A Jury of His Peers

Illustration by Arthur George

Orville R. Calhoun, part-time country lawyer and full-time dope smuggler, sat mounted on a horse as nervous as he was and waited under cover of a clump of scrub mesquite for the mule train. Even though he was paying plenty for protection he knew there was no such thing as safe, not in this business. No matter how big or how powerful you were there was always somebody ready to jump you. Double-dealing was the rule in this game.

Having the sheriff get popped with a ton of coke two weeks before at the provocation of one of his rivals didn’t promote complacency, and lately, Joe Schreiber, that agitator over in the county seat, had been getting more and more reckless with the accusations in his radical newspaper, the Tattletale. With the chokehold the dopers had on the local criminal justice system there wasn’t much chance he’d get anywhere, but any chance at all was too great a risk to take.

Though it was still way too early to expect to see any movement Orville raised his glasses and scanned the riverbank around the ford. Usually, he spotted the Mexican soldiers first. They almost always checked things out before sending the first mule across. Hiring them was expensive, but necessary, because while he could pay off the Border Patrol and the DEA only these soldiers had the muscle to discourage rival gangs from hijacking his shipments from the Mexican side.

A flash caught his eye, a glint of failing sunlight fleetingly reflected off some shiny object, maybe a gun barrel, Orville couldn’t tell. The afternoon Sun was so low in the sky that the figure was nothing more than a silhouette. Instantly, he traversed and searched the area where this had appeared. The tiny motor inside the binoculars zoomed their focus out to infinity, and suddenly there it was, a dark figure, moving with a peculiar gait downstream toward the ford.

Quickly he scanned the area around it, noting the nearest landmark, so he could return and watch it. He saw nothing. A glance at the ford, some two and a half kilometers to the left, still revealed no sign of the soldiers.

Orville dropped the glasses on their strap, slipped his rifle out of its scabbard and spurred his horse into motion. He moved quickly toward the wash that ran down to the riverbank and ended just downstream of the figure he had seen. If he timed it right, and if the stranger continued at the same speed and direction, Orville would come out behind him.

As he rode, Calhoun pondered the possibilities. He hoped it was only a wetback, and its appearance now just coincidence. That was a good bet. Hijackers were professionals, and seldom that careless.

As the ravine widened the trail got easier and Calhoun got a grip on himself. By the time he reached its terminus, where an alluvial fan of sand and gravel, dropped by countless rains, left him a clear shot at anybody who might try to cross in front of him, he was feeling positively calm.

Until the figure burst out into full view. When that happened, Calhoun’s heretofore mild concern turned into panic.

The stranger wore an elaborate disguise. In the dusk he looked more like a beast than a man—and big, fully as large as any bear Orville had ever seen here in the Big Bend. Worse, he was armed, and had seen Orville. He turned and pointed the weapon, which before he had merely waved aimlessly around, as though trying to decide whether to shoot.

The thing didn’t look much like a gun. Nevertheless, when the strange prickly sensation washed over his face and hands, Calhoun hesitated not an instant. He raised his rifle and dropped the stranger in his tracks.

Relief was mixed with regret. The report echoed down the walls of the ravine. Everyone near the ford would have heard it. There would be no delivery tonight. The Mexicans would suspect a double-cross on this side of the river and would flee. Calhoun would have to arrange a new rendezvous, endure the hassle of clearing the shipment with the fed’s patrol all over again, grease more palms, renegotiate storage and transshipment—it went on and on.

He wanted a good look at the source of his trouble so he dismounted, rifle in hand, and carefully approached the motionless body lying on the gravel. He stopped short, and gasped when he realized this was not a man disguised.

The creature wore a drab coverall with many bulging pockets, so that in places its limbs looked lumpy, like sacks of potatoes. What clothing did not cover, hair did, though on its face this appeared to have been clipped very short, almost like a human beard. The eyes were enormous, and there were many of them, all covered with some kind of horny material. Two were faceted like insect eyes. Calhoun knew in that instant that his life had changed forever.

