"Alien delegation is here, sir," said the orderly.
"Don't send them in until I signal."
He strode to the window and looked out. The compound, at first glance,
seemed full of aliens. Actually there were only a dozen, he realized,
but they were clad in full panoply, bright red and harsh green robes,
carrying spears and ornamental swords. Half a dozen enlisted men were
watching them nervously from a distance, their hands ready to fly to
blasters instantly if necessary.
He weighed the choices one last time.
If he handed Leonards over, the temporary anger of the aliens would be
appeased--but perhaps at a long-range cost to Earth's prestige. Devall
had long regarded himself as an essentially weak man with a superb
instinct for camouflage--but would his yielding to the aliens imply to
the universe that all Earth was weak?
On the other hand, he thought, suppose he refused to release
Leonards to the aliens. Then he would be, in essence, bringing down
the overlord's thumb, letting the universe know that Earthmen were
responsible only to themselves and not to the peoples the worlds they
visited.
Either way, he realized, the standing of Earth in the galaxy's
estimation would suffer. One way, they would look like appeasing
weaklings; the other, like tyrants. He remembered a definition he had
once read: _melodrama is the conflict of right and wrong, tragedy the
conflict of right and right_. Both sides were right here. Whichever way
he turned, there would be difficulties.
And there was an additional factor: the boy. What if they executed him?
Family considerations seemed absurdly picayune at this moment, but
still, to hand his own nephew over for possible execution by an alien
people--
He took a deep breath, straightened his shoulders, sharpened the hard
gaze of his eyes. A glance at the mirror over the bookcase told him
he looked every inch the commanding officer; not a hint of the inner
conflict showed through.
He depressed the intercom stud. "Send in the high priest. Let the rest
of them wait outside."
* * * * *
The priest looked impossibly tiny and wrinkled, a gnome of a man whose
skin was fantastically gullied and mazed by extreme age. He wore a
green turban over his hairless head--a mark of deep mourning, Devall
knew.
The little alien bowed low, extending his pipestem arms behind his
back at a sharp angle, indicating respect. When he straightened, his
head craned back sharply, his small round eyes peering directly into
Devall's.
"The jury has been selected; the trial is ready to begin. Where is the
boy?"
Devall wished fleetingly he could have had the services of an
interpreter for this last interview. But that was impossible; this was
something he had to face alone, without help.
"The accused man is in his quarters," Devall said slowly. "First I want
to ask some questions, old one."
"Ask."
"If I give you the boy to try, will there be any chance of his
receiving the death penalty?"
"It is conceivable."