Finally Khorwiss slumped back dejectedly.
“Your reference stands, Submaster Jarnes,” Figawn observed. “The tax rate is the local government’s prerogative, but it cannot be selectively applied. It must apply equally to all.”
Jarnes got to his feet. “It does apply equally to all, Your Eminence.”
Khorwiss leaped up, arms waving. “Exception! Exception! First, the valuation bases for these taxes are wildly inflated.”
“Exception!” Jarnes shouted. “Those values were attested to this chamber by Wembling and Company!”
Justice Figawn imposed order with a gesture. The merest flicker of a smile touched his lips as he inclined his head to Jarnes. “My congratulations, Submaster Jarnes. Your exception is allowed. Wembling and Company did indeed certify the valuations that their counsel now calls wildly inflated, and I can and do accept them as a proper basis for taxation. Further, I affirm the right of the people of Langri to set their own tax rates. But I must consider Wembling and Company’s charge of selective taxation.”
“There is none, Your Eminence,” Jarnes said. “The ten-for-one tax rate is applied equally to all.”
“Exception!” Khorwiss bleated. “No citizen of Langri owns more than a grass hut. What is ten times the value of a grass hut? Whereas Wembling and Company—”
“Silence!” Figawn roared. He sat back to contemplate the situation. “Will the natives in fact be paying taxes, Submaster Jarnes?” he asked finally.
“Certainly, Your Eminence. The same tax rate applies to all, and I have the tax rolls here for your examination. Further, I object to that term, ‘grass hut.’ These are well-constructed dwellings, requiring several days’ labor by a crew of highly skilled workers to build them, and no grass is used in their construction. I would like to see my eminent colleague produce an example of the woven fiber matting that is so well suited for dwelling walls on the world of Langri. Only the most skilled of the natives are able to weave it. I offer in evidence a report from one Aric Hort, a trained anthropologist and a deputy marshal on Langri, concerning his own efforts to build one of those maligned grass huts. I further point out that these dwellings are also taxed according to their locations, a variable land-value factor that applies only to community dwelling sites and thus is not imposed on the landholdings of Wembling and Company.”
“Accepted as stated,” the justice said. “I’ll now take your cases on the subject of selective taxation.”
This time Jarnes posted a single reference and sat back to enjoy Khorwiss’ perspiring efforts to dislodge it. The other counsel’s postings appeared, one after the other, and the computer consigned them to oblivion with its mocking ping. Khorwiss frantically shuffled his reference disks and frequently turned to the reference console to search something new.
Another posting, and a buzzer rasped. “Duplicated reference, Master Khorwiss,” Clerk Wyland said.
Khorwiss shrugged and posted another reference. Again the buzzer sounded. “Duplicated reference, Master Khorwiss.”
Justice Figawn leaned forward. “Come, Master Khorwiss. Submaster Jarnes is extending every courtesy and I am permitting unlimited challenges. Have you a case?”
Khorwiss tried again; again the buzzer sounded. Clerk Wyland laughed aloud and then clapped a hand over his mouth in consternation; the justice’s tight lips suppressed a smile. With difficulty Jarnes contained his own laughter.
Khorwiss leaped to his feet. “We won’t tolerate this. We’ll appeal. It’s an outrage, and if this court won’t take proper action to prevent it, then Higher Court will. And further—”
Listening to him, Jarnes suppressed a yawn. There would be an appeal, and then another, and with them all of the legal gymnastics the firm of Khorwiss, Qwaanti, Mllo, Bylym, and Alaffro could devise, but he knew that he had won the judgment.
So did Justice Figawn. He had been busily searching references while the case was played, and now, while Khorwiss raved, he studied the results. Then he inclined his head toward Jarnes and closed one eye in a deliberate wink.
24
The paradise world of Langri still looked hideously scarred, but it was healing. The resort buildings were gone. A solitary freighter stood on the landing field, and a machine was carrying the last of the salvage to it, a mammoth scoopload at a time. Freighters loading salvage had become such a familiar sight that Talitha Warr passed it without a glance.
The resort’s vast terrace, designed for thousands of tourists to cavort in oceanside pools, was now bare of its expensive imported tiling, and the Langrian flowers were rapidly restoring it to its pristine integrity. Standing on the beach below the terrace, viewing the sparkling Langrian ocean under the late afternoon sun, was a solitary figure: H. Harlow Wembling. Talitha approached him timidly.
He turned his head when he heard the crunch of her steps on the sand. Then he looked away. His voice was flatly expressionless. “You’re going to stay, then?”
“The government of Langri has invited us to stay. Aric and I are being married tomorrow, in a double ceremony with Fornri and Dalla. Would you like to come?”
“No—no, thank you,” Wembling said quickly. “I already told Fornri that I’d finish loading the salvage this evening and leave at once.” He paused a moment, and then he muttered half to himself, “What a waste! What a place for a resort!”
A group of natives carrying logs approached them along the beach. They placed the logs carefully, laying out fires for a festival. Then they grinned at Talitha and left. Now that the koluf were returning to the feeding grounds, they had shaken off the horrible grip of malnutrition, but food alone could not account for their transformed appearance. They were happy.
Wembling had watched them gloomily. “Getting ready for the wedding celebration?” he asked.
“No. That’ll take place at the Elder’s village. This is tor a special feast tonight. The natives are celebrating getting their world back.”
More natives came with logs. Wembling ignored them and stood looking out to sea again. “Well, Tal—you’re old enough to know what you want to do, and I wish you well.”
“I’m sorry we ended up on opposite sides, Uncle Harlow, but I had no choice.”
“That’s all right, Tal. This won’t ruin me. But what a waste this is—what a place for a resort!”
The purring whine of the machine cut off abruptly. Hirus Ayns came hurrying down the slope from the landing field. “We’ve loaded everything worth loading,” he said. “I think the natives are anxious for us to leave.”
“I told Fornri we’d go this evening. We don’t have to run away.”
“If you want a frank opinion,” Ayns said, “I think we do.”
Wembling and Talitha turned and looked toward the landing field. A good portion of the population of Langri was gathering for the festival, and evidently the natives considered the departure of Wembling’s last ship the ideal beginning for their celebration. Instead of assembling where the festival was to take place, they were crowding the landing field to watch the ship leave. They had completely surrounded it except for a single lane that had opened to make way for the salvage machine, now being loaded.
“There’s a festival tonight,” Talitha told Ayns. “They’ve come to take part in it.”
“Let’s not make them delay it on account of us,” Ayns said. “They might decide to have us provide the entertainment.”
“Nonsense!” Talitha snapped; but Ayns obviously was frightened. He started back toward the ship.