What before had been merely panic blossomed into stark terror. Calhoun realized an alien would not visit Earth alone. It would have companions, and if they had ears to hear the shot they might already be on the way to investigate. With night falling so rapidly now, Calhoun knew he might not see them coming.

And he was right on the mark; he didn’t see the one that got him, although the darkness had nothing to do with that. The other creature had appeared out of thin air, right in front of him, accompanied by more prickly sensations, and shot him with something that froze all his voluntary muscles absolutely rigid. Calhoun toppled to the ground, his limbs retaining the pose they had when he was upright.

He could see only what was right in front of his eyes because he couldn’t move his eyeballs. He knew there were several creatures now, he heard strange voices in excited but incomprehensible conversation. Periodically something that felt uncomfortably prickly swept across his face.

After the discussion they picked him up and carried him off. Face up, he could see only a wobbly, starry sky.

When the stars vanished Calhoun screamed soundlessly. He knew they had taken him inside something and that it might be a spaceship. He was already convinced they were extraterrestrials.

Even though he was intensely curious he still tried as hard as he could to shut his eyes, which hurt badly. He couldn’t do it, nor could he hope to scratch the maddening itch into which the prickly sensation had degenerated. He must bear the unbearable.

Momentarily, another flurry of alien conversation distracted him. It sounded excited, urgent. In the periphery of his vision he occasionally detected movement but he couldn’t focus on it. Abruptly, the itching ceased, replaced by a sensation of tightening everywhere that clothing had not covered his skin.

Then, suddenly, Calhoun’s body came to rest. He found himself staring unblinkingly ahead at some sort of wall as the creatures turned him upright and stood him on his feet.

They left him, propped in this corner where he could not fall over, to ponder his fate in complete darkness. With their fading voices Calhoun’s last outside stimuli vanished.

“All right, Luqithur,” Chairman Feevish growled at his project manager, “I think it’s time for an explanation. Whatever possessed you to kidnap an alien and bring it home with you?”

“What was I supposed to do, kill it?”

Feevish cringed. He suspected Luqithur badly needed a rest. Like many people ,he had known whose work took them to primitive worlds and exposed them to barbaric cultures, Luqithur had become a little odd over the years. The veneer of civilization was thin, and the fact that Luqithur could even suggest intentionally killing another sapient frightened him. In all the world that happened perhaps once or twice a century.

Luqithur interpreted the chairman’s silence as accusatory. He realized how his remark must have sounded. “We planned to let it go after the danger was over,” he continued. “There’ve been other encounters where we did that. We’re confident that some of the other natives who saw us told others but we know from the studies we’ve made that the alien authorities don’t take such reports very seriously.”

“Why didn’t you let it go?”

“I considered it. It didn’t seem wise under the circumstances. You see, it attacked my survey crew during what turned out to be final tests—tests that confirmed it should be possible to stabilize the anomaly and use it.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that before? That’s wonderful news.”

“For my people, maybe,” Luqithur replied, now relieved that the news had taken heat off him. “But I feel sorry for the diplomats who’re going to have to negotiate with these people. That was the primary reason for my decision, to make tilings easier for them.

“I was briefed by the foreign ministry when we first started the project. I know the general plan for contact. It doesn’t involve telling the Earthians how long we were on their planet. We’ll just tell them we discovered the anomaly from space, which we actually did, though a long time ago, and not about any of our activities on the ground.”

“I see,” Feevish replied. It was he who was now abashed. Luqithur was right, of course. With contact coming relatively soon after the incident their prisoner’s story would have been credible and other Earthians would have believed it. This was better.

But Feevish was still curious. “You said that was one reason. What are the others?”

“So that the Earthian will not escape punishment for killing one of my surveyors,” Luquither answered grimly. “We couldn’t very well ask the Earthians to do it, not that it’s likely they would have.”

“Oh? You didn’t tell me about that,” Feevish replied. Luqithur’s casual treatment of so gruesome a subject left Feevish even more convinced the other was on the brink of barbarism himself.

