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  The defense counsel, now somewhat crestfallen, said: “I rest upon my previous statement, which is cogent and should carry the day.”

  Justice Offaw leaned forward. “You are telling me that the prisoners were motivated by a desire to tidy up the environment when they set fire to Yipton?”

  “No one lived there, Your Honor! I have proved this; therefore, what other motive could possibly have influenced them?”

  Hilva Offaw said: “Counsel, you have done your best, and your arguments are well reasoned, even though they deal with imaginary situations. This court - and I think that I speak for my colleagues -” he glanced left and right “- reject your theory of the case. The fact that they secretly possessed the gunships and were evidently planning armed rebellion only solidifies the force of the accusation.”

  The counsel stood silent. Justice Veder asked: “Which of the prisoners piloted the gunships?”

  The counsel turned to the prisoners. “Do any of you wish to answer? It cannot affect your case, which is already lost.”

  Torq Tump said: “I drove one and Farganger the other. We insisted that Julian Bohost ride in one craft and Roby Mavil in the other, since the rest of the group would have been off and away into space, leaving us to face the music. With the two boffins aboard, we knew they would wait until we returned.”

  Dame Clytie rose to her feet and called out in a loud voice. “I wish to make a statement!”

  Hilva Offaw spoke sharply: “I will hear no doctrinal discourses. This court is not a podium for your private opinions. Unless you wish to address the matter of guilt or innocence, you must hold your tongue.”

  Dame Clytie sullenly returned to her seat. Hilva Offaw said: “There is no mystery as to the court’s verdict. The prisoners are guilty of heinous crimes. They are sentenced to death. The executions will occur a week from today.”

  The prisoners were led away: Dame Clytie marching with chin square, annoyed that she had not been allowed to celebrate the occasion with a burst of oratory; Julian, walking with head bent forward, followed by Roby Mavil on limp legs. Torq Tump and Farganger brought up the rear, muttering together without display of emotion.

  The Great Hall emptied. Glawen and Wayness went to the Old Arbor and found a table outside. They were served iced pomegranate juice and sat quietly for a moment. “It is almost over,” said Glawen. “I really can’t abide these trials; they leave me feeling weak and sick. Perhaps I am not truly suited for a career at Bureau B.”

  “That’s not possible,” said Wayness. “You are the youngest commander there has ever been at Bureau B. Everyone says that you will be Superintendent someday.”

  “No chance of that,” grumbled Glawen. “Bodwyn Wook will never retire. Ah well, no matter. I can’t relax yet; Namour and Smonny are still at large, and it is anyone’s guess where they are. Perhaps the middle of the ocean.”

  “They can’t land on Ecce. They might survive on Throy, in one of the summer cabins, but only until the

  supplies ran out. They could land on Deucas, but where would they go? Beasts would destroy them before the

  week was out.”

  “Their only hope is the space port here at the station, which is now guarded night and day.”

  “They’ll surely be caught before long.” Wayness reached out and took his hands. “And think! In two weeks we’ll be married, once and for all, and then you can live a tranquil life.”

  “That will be nice. I shall enjoy tranquility.”

  Wayness pursed her lips. “For a time. Then you will become uneasy.”

  “Perhaps. What of you?”

  Wayness considered. “So far life has not been tranquil for either of us.”

  The two sat quietly, thinking of the events which so far had shaped their lives and what might be still to come.

  * * *

  Chapter 8, Part III

  The refugees from Yipton were fed and sheltered in fourteen camps along the Marmion Foreshore, pending transit to destinations elsewhere.

  Tents, lean-tos, huts built of fronds and sticks provided shelter against the warm wind and the occasional rain squall. Bread and protein bars from a synthesizer supplied nutriment, which was supplemented by warehouse stocks and items foraged by the Yips themselves. The Mar River yielded clams, eels, eel roe, and small amphibians; from the countryside came seeds, nuts, pods and legumes. Women and children waded the tide pools for sea snails, despite the presence of poisonous yellow sea toads, spiny coral, and an occasional swarm of pipefish, which were netted and boiled to make soup. Teams from Araminta Station maintained order, provided medical attention, and registered the occupants, by name, age, sex and status.

