Kendall reached inside his jacket pocket for the small booklet of
identification papers. An icy shiver ran down his back.
The booklet was gone.
"What's the matter?" the official asked.
"My ID booklet is gone! I put it in my jacket just before I left the
ship; I must have lost it on my way over here."
"If that's the case, someone will return it," the Customs official
said. "It's of no use to anyone else. We'll send out a call for it.
Meanwhile, I'm afraid you'll have to remain inside the spaceport."
Kendall scowled. Of all the lousy time-wasting pieces of red-tape, he
thought. He felt trapped by bureaucracy. He didn't have time to waste
hanging around the spaceport tonight.
"We'll also ask for confirmation over the subradio," said the official.
"What is your home planet?"
"Rastol III, near Deneb."
"Very well. Even if we don't find your ID booklet, we can give you a
temporary pass if you are identified from Rastol by subradio."
Stone felt a cold trickle of perspiration forming on his forehead.
"That's going to take nearly twenty-four hours," he objected. "Isn't
there a faster way?"
The official shook his head and shrugged, the timeless gesture of all
bureaucrats. "I'm afraid not. Not unless we find your ID booklet."
* * * * *
Like a caged tiger, Kendall Stone paced the administration area of the
spaceport for an hour, hoping doggedly that the ID booklet would turn
up somewhere out on the field. But an hour later, there was still no
sign of the booklet, and Stone felt himself growing desperate. The
glowing ball of Sol had already set behind the western horizon. Night
had fallen--the night whose end would bring the death of Galth of
Rastol and of a thousand innocent, unsuspecting colonists.
Stone stared at the polychrome hues of the sunset for a long minute,
clenched his fists, and made his decision; there was only one thing to
do.
He strolled quietly around the spaceport, looking for a way out.
There were none which were unguarded; Earth didn't like unwanted or
unauthorized colonists sneaking in on them.
Finally, he chose one of the smaller gates at random and walked up to
the guard. The sign over the gate said: OFFICIAL PERSONNEL ONLY.
Kendall walked straight up to the guard as though he had every right
in the galaxy to go through the gate. The man looked up at him
unsuspiciously, as though waiting for Stone to produce his ID booklet.
Kendall kept walking toward him, putting his hand inside his jacket
and fumbling around as though searching for the booklet. "Must be here
someplace," he murmured, as he came within earshot.
When he was within three feet of the unsuspecting guard, Stone
withdrew his hand and swung his fist in a hard, short arc which landed
crunchingly on the point of the guard's chin. The man staggered and
groped groggily for his gun.
"No you don't!" Stone said quietly. He sent another driving fist into
the guard's solar plexus, and the man folded up like an empty potato
sack.
Stone caught him before he hit the ground. "Sorry, pal," he whispered,
"but I've got work to do." He lowered the guard gently to the ground.
The sudden shrill blast of a whistle broke the twilight silence
somewhere to his left. Someone had seen the attack. Kendall didn't wait
for further discussion. He ran at top speed through the gate and into
the gathering darkness beyond.
Fifteen minutes later he was in Mojave City.
* * * * *
The city, which had grown up around the spaceport, was a sprawling,
busy place. Stone headed straight into the heart of town.
He stopped in at the first store he met, and before the shopkeeper
could say anything, he burst out with, "I'm in a hurry, friend. Can you
tell me how to get to the Governor?"
The merchant, a small, pale man wearing a greasy apron, smiled and
said, "You won't be able to get to him easily, my good sir. You'll have
to see his Secretary. It's the way it's done."
"All right, where's his Secretary to be found?" Stone barked. He
received full directions on how to reach the Secretary's residence, and
snapped a "Thanks" and left.
It was a short trip by bus, but Stone decided to walk. Walking would
work off some of the nervous energy that was accumulating in him,
making him tense and keyed-up.
He reviewed the situation bitterly as he strode through the
brightly-lit streets.
The Rastolians were a peculiar race. They looked something like
reptiles walking on their hind feet, but they had warm blood and were
mammalian in several respects. The Government of Earth knew that much
about them.
What the Government didn't seem to know much about was the Rastolian
moral code. The Rastolians did not believe that any government had a
right to kill one of its citizens. Even murder could be punished only
by life imprisonment. Usually, though, a Rastolian convicted of murder
was simply given a gun with one shot in it and left alone in his cell.
Regardless of how despicable his crime may have been, no Rastolian was
so completely without honor that he would refuse to take the proper
steps to punish himself.
Galth of Rastol had been convicted and condemned. He had, the jury
found, murdered an Earthman in cold blood over a gambling dispute. But
if Earth sent him to the execution chamber, his fellow beings, outraged
over the injury and the insult to their way of life, would take steps
to avenge him. And that would be the end of the small colony of humans
on Rastol III.
Stone thought of his wife--who looked much too young to be the mother
of two children, who looked as fresh and desirable as she had the day
Stone had married her. She would perish with them. His sons; his home.
He shook his head bitterly. The tragedy could be averted if he could
reach the Governor's Secretary, if he could convince the Secretary that
there must be a stay of execution. The Government had to allow Galth
of Rastol the chance to kill himself in accordance with his people's
customs.
He glanced up at the street-sign. This was the street. It was a quiet,
residential block, lacking the fluorescent streetlamps of the business
district. He saw the house, and headed for it.
As he started up the long walk toward the house, two figures stepped
out of the shadows.
"Put up your hands, Mr. Stone," said the taller of the two. "The
Secretary wants to see you."
Stone frowned puzzledly, but made no resistance. He didn't care to
argue with a naked gun, and they were taking him where he was heading
anyway. He raised his hands and folded them behind his head, and let
them march him up the concrete pathway.
* * * * *
The Secretary was a heavy-set, heavy-jowled man with a smile on his
lips and a calculating look in his eyes. He sat comfortably in an
overinflated pneumochair, smoking a cigar.
"Well, Mr. Stone," he said, eyeing Kendall coldly, "may I ask you why
you broke away from the spaceport? That is a serious offense, you know."
Stone moistened dry lips. "I know, Mr. Secretary, but it was an
emergency. I lost my ID booklet, and I had to get to see you before it
was too late."
The Secretary ignored that. "What is your business, Mr. Stone?" he
asked, narrowing his eyes penetratingly. "Why have you come from Rastol
III?"
"I came to pick up a hundred pounds of Martian _valdone_," Stone
explained. "We use it on Rastol III to make antivirotic drugs in
combination with extracts from Apler's Weed. The weed only grows on two
planets, Rastol III and Vescalor IX."
The Secretary grinned complacently, but did not say anything. Stone
began to sweat.
"While I was on Mars, I heard that the Rastolian native, Galth, was to
be executed, so I came here to ask the Governor to stay the execution."
He went on to explain in detail what would happen if Galth were to be
executed.
When he finished, he stared at the Secretary, searching the man's face
for some sign of interest. "Would you phone the Governor and tell him
what I've just told you?" he asked hoarsely.
"I'm afraid we can't do anything like that on the word of an
unidentified man, Mr. Stone," the Secretary said calmly. "As soon as
your identification comes through--"
"But that will be too late! Can't you see that this may mean the death
of thousands of innocent people?"
The Secretary held up his hand, palm out, for silence. "I'm sorry, Mr.
Stone. I can't take the unsubstantiated word of every crackpot that
comes in here." He reached over and turned on the visiphone. "I'm going
to have to call the police," he said. He looked over at the shorter of
the two men who had brought Stone in. "Miller, take Mr. Stone into the
other room and hold him until the police arrive."