Calhoun followed the bug-eyed monster through a huge round door and suddenly the fragile hypothesis he had been so carefully nursing collapsed. Stark reality, far beyond his ability to control, furnished him with new, but unpleasant, answers.

Before, he had not understood why the alien had insisted he don the floor-length robe and the thick face mask. Now, as he gazed out on this hellish landscape he realized he had spent those long and agonizing weeks aboard an alien ship, not on Earth.

Now, many things were clear to him, especially the futility of all the escape plans he had contrived.

But the enigma he faced was undiminished. When first he was captured he thought the aliens were simply too busy to torture or kill him and that this was why he had been left alone, paralyzed and miserable, for days at a time.

Later, when hunger and thirst threatened to drive him mad he had begun to believe that was the alien concept of diabolical torture; that they might be secretly watching him suffer. At the time, he struggled to appreciate this supposed cerebral style of sadism, persuading himself that it might be worthwhile trying on some of his own enemies if he got out of this alive. It had struck him as so perverse that it was enviable.

Now he realized it almost certainly hadn’t been deliberate, intentional torture, but only simple ignorance and neglect, by aliens who quite naturally had their own priorities and their own preferred methods of doing things.

Coincidences had deceived him. To Calhoun their expedient pumping of water through his paralyzed lips until he threw up seemed designed only to keep him alive and prolong his agony. When they began force-feeding him those mushy, disgusting, foul-tasting pastes and then turned him loose in a small, doorless cell he reasoned he must so amuse them that they were saving him for some special occasion.

Until he looked “outside” at this surrealistic scene, that might have been something out of Dante’s Inferno, he had believed his travail merely prelude to a main event. He had considered the supposition proven when only minutes ago the cell door had opened and the alien on the other side made a startlingly human-like gesture. Its pudgy index finger curled in a motion for Calhoun to follow it down the corridor. Calhoun was convinced he was walking that last mile.

I still might be, he thought. Now though, he doubted it was imminent. The alien had not seemed to move with any urgency. There was no waiting crowd, there were no guards, and he could see no stadium.

He relaxed a little and gawked around. What amazed him most was that he had been transported here with absolutely no sensation of motion over all these weeks. He knew it had been a long journey because his beard had grown full and bushy.

But leisurely sightseeing apparently did not fit in with the aliens’ plans. For the first time, one of them displayed impatience with Calhoun by prodding him along.

Calhoun did, noting that this alien and all the others he could see no longer wore face masks. There was something different between the human and the alien habitats. Here, Calhoun needed the helmet and cloak and these creatures didn’t, but on Earth it was the other way around. He concluded this world was home to them.

He intended to collect much more information on his surroundings from now on. He was disappointed. The aliens immediately placed him in what turned out to be a conveyance despite its lack of wheels. He was whisked off, to his everlasting disgust, to another cell. He had still not learned his fate.

For a long time after that Calhoun was alone. The cell had water, which tasted foul to him, but he was not fed. Now, though, he did not worry. He thought they would eventually get around to this. Letting him starve to death would defeat whatever purpose they had in bringing him here.

Having time to spare, Orville now speculated endlessly. He discovered that every possibility which occurred to him contained some flaw, except for punishment. That hypothesis made the most sense. He was imprisoned. He was not comfortable. He might easily spend the rest of his natural life in this cell. That was punishment.

In time he became reconciled, if not comfortable, with that theory, but it seemed that this guess too, was wrong.

The alien explained, in English far more perfect than his own, the day it popped into his cell to talk to him.

“It is time for you to leave,” it said. “Put on your helmet and your garment, and follow me.”

Calhoun did it. Somehow the time did not seem right for questions. He would wait and see what happened next. He knew too little now to formulate any strategy.

They walked and walked, down long corridors and past many other aliens. These greeted the sight with mixed responses. Some stopped what they were doing and gawked. Most did not, and simply ignored the swaddled human.