  Scharde Clattuc flew north from Araminta Station to the camp headquarters near the mouth of the Mar River. Here he learned that the Yips were registered at the separate camps, there being no reason to create a master file of the entire population.

  Scharde asked: “There is no organization to the camps? By this I mean that the various castes and levels are all mixed together?”

  “So I would suppose,” said the clerk. “For a fact, I know little of such things; to me a Yip is a Yip.”

  “That is a good approximation. Still, in the highest caste are the Oomps, and they are especially careful of their status.”

  “I know that much, at any rate. The Oomps insisted on separate facilities, and we saw no reason not to humor them. They are at Camp Three, a quarter mile up the river.”

  Scharde walked along the riverbank to Camp Three and went to the supervisor’s shack. Here he encountered a middle-aged woman, stout and efficient, an immigrant to the Station from old Stroma. “Yes, sir?”

  “I am Commander Scharde Clattuc, Bureau B. How are affairs at Camp Three?”

  “I have no complaints. The Yips are courteous and definitely respond to courtesy.”

  “That has been my own experience, for the most part. I understand that these are all Oomps here at Camp Three?”

  The clerk smiled grimly. “At Yipton there were one hundred and eighty-two Oomps. Here at camp they number one hundred and sixty-one. In short, Only twenty-one Oomps died in the fire. “

  “That is known as ‘survivor technique.’”

  “Either that or an elbow in the eye.”

  Scharde looked around the camp. “Where are they now?”

  “Here and there; some are picking wild plums from the grove yonder. All Deucas is open to them if they wanted to escape, but they caught sight of a couple long-necked onniclats on the hillside yonder, and a grasstiger too. The Yips aren’t cowards but they aren’t fools either.”

  Scharde laughed. “I believe that you have a record of their names?”

  “So I do.” The clerk handed him a printout. Scharde read, then looked up in dissatisfaction. “These are their formal names1: ‘Hyram Bardolc Fiveny,’ ‘Gobinder Mosk Tuchinander.’”

  “That is true, but those are the names they gave me.”

  “And you do not list their familiar names?”

  “I’m afraid not. I saw no reason to do so.”

  “No matter. Thank you for your help.”

  The clerk watched Scharde cross to where an Oomp sat on a fallen log, idly juggling pebbles back and forth between his strong hands. Scharde asked a question; the Oomp reflected a moment, then seemed to shrug and pointed up the river.

  Scharde followed the path along the riverbank fifty yards, and came upon a Yip floating face down in the water. From time to time he raised his head for a gasp of air, then resumed his inspection of the bottom. Suddenly he lunged with his right arm, then rolling over, held high a two-foot eel, squirming in the crotch of a forked stick. The Oomp swam to shore and dropped his catch into a basket.

  Scharde came forward. The Yip, on his knees disengaging the eel looked up in blank startlement. He was not a young man, possibly as old as Scharde himself, though he looked younger, with his broad shoulders, flat stomach, strong arms and legs. Scharde said: “You are a deft fisherman.”

&nbs
p; The Yip shrugged. “The eels are easy to catch. They are fat and sluggish.”

  “Did you catch fish at Yipton?”

  “Not eels. Sometimes I tried for scoons and gyrators, but it is not so easy in the ocean.”

  “I should think not,” said Scharde. “Only a very good swimmer would try at all.”

  “Yes, that is so.”

  “I seem to recognize you,” said Scharde. “Your name is Selious. Do you know me?”

  “I do not think so.”

  “It has been many years since we met. How long would you say? Fifteen years? Twenty?”

  The Yip dropped his eyes to the basket. “I can’t be sure.”

