“Yes, sir. Is this to be considered arrest?”
“Not yet,” Devall said. “Meyer, attach yourself to the maintenance platoon for the remainder of the day. We’ll probably need your testimony again before this business is finished. Dismissed, both of you.”
When they were gone, Devall sank back limply in his webfoam chair and stared at his fingertips. His hands were quivering as if they had a life of their own.
John F. Devall, Ph.D. Anthropology Columbia ’82, commissioned Space Service Military Wing ’87, and now you’re in trouble for the first time.
How are you going to handle it, Jack? he asked himself. Can you prove that that silver eagle really belongs on your shoulder?
He was sweating. He felt very tired. He shut his eyes for a moment, opened them, and said into the intercom, “Send in the Marks.”
Five of them entered, made ceremonial bows, and ranged themselves nervously along the far wall as if they were firing-squad candidates. Accompanying them came Steber of the linguistics team, hastily recalled from town to serve as an interpreter for Devall. The colonel’s knowledge of Markin was adequate but sketchy; he wanted Steber around in case any fine points had to be dealt with in detail.
The Marks were humanoid in structure, simian in ancestry, which should have made them close kin to the Terrans in general physiological structure. They weren’t. Their skin was a rough, coarse, pebble-grained affair, dark-toned, running to muddy browns and occasional deep purples. Their jaws had somehow acquired a reptilian hinge in the course of evolution, which left them practically chinless but capable of swallowing food in huge lumps that would strangle an Earthman. Their eyes, liquid gold in color, were set wide on their heads, allowing enormous peripheral vision; their noses were flat buttons, in some cases barely perceptible.
Devall saw two younger men, obviously warriors; they had left their weapons outside, but their jaws jutted belligerently and the darker of the pair had virtually dislocated his jaw in rage. The woman looked like all the Mark women, shapeless and weary behind her shabby cloak of furs. The remaining pair were priests, one old, one very old. It was this ancient to whom Devall addressed his first remarks.
“I’m sorry that our meeting this afternoon has to be one of sorrow. I had been looking forward to a pleasant talk. But it’s not always possible to predict what lies ahead.”
“Death lay ahead for him who was killed,” the old priest said in the dry, high-pitched tone of voice that Devall knew implied anger and scorn.
The woman let out a sudden wild ululation, half a dozen wailing words jammed together so rapidly Devall could not translate them. “What did she say?” he asked Steber.
The interpreter flattened his palms together thoughtfully. “She’s the woman of the man who was killed. She was—demanding revenge,” he said in English.
Apparently the two young warriors were friends of the dead man. Devall’s eyes scanned the five hostile alien faces. “This is a highly regrettable incident,” he said in Markin. “But I trust it won’t affect the warm relationship between Earthman and Markin that has prevailed so far. This misunderstanding—”
“Blood must be atoned,” said the smaller and less impressively garbed of the two priests. He was probably the local priest, Devall thought, and he was probably happy to have his superior on hand to back him up.
The colonel flicked sweat from his forehead. “The young man who committed the act will certainly be disciplined. Of course you realize that a killing in self-defense cannot be regarded as murder, but I admit the young man did act unwisely and will suffer the consequences.” It didn’t sound too satisfying to Devall, and, indeed, the aliens hardly seemed impressed.
The high priest uttered two short, sharp syllables. They were not words in Devall’s vocabulary, and he looked over at Steber in appeal.
“He said Leonards was trespassing on sacred ground. He said the crime they’re angry about is not murder but blasphemy.”
Despite the heat, Devall felt a sudden chill. Not... murder? This is going to be complicated, he realized gloomily.
To the priest he said, “Does this change the essential nature of the case? He’ll still be punished by us for his action, which can’t be condoned.”
“You may punish him for murder, if you so choose,” the high priest said, speaking very slowly, so Devall would understand each word. The widow emitted some highly terrestrial-sounding sobs; the young men glowered stolidly. “Murder is not our concern,” the high priest went on. “He has taken life; life belongs to Them, and They withdraw it whenever They see fit, by whatever means They care to employ. But he has also desecrated a sacred flower on sacred ground. These are serious crimes, to us. Added to this he has shed the blood of a Guardian, on sacred ground. We ask you to turn him over to us for trial by a priestly Gourt on this double charge of blasphemy. Afterward, perhaps, you may try him by your own laws, for whichever one of them he has broken.”
For an instant all Devall saw was the old priest’s implacable leathery face; then he turned and caught the expression of whitefaced astonishment and dismay Steber displayed.
It took several seconds for the high priest’s words to sink in, and several more before Devall came to stunned realization of the implications. They want to try an Earthman, he thought numbly. By their own law. In their own court. And mete out their own punishment.
This had abruptly ceased being a mere local incident, an affair to clean up, note in the log, and forget. It was no longer a matter of simple reparations for the accidental killing of an alien.
Now, thought Devall dully, it was a matter of galactic importance. And he was the man who had to make all the decisions.
He visited Leonards that evening, after the meal. By that time everyone in the camp knew what had happened, though Devall had ordered Steber to keep quiet about the alien demand to try Leonards themselves.
The boy looked up as Devall entered his room, and managed a soggy salute.
“At ease, Lieutenant,” Devall sat on the edge of Leonards’ bed and squinted up at him. “Son, you’re in very hot water now.”
“Sir, I—”
“I know. You didn’t mean to pluck leaves off the sacred bramble-bush, and you couldn’t help shooting down the native who attacked you. And if this business were as simple as all that, I’d reprimand you for hotheadedness and let it go at that. But—”
“But what, sir?”
Devall scowled and forced himself to face the boy squarely. “But the aliens want to try you themselves. They aren’t so much concerned with the murder as they are with your double act of blasphemy. That withered old high priest wants to take you before an ecclesiastical court.”
“You won’t allow that, of course, will you, Colonel?” Leonards seemed confident that such an unthinkable thing could never happen.
“I’m not so sure, Paul,” Devall said quietly, deliberately using the boy’s first name.
“What, sir?”
“This is evidently something very serious you’ve committed. That high priest is calling a priestly convocation to deal with you. They’ll be back here to get you tomorrow at noon, he said.”
“But you wouldn’t turn me over to them, sir! After all, I was on duty; I had no knowledge of the offense I was committing. Why, it’s none of their business!”
“Make them see that,” Devall said flatly. “They’re aliens. They don’t understand Terran legal codes. They don’t want to hear about our laws; by theirs, you’ve blasphemed, and blasphemers must be punished. This is a law-abiding race on Markin. They’re an ethically advanced society, regardless of the fact that they’re not technologically advanced. Ethically they’re on the same plane we are.”