In time, a door loomed ahead, clearly an outside one, since it was made of transparent material and traffic could be seen moving past on the street in front of it.

Calhoun reached it and stopped; it did not open and he did not know what else to do.

The alien shouted at it and it opened. It was a powered door, quite appropriate for a prison.

“Leave,” said the alien. It gestured. “You can no longer stay here.”

“You’re releasing me?”

“Within limits, yes.”

Now Calhoun was really frightened. He had a feeling that what had gone before was only a preliminary but that now his punishment had begun in earnest. The time for serious questions had come.

“I don’t understand,” he protested. “I know this is not Earth. How am I going to get home?”

“Any way you can, if you can. I doubt that will trouble you for long,” the alien replied.

Calhoun hesitated, trying to think. He realized he didn’t really know what to ask, so he chose what seemed an innocuous question. “Where can I go?”

“Anywhere you like,” the alien replied, somewhat impatiently.

“Do you mean that?” Calhoun really smelled a rat. “Including Earth?”

“If you can find the means, yes.”

“But that requires a ship. I don’t have one. If I did, I don’t know the way back, or how to fly a spaceship.”

“That is a pity,” the alien answered. “Go!”

“Wait a minute.” Calhoun risked angering the alien by balking but he needed information and he doubted that very many other aliens spoke English. The time to learn was now. “You can’t just throw me out without telling me why you’re treating me this way…”

“Correct. So I will tell you. We are throwing you out because you are a murderer.”

“This is my punishment?”

“You could say that, I suppose,” the alien replied. “Though actually any physical punishment is up to your victim’s kinsmen, if they choose to inflict any. We have notified them that you will be at large. If they do in fact come for you they alone will decide what this will be, and they will administer it. This is their right. It was the custom of our primitive ancestors.”

“That’s insane. I didn’t murder him. He attacked me. He had a weapon. He was trying to kill me. I had a right to defend myself.”

“He had no weapon. He could hardly see you. What he carried was a light—what your people call a flashlight. We see a different part of the electromagnetic spectrum, the ultraviolet. Your single sun is feeble even when visible. When it sets we need artificial light in order to see.”

“Then he should have said so—he should have explained. You certainly aren’t having any trouble.”

“That’s because I’m a specialist. I’ve spent years studying your culture and I understand it. But only a few of us can speak a human language and he was not one of them. Besides, you gave him no opportunity to explain. You simply cut him down. That was murder, even by the standard of your race. You should know that, since you claim expertise in such matters.”

Calhoun started to complain, then stopped, when suddenly it occurred to him that this alien was right. He was a lawyer, though to be honest with himself, not a very good one. In a situation this tight, guile might get him farther than dueling with the dead alien’s kinsmen.

“Are you telling me that wager of law is permitted?”

“I do not recognize the term, but then even I do not completely understand your culture.”

“Trial by combat—ever hear of that? Humans used to do that, long ago. If the accused won he went free. Is that the idea?”

“More or less,” the alien answered, after a short hesitation.

“I see. Well now, how about giving me back my gun?”

“We do not have it. It remains at the scene of your crime.”

“What? How can I fight them without it?”

“Get another weapon.”

“How, if I can’t even talk to you people?”

“That is your problem. Find ways. We don’t use money so you can’t buy a weapon, but you could steal one, or steal something to trade for one. We know you can steal. Your own people have accused you of that on more than one occasion.”

Despite the circumstances Calhoun was momentarily embarrassed. He did have a fairly extensive criminal record, mostly drug-related, but he had once been prosecuted for finding some automobile parts that weren’t lost. “How do you know I do?”

“We’ve been visiting Earth for a long time. It seemed wise to us to be very wary with your kind so we learned all we could about you. Before the Internet such things were more difficult. Now, we surf with the best of them so gathering information is easy. Technologically, we are a century or more beyond you. Just before we brought you here we hacked into the Texas DPS network. We got not only records, but comments. One commentator remarked that you were ‘nuts’; that you always wore black because you fantasized you were Pat Garrett.”