  “Do you know my name?”

  The Yip shook his head and rose to his feet. “I will go now. I must skin my eels.”

  “Let us talk a bit,” said Scharde. He moved back a few paces and seated himself on a fallen log. “Put your basket into the water to keep the eels fresh.”

  Selious hesitated then did as Scharde suggested.

  “Sit down,” said Scharde. He pointed to a spot on the sand. “Rest yourself.”

  Selious half-squatted, half-knelt, without pleasure. Scharde asked: “Where is your friend Catterline?”

  Selious tilted his head back toward the camp. “He is yonder. We were both lucky to have escaped the fire.”

  “Yes, that was good luck.” Scharde plucked a blade of sawgrass and whisked it back and forth. Selious watched him with a joyless face. Scharde spoke gently: “Do you know something, Selious? I think you lied to me.”

  Selious cried indignantly: “What is this? Never did I lie to you!”

  “Don’t you remember? You told me that you could not swim. Catterline said the same. It was for this reason - so you told me - that you could not keep the lady Marya from drowning in Wansey Lagoon.”

  “After twenty years I remember no such events.”

  “But you do!” said Scharde, for a sudden instant baring his teeth.

  “Never!” Selious cried out with sudden energy. “I told only the truth.”

  “You told me that you could not swim, and that was why you could not save the lady from drowning. But you and I know better. You swim very well. So did my wife Marya. You and Catterline held her underwater until she was dead.”

  “No, no! That is not true!”

  “Who tipped her out of the boat: you or Catterline? This time I shall find out the truth.”

  Selious wilted. “It was Catterline! I knew nothing about what he intended!”

  “Really. You just swam out with Catterline to keep him company?”

  “That is how it was.”

  “Now then, Selious, we come to the important question, and it will mean much to you. Everyone else at this camp will be leaving for beautiful new homes, but I will take you off and imprison you alone in a little hut, where you will never see the light nor hear voices - unless you tell the truth. Do not rise to your feet, or I will shoot you in the belly, and you will feel great pain. And then, I will take you to the dark hut, and you will be alone forever.”

  Selious spoke in an anguished voice: “And what if I tell the truth?”

  “Punishment less terrible.”

  Selious bowed his head. “I will tell the truth.”

  “First, then: who gave you the orders to drown Marya? Quick now! The truth!”

  Selious looked to right and left, then said: “It was Namour.” Selious suddenly became smilingly virtuous, in a manner typically Yip. “I told him that I did not wish to harm a weak and helpless female. He brushed aside my scruples. The woman, so he declared, was an off-world person, no better than vermin. She was a malicious interloper, with no right to breathe our good air or eat our food or displace qualified persons from posts of honor. It was proper to eliminate such persons from the environment. Catterline felt that there was logic to the concept, and that in any event I must obey Namour’s command. I had no choice but to agree, and so the deed was done.”

  Scharde inspected Selious for a moment or two. Selious began to fidget.

  Scharde said: “You are not telling me everything.”

  Selious protested with vigor: “But I am indeed! What more is there to say?”

  “Why did Namour order you to commit such a dreadful deed?”

  “I explained this! Namour gave the reasons!”

  “Surely you did not find these reasons credible?”

  Selious shrugged. “It was not for me to question Namour.”

  “You truly believed that these were Namour’s real reasons for wishing to drown the lady?”

  Again Selious shrugged. “Namour’s motives meant nothing to me. I was a Yip from Yipton; the Station was a world past my understanding.”

  “Did someone give Namour orders in this matter?”

  Selious looked off across the river. “It happened a long time ago. I can tell you no more.”

  “Did Smonny give Namour the orders?”

  “Smonny was gone.”

  “Then who gave the orders?”

  “If ever I knew, I cannot remember now.”

  Scharde rose to his feet. “You have been cooperative, apparently so far as you were able.”

