Yon the Fisher felt expansive. At last, after twelve long years of
waiting, he would have his spaceship! Of course, he had no intention
of taking the crew of the _Caduceus_ anywhere; he wanted no spaceship
but his own on Cardigan's Green. But now that a part of his dream was
about to come true, he felt like making a grand gesture. He would throw
a party. He was the second most important man on Cardigan's Green now,
and eventually the old Commander would die, and Yon the Fisher would be
elected.
He would _really_ throw a party then, but now he would do a good job.
He would entertain this Islander in the grand manner.
The entertainment was held in a large stone hall. It was poorly lighted
and almost bare of ornamentation. By the time everything was ready, the
sun had set, and the hall was illuminated by oil torches set in sconces
along the walls.
It was strictly a stag affair, which, as far as Hale was concerned,
made it a very dull party indeed. There were speeches galore, and Yon
the Fisher made about every third one.
Hungry as he was, it took a little time for Hale to work up enough
courage to try the food placed before him. He had eaten foods on half
a thousand different planets, but a thing like a pickled centipede had
never been set before him before, and its pale blue-green color and
translucent body did nothing to endear it to him. He finally tried one,
after closing his eyes seraphically, as though he wanted to enjoy it to
the fullest. It was delicious.
The beverage was a purplish, sour-tasting ferment that produced a nice
glow. Hale drank three cups of it before he thought to wonder if it
were made from the purple berry with the white worms inside. He wisely
refrained from asking, and, after a few more cups, it ceased to worry
him at all.
As the night went on, the party became more and more boisterous.
Everyone had plenty of the purple ferment, and the conversation became
more and more interesting as it made less and less sense.
It must have been rather early in the morning when the incident
occurred that both shocked Hale back into sobriety and gave him a new
zest for life.
As is usual in parties of that sort, the host somehow managed to
underestimate the amount of liquor that would be consumed. The supply
ran out, and Yon the Fisher had to send out for more.
"La!" he cried as he turned up the last earthenware jug, only to find
a bare half-cupful within. "Out of juice! Are we all out? No more?"
He gazed around, as though he expected any full jugs to stand up and
announce themselves. None did. "Look around!" he bawled. "There must be
another."
The whole group of thirty-odd men began turning jugs upside down. One
of them had a little in it, but the man who turned it had failed to
provide a receptacle, and it splashed on the floor. There were no full
jugs.
"Ferek! You, Ferek!" Yon called loudly. One of the men stood up and
came toward him. "Ferek, go get us some more. Wake up Lan the Brewer.
Here--take this." He opened a leather bag that hung at the cincture of
his robe and spilled out a handful of sparkling, blue-white stones. He
selected one and handed it over. "And mind you make it snappy, Ferek;
we're all thirsty!"
Ferek turned on his heel and fled, but Leland Hale did not watch
his departure. Hale was staring at the handful of stones in Yon the
Fisher's palm.
Diamonds! Perfect, blue-white octahedrons! He knew what they were; the
vital tuning crystals for the subspace radio. So _that_ was what the
_Morris_ had been carrying! The little crystals that were worth more
than all the rest of a subspace radio, including installation. And they
were using them as a medium of exchange!
Hale mentally rubbed his hands together, and the glitter of promised
profit gleamed in his eyes.
When Ferek came back with the purple juice, fourteen jugs of it, Hale
was ready for the fun to begin.
* * * * *
He woke up the next morning with a head that felt the way it deserved
to feel. He vaguely remembered being courteously escorted back to "the
brig" and ceremoniously locked in with the best of good wishes. He'd
felt fine then; he didn't now.
He sat up, wishing he had his pack back so that he could get a couple
of aspirin tablets.
Then the noise came to his ears--an excited muttering outside the
window. He got to his feet carefully and walked over to the barred
opening.
Outside, a group of men were standing across the narrow street from his
cell. They seemed to be staring at the window, and when Hale's face
appeared, they moved back a little, almost as though he'd struck at
them. At the same time, the muttering ceased.
"What's going on out there?" he asked in his heavy baritone voice.
"It's the Plague," said one of them. Hale recognized him as the
gun-wielding guard of the day before.
"The Plague?"
"That's right. Yon the Fisher has it. Seven others. I think you may
have it."
"Don't be silly!" Hale snapped. "I feel fine. What kind of a plague is
this?"
"Why--it's just the Plague."
"I mean, what are the symptoms?"
"Cough. Watery eyes. Nose runs. Then a fever and you die."