“That’s a lie. I just like black suits.”

“The role suits you. Garrett was quite an unsavory person even though he wasn’t a Texas lawyer.”

Calhoun glared at the alien for a moment.

The alien demonstrated how well informed he really was. “Your behavior has precedent. After all, John Wesley Hardin was a member of the Texas Bar, wasn’t he? How many people did he kill?”

“I don’t know,” Calhoun replied. He had to admit this alien knew his history.

But the alien also seemed to be falling right into the spirit of the discussion, and that was good because the longer Orville could keep him talking the more he would learn and the better his chances would become. He was already groping for a thread of logic. It had occurred to him that the alien’s acquaintance with Earthly law represented an opportunity and he wanted a way to exploit it. Suddenly, he had it.

“You can’t try me,” he announced smugly. “You had no right to kidnap me and bring me here. I didn’t commit any crime here. Only the State of Texas has a right to charge me because everything happened back there.”

For a moment the alien was silent.

Clearly, it was thinking. Calhoun could only hope that it knew and understood the concept of jurisdiction.

When the alien did speak, it did so with a tone Calhoun hoped was abashment. “We have you, we can do as we wish.”

“Yours is an immoral race, then,” Calhoun chided. “You criticize me. How are you better?”

“You have needlessly taken a life. That is a crime everywhere.”

“Maybe so, but that is not the point. The question is not what happened but who has the right to complain about it. Your people were on Earth illegally. You say you respect our law? That isn’t true. Our law forbids aliens to enter our country without permission. You violated our sovereignty by being there. Now you want to violate it some more by trying me under your system. What kind of hypocrites are you people?”

“Our purpose is benevolent,” the alien replied. “We are studying a spatial anomaly that may be part of one of the rarest phenomena in the universe, a stargate resident on a planetary surface. If we are right you humans are a fortunate people.”

“And your people came to steal it, right?”

Calhoun waited. Inwardly, he was sneering. If the aliens were stupid enough to fall for that line he was on the way out. He could tell the alien was bothered by what he had just said but that he was not quite sold. Calhoun unleashed another salvo. “We have an old saying,” he told the alien. “Might does not make right.”

“Perhaps not,” the alien replied. “But might does make rights. I admit the distinction is subtle but it is nevertheless very real. Realistically, were we to return you to Earth and surrender you to the state of Texas for trial, that trial would be farcical.”

The alien paused. “Yes, we know about that, too. There, you will be among your own kind, and your kind deal in drugs and political corruption. Lies, deceit, bribery, extortion, everything that is reprehensible to a truly moral society you and your allies see as the tools of a trade. You use them to destroy the lives of those who crave addictive substances. It is you who are the hypocrite.”

Again, the alien paused and pondered.

Calhoun became concerned. For a while there, he had been on a roll, and beginning to believe the technique of playing to the alien’s ethics had a chance of success. Now, he wasn’t so sure. It needed work, more stark, rigid logic, the kind this one was demonstrating his species found difficult to resist. “It is still my right to be tried there,” he argued, “if at all, and tried under the law of the forum, not by some alien code with which I have no acquaintance.”

Calhoun gazed into the alien’s face. He could, of course, recognize no meaningful expression; still, the alien’s hesitation was encouraging. Perhaps it was time for a little fine tuning. A good con-man, and he saw himself as one of these, knew when to set the hook. “When you do come out of the closet, how can you expect my people to trust you?”

The alien paused only a moment longer, then he pointed down the corridor and said, “Return to your cell. Though you represent the worst we have ever encountered on your world, there still is some logic in what you say. I will consult with our leadership. If they agree with you, and if your victim’s kinsmen consent, perhaps we can reach an accommodation.”

Life in the cell was no more pleasant than it ever had been but Calhoun had no other choice. Theoretically, he did not have to stay. He could wander the planet at will, but only here would the aliens guarantee his safety and provide the necessities of life. Without knowledge of the language or customs, without friends, without any useful skills, he was ill-equipped to roam a world that used no money, especially when he was also a lawful prey animal for the dead alien’s relatives.