  “Yes, that is absolutely true! Be assured: you may rely upon my veracity! Now that all is in order, I will return to my eels.”

  “Not just yet. You robbed Marya of her life.”

  “Well, yes: twenty years ago. So then, consider: she has been dead twenty years; she will remain dead forever. What is this twenty years when compared to the infinity still to come? It is almost trivial. After, let us say, a hundred thousand years, this twenty years will seem no more than a wisp.”

  Scharde heaved a sad sigh. “You are a philosopher, Selious. I am not so gifted, and now I must take you and Catterline to Araminta Station.”

  “But why? I can tell you no more!”

  “As to that, we shall see.”

  * * *

  Chapter 8, Part IV

  Scharde took Selious and Catterline to Araminta Station. They were isolated and questioned separately. Catterline’s recollections matched those of Selious, in all significant areas, though they were less explicit.

  Selious was taken to an old Bureau B consultation chamber, seldom used by reason of its gloom and archaic fittings. Selious was escorted into the chamber and seated upon the cushions of a massive old chair facing the dais and the magistrate’s lectern. Here he was left alone for half an hour, that he might brood upon the grim circumstances to which his association with Namour had brought him. The room, panelled in dark brown fanique burl, was illuminated by three small panes high in the back wall, which seemed to augment rather than dispel the gloom. Selious sat quietly at first, then began to fidget, drumming his fingers on the arms of the chair, in time to the erratic rhythms of Yip music.

  Bodwyn Wook, wearing an unusual costume of baggy black breeches, a dull red tunic, black boots, a white cravat, and a soft judicial cap of black velvet, entered the chamber, mounted to the dais and seated himself behind the lectern. Only then did he examine Selious. “You are a murderer.”

  Selious stared in fascination. Finally he managed to say: “Whatever happened was long ago.”

  “Time means nothing,” intoned Bodwyn Wook. “Look at your hands! They pushed a woman down deep, and deeper still, while she struggled to breathe and died at last, to her own great distress. Do you have anything to say?”

  Selious cried out in a reedy voice: “It was not explained to me thus. I was told I was doing a great deed, and who can say that I was not? This was a creature brought from an alien world and given the best, while in Yipton we were not considered human.”

  Bodwyn Wook raised his eyes to the ceiling. “That sort of argument is now moot; you must speak to the point.”

  “What can I say? Everything is known to you!”

  “Not everything! You are withholding facts - even though you do not realize this yourself.”

  Selious blinked. “I will cite these facts if you tel
l me what they are.”

  “The question is this, and it is of the highest importance. Namour ordered you to drown the lady - but who gave Namour his orders?”

  “That is unknown to me, sir.”

  “Perhaps yes, perhaps no. I will explain this seeming sophistry. Your brain is like a great warehouse, containing a million parcels of memory or more. Each parcel is catalogued, and arranged according to the rules established by your individual retrieval system. We shall call this system your ‘clerk.’ When you need to recall a fact, the clerk glances into an index and instantly knows where the fact is filed and fetches it up for your attention. The clerk’s efficiency is marvelous. Still, each day new parcels enter the warehouse, to be indexed and cross-indexed. Inevitably the brain becomes cluttered or crowded. Sometimes the clerk discards old parcels, or even tears out whole pages in the index. More often it simply pushes the old parcels back into the cobwebs. As time goes by the clerk reorganizes the index. Sometimes the clerk becomes lazy or fastidious and pretends that these dirty old parcels are better left ignored, and gives back a false report. And at last heaps of trash pile up at the back of your brain. Is all this clear?”

  “You speak with authority! I must accept your concepts.”

  “Just so. Now: to the point! I will ask a question. You must send your clerk out hot-foot to find the answer. Are you ready?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “My question is this: who ordered you to drown the lady Marya?”

  “It was Namour.”

  “Ha ha! The clerk has done its job smartly and well. Now, another question: who gave Namour his orders in this regard?”

  “I do not know!”