"And you say Yon the Fisher has it?" Hale felt things were going even
better than he had expected. But if the Fisher were to die, the whole
deal might fall through. "Look here," he said, "I've got some stuff
in my pack that will fix those boys up in no time. Just let me out of
here, and I'll--"
The muttering in the crowd began again, and the guard said: "I can't
let you out without permission from Yon the Fisher."
"Now, look here," Hale began.
Hale had a persuasive tongue. Even in a strange dialect, he could,
given time enough, work men around to his way of thinking. Some years
before, according to the court records of the Supreme People's Court
of Vega VII, one Leland Hale had been indicted for kidnap-murder, a
crime which can only be tried on Vega VII by the SPC. Five learned
judges, wise in the law, heard the case. At the same time, a full tape
transcript was made. The prosecution presented its case and amply
proved motive, opportunity, and identity. Hale defended himself, using
the charts and evidence presented by the prosecution.
No logic robot would have accepted the defendant's testimony for
more than the first paragraph, but the five learned judges listened
carefully, believing that they were weighing both sides impartially.
When it was over, the vote was three-two in favor of acquittal. The
majority opinion apologized to Mr. Hale for inconveniencing him by
bringing him to trial. There was no minority opinion; the other two
judges merely abstained from voting.
When Hale's defense was subjected to semantic analysis, it was
discovered that his statements, taken at face value without the
emotional content, were a confession and admission of guilt!
The press had a field day. The three judges of the majority were
forced to resign by public opinion, and the other two left the bench
soon after. The entire judicial system of Vega VII was revamped in a
frenzied flurry of legislative activity.
But it was too late to do anything about Leland Hale--he was three
sectors away by that time, and the law couldn't touch him anyway.
Hale was glib, clever, and persuasive. Within fifteen minutes, he was
heading towards the home of Yon the Fisher with his pack on his back
and a goodly crowd following well behind.
Hale rapped on the door and announced himself. A feminine voice from
within said: "Go away! The Plague is here!"
"Never mind! I've had it! I'm immune! Let me in!" He tried the door
and found it unlocked. He stepped in--and stopped.
Before him, staring wide-eyed, was the most beautiful honey-blonde he
had ever seen.
_If all their women look like this_, Hale thought, _it's no wonder they
keep them at home!_
"Where is Yon the Fisher?" he asked aloud.
"In--in the bedroom," she said softly, pointing.
Hale strode in. Yon was lying on a pallet of the same rough gray-brown
material that his robe was made of, his breath heavy and rasping. "You
should not have come here, Leland Hale," he said. "You'll get the
Plague and die."
"Rot," said Leland Hale. "Here, take these." He gave Yon twenty-five
grains of aspirin, two hundred milligrams of thiamine hydrochloride,
and five hundred milligrams of ascorbic acid. He made the Village
Officer swallow them with a good slug of the purple ferment and told
him to relax. For good measure, he put two capsules of a powerful
laxative on a dish beside the bed. "Take one of those in two hours,
and the other one four hours later." He turned to the woman, who had
followed him into the room. "Don't give him any solid food for two
days--just soup."
He looked the girl up and down again, then turned back towards the
pallet. "I forgot one pill," he said. He gave Yon the Fisher half a
grain of narcolene.
"What about Caryl?" asked Yon, indicating his wife. "Will she catch the
Plague?"
"Don't worry, Yon," Hale assured him. "I'm going to fix her right up."
He gave her ten grains of aspirin and made her wash it down with a full
cup of the purple liquor. Then he gave her ten more, which also had
to be followed by a full cup of juice. After that came ascorbic acid,
chased with a third cup of liquor.
"Now just sit down a minute while that takes effect," he said
ambiguously. She sat down on a stone bench near a big slab of stone
which served as a table.
"Will Yon really be all right?" she asked. "Really?"
"I guarantee it," Hale said. Over on the pallet, Yon slowly closed his
eyes.
"And I won't catch it?" There was a note of fear in her voice.
"If you do, it will be mild," Hale said. From the pallet came the sound
of soft snoring. The narcolene had taken effect.
And something else was taking effect. Caryl looked up at him and
blinked. "I feel queer," she said. As Hale had suspected, drinking was
strictly For Men Only on Cardigan's Green.
"It's just the medicine," Hale told her.
"Mr. Hale," she said softly, "you're a very brave and very wonderful
man. I don't know how I can ever repay you for what you've done for us."
Succinctly, Hale told her.
She looked at him, wide-eyed. "But--"
"Precisely," said Leland Hale.