon for the remainder of the day. We'll probably need your
testimony again before this business is finished. Dismissed, both of
you."
When they were gone, Devall sank back limply in his webfoam chair and
stared at his fingertips. His hands were quivering as if they had a
life of their own.
_John F. Devall, Ph.D. Anthropology, Columbia '82, commissioned Space
Service Military Wing '87, and now you're in trouble for the first
time._
_How are you going to handle it, Jack?_ he asked himself. _Can you
prove that that silver eagle really belongs on your shoulder?_
He was sweating. He felt very tired. He shut his eyes for a moment,
opened them, and said into the intercom, "Send in the Marks."
* * * * *
Five of them entered, made ceremonial bows, and ranged themselves
nervously along the far wall as if they were firing-squad candidates.
Accompanying them came Steber of the linguistics team, hastily recalled
from town to serve as an interpreter for Devall. The colonel's
knowledge of Markin was adequate but sketchy; he wanted Steber around
in case any fine points had to be dealt with in detail.
The Marks were humanoid in structure, simian in ancestry, which should
have made them close kin to the Terrans in general physiological
structure. They weren't. Their skin was a rough, coarse, pebble-grained
affair, dark-toned, running to muddy browns and occasional deep
purples. Their jaws had somehow acquired a reptilian hinge in the
course of evolution, which left them practically chinless but capable
of swallowing food in huge lumps that would strangle an Earthman. Their
eyes, liquid gold in color, were set wide on their heads, allowing
enormous peripheral vision; their noses were flat buttons, in some
cases barely perceptible.
Devall saw two younger men, obviously warriors; they had left their
weapons outside, but their jaws jutted belligerently and the darker of
the pair had virtually dislocated his jaw in rage. The woman looked
like all the Mark women, shapeless and weary behind her shabby cloak of
furs. The remaining pair were priests, one old, one _very_ old. It was
this ancient to whom Devall addressed his first remarks.
"I'm sorry that our meeting this afternoon has to be one of sorrow.
I had been looking forward to a pleasant talk. But it's not always
possible to predict what lies ahead."
"Death lay ahead for him who was killed," the old priest said in the
dry, high-pitched tone of voice that Devall knew implied anger and
scorn.
The woman let out a sudden wild ululation, half a dozen wailing words
jammed together so rapidly Devall could not translate them. "What did
she say?" he asked Steber.
The interpreter flattened his palms together thoughtfully. "She's the
woman of the man who was killed. She was--demanding revenge," he said
in English.
Apparently the two young warriors were friends of the dead man.
Devall's eyes scanned the five hostile alien faces. "This is a highly
regrettable incident," he said in Markin. "But I trust it won't affect
the warm relationship between Earthman and Markin that has prevailed so
far. This misunderstanding--"
"Blood must be atoned," said the smaller and less impressively garbed
of the two priests. He was probably the local priest, Devall thought,
and he was probably happy to have his superior on hand to back him up.
The colonel flicked sweat from his forehead. "The young man who
committed the act will certainly be disciplined. Of course you realize
that a killing in self-defense cannot be regarded as murder, but I
admit the young man did act unwisely and will suffer the consequences."
It didn't sound too satisfying to Devall, and, indeed, the aliens
hardly seemed impressed.
The high priest uttered two short, sharp syllables. They were not
words in Devall's vocabulary, and he looked over at Steber in appeal.
"He said Leonards was trespassing on sacred ground. He said the crime
they're angry about is not murder but blasphemy."
Despite the heat, Devall felt a sudden chill. _Not ... murder? This is
going to be complicated_, he realized gloomily.
To the priest he said, "Does this change the essential nature of the
case? He'll still be punished by us for his action, which can't be
condoned."
"You may punish him for murder, if you so choose," the high priest
said, speaking very slowly, so Devall would understand each word. The
widow emitted some highly terrestrial-sounding sobs; the young men
glowered stolidly. "Murder is not our concern," the high priest went
on. "He has taken life; life belongs to Them, and They withdraw it
whenever They see fit, by whatever means They care to employ. But he
has also desecrated a sacred flower on sacred ground. These are serious
crimes, to us. Added to this he has shed the blood of a Guardian,
on sacred ground. We ask you to turn him over to us for trial by a
priestly court on this double charge of blasphemy. Afterward, perhaps,
you may try him by your own laws, for whichever one of them he has
broken."
For an instant all Devall saw was the old priest's implacable leathery
face; then he turned and caught the expression of white-faced
astonishment and dismay Steber displayed.
It took several seconds for the high priest's words to sink in,
and several more before Devall came to stunned realization of the
implications. _They want to try an Earthman_, he thought numbly. _By
their own law. In their own court. And mete out their own punishment._
This had abruptly ceased being a mere local incident, an affair to
clean up, note in the log, and forget. It was no longer a matter of
simple reparations for the accidental killing of an alien.
Now, thought Devall dully, it was a matter of galactic importance. And
he was the man who had to make all the decisions.
* * * * *
He visited Leonards that evening, after the meal. By that time everyone
in the camp knew what had happened, though Devall had ordered Steber to
keep quiet about the alien demand to try Leonards themselves.
The boy looked up as Devall entered his room, and managed a soggy
salute.
"At ease, Lieutenant." Devall sat on the edge of Leonards' bed and
squinted up at him. "Son, you're in very hot water now."
"Sir, I--"
"I know. You didn't mean to pluck leaves off the sacred bramble-bush,
and you couldn't help shooting down the native who attacked you. And
if this business were as simple as all that, I'd reprimand you for
hotheadedness and let it go at that. But--"
"But what, sir?"
Devall scowled and forced himself to face the boy squarely. "But the
aliens want to try you themselves. They aren't so much concerned with
the murder as they are with your double act of blasphemy. That withered
old high priest wants to take you before an ecclesiastical court."
"You won't allow _that_, of course, will you, Colonel?" Leonards seemed
confident that such an unthinkable thing could never happen.
"I'm not so sure, Paul," Devall said quietly, deliberately using the
boy's first name.
"_What_, sir?"
"This is evidently something very serious you've committed. That high
priest is calling a priestly convocation to deal with you. They'll be
back here to get you tomorrow at noon, he said."
"But you wouldn't turn me over to them, sir! After all, I was on duty;
I had no knowledge of the offense I was committing. Why, it's none of
their business!"
"Make _them_ see that," Devall said flatly. "They're aliens. They don't
understand Terran legal codes. They don't _want_ to hear about our
laws; by theirs, you've blasphemed, and blasphemers must be punished.
This is a law-abiding race on Markin. They're an ethically advanced
society, regardless of the fact that they're not technologically
advanced. Ethically they're on the same plane we are."