Being accused of a murder you can't remember is one thing; remembering a
murder you have been accused of is another thing entirely. Such evidence
is hard to disbelieve.
Barrent tried to sort out his feelings on the matter. Before his visit
to the Dream Shop he had never felt himself a murderer, no matter what
the Earth authorities had accused him of. At worst, he had thought that
he might have killed a man in a sudden uncontrollable fit of rage. But
to plan and perform a murder in cold blood....
Why had he done it? Had his lust for revenge been so great as to throw
off all the restraint of Earth's civilization? Apparently so. He had
killed, and someone had informed on him, and a judge had sentenced him
to Omega. He was a murderer on a criminal's planet. To live here
successfully, he simply had to follow his natural bias toward murder.
And yet, Barrent found this extremely difficult to do. He had
surprisingly little taste for bloodshed. On Free Citizen's Day,
although he went into the streets with his needlebeam, he couldn't bring
himself to slaughter any of the lower classes. He didn't want to kill.
It was a ridiculous prejudice, considering where and what he was; but
there it was. No matter how often Tem Rend or Joe lectured him on his
Citizen's duties, Barrent still found murder quite distasteful.
He sought the aid of a psychiatrist, who told him that his rejection of
murder had its roots in an unhappy childhood. The phobia had been
further complicated by the traumatic qualities of his experience in the
Dream Shop. Because of this, murder, the highest social good, had become
repugnant to him. This antimurder neurosis in a man eminently suited for
the art of killing would, the psychiatrist said, inevitably lead to
Barrent's destruction. The only solution was to displace the neurosis.
The psychiatrist suggested immediate treatment in a sanitarium for the
criminally non-murderous.
Barrent visited a sanitarium, and heard the mad inmates screaming about
goodness, fair play, the sanctity of life, and other obscenities. He had
no intention of joining them. Perhaps he was sick, but he wasn't _that_
sick!
His friends told him that his uncooperative attitude was bound to get
him into trouble. Barrent agreed; but he hoped, by killing only when it
became necessary, that he would escape the observation of the highly
placed individuals who administered the law.
For several weeks his plan seemed to work. He ignored the increasingly
peremptory notes from the Dream Shop and did not return to services at
the Wee Coven. Business prospered, and Barrent spent his spare time
studying the effects of the rarer poisons and practicing with his
needlebeam. He often thought about the girl. He still had the gun she
had lent him. He wondered if he would ever see her again.
And he thought about Earth. Since his visit to the Dream Shop, he had
occasional flashes of recall, isolated pictures of a weathered stone
building, a stand of live oaks, the curve of a river seen through
willows. This half-remembered Earth filled him with an almost unbearable
longing. Like most of the citizens of Omega, his only real wish was to
go home.
And that was impossible.
The days passed, and when trouble came, it came unexpectedly. One night
there was a heavy knocking at his door. Half asleep, Barrent answered
it. Four uniformed men pushed their way inside and told him he was under
arrest.
"What for?" Barrent asked.
"Non-drug addiction," one of the men told him. "You have three minutes
to dress."
"What's the penalty?"
"You'll find out in court," the man said. He winked at the other guards
and added, "But the only way to cure a nonaddict is to kill him. Eh?"
Barrent dressed.
* * * * *
He was taken to a room in the sprawling Department of Justice. The room
was called the Kangaroo Court, in honor of ancient Anglo-Saxon judicial
proceeding. Across the hall from it, also of antique derivation, was the
Star Chamber. Just past that was the Court of Last Appeal.
The Kangaroo Court was divided in half by a high wooden screen, for it
was fundamental to Omegan justice that the accused should not see his
judge nor any of the witnesses against him.
"Let the prisoner rise," a voice said from behind the screen. The voice,
thin, flat and emotionless, came through a small amplifier. Barrent
could barely understand the words; tone and inflection were lost, as had
been planned for. Even in speaking, the judge remained anonymous.
"Will Barrent," the judge said, "you have been brought before this court
on a major charge of non-drug addiction and a minor charge of religious
impiety. On the minor count we have the sworn statement of a priest. On
the major count we have the testimony of the Dream Shop. Can you refute
either of these charges?"