The wait was tedious, and lasted nearly a week by Calhoun’s reckoning. But when it was over he believed it had been worth every second. The alien spokesman arrived in his cell one morning just as he awoke, accompanied by a delegation he was confident represented the local criminal justice mechanism.

“They bring a proposition,” the alien told him. “I will translate.”

Calhoun nodded his assent, then added, “Let’s hear it.”

There was a long discourse in the Alien language, then the spokesman turned and said, “They will agree in principle that you should be tried under the law you know, since your intent derived from your experience with that law.”

“Then, you’ll take me back?”

“No. We will not do that. We know much about that region. Even your locals call it ‘Occupied Texas’ because of the corruption the drug trade generates. These people are your allies. You would simply buy your way out of this. You are effectively immune from your own law.”

Calhoun was afraid to ask the next logical question but the alien anticipated his consternation and answered it anyhow. “We will try you here. We will convene a court as nearly identical to the Earth ideal as possible. Its personnel will learn your language and your law. We will access your statutes and learned treatises. We will reproduce the body of precedent. We will conform in all respects but one to the court you have at home.”

“And what does that mean?” Calhoun asked, in an embarrassingly squeaky voice.

“The presiding judge will be honest.”

Calhoun winced.

“Do you have an objection?”

Actually, Calhoun did. Back in West Texas he had never worried much about such things because the alien was right, everybody in law enforcement was for sale. But he decided it didn’t matter, at least not at the moment. The important thing was to suck the aliens into the goody-goody trap, then crucify them on the cross of their own collective conscience. Calhoun was good at things like that, they were his stock in trade. Even so, though he usually did win his cases by doing precisely what the alien claimed he was confident he could win even with an honest judge because he knew a couple of things the aliens didn’t.

So, just before his silence threatened to provoke the alien into prompting him, Calhoun answered, “I guess not.”

“Is that a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’?”

“No!”

“What?”

“Negative,” Calhoun screamed.

The rest of the session went swiftly, and when it was over Calhoun felt satisfied that after a few more weeks he’d be in complete control. He began to plan beyond his trial. When it was over, and he was back on Earth, when he was the only human on the planet who knew about the aliens, he would use his knowledge and experience to move into the big time. It was even possible, he believed, that something on Earth would have addictive effects on this life form. What a coup that would be, if he could turn his current prison into a whole world of junkies!

He waited patiently and with a comfortable anticipation.

“I agree, Your Honor, it’s a technicality, but if you check the statute you’ll find it really is the law of Texas. Look at Texas Penal Code Section 19.02.”

“I see it. So?”

“To be murder, the accused must cause the death of an ‘individual.’ ”

“Go on.”

“Next, check P.C., Section 107(a) (17). ‘Individual means a human being who has been born and is alive.’ You will agree, it does say that, and that this is the law of Texas?”

“That is what it says, Mr. Calhoun. What is your point?”

“Well—judge, isn’t it obvious? I mean, look at you people. You’re not human beings and neither was the deceased. You have no choice, you have to grant my motion to dismiss the charge.”

Calhoun smirked. He watched the alien judge, struggling with the point, squirming and uncomfortable to begin with in the unaccustomed confines of the human-style robe. “I’ve got ’em!” He subvocalized.

But the judge wasn’t quite ready to rule. He turned to the alien DA. “Do you wish to respond, Mr. Prosecutor?”

“Yes, Your Honor. And I must admit I am quite resentful of my opponent’s assertion that I am not a human being.

I am as much entitled to claim that status as he is.”

Immediately, Calhoun was on his feet, objecting. “Counsel misstates the law, Your Honor. Human being is a human term, applied exclusively to my race. As any fool can plainly see the prosecutor and I are entirely different organisms and completely unrelated. If he says different let him cite some authority.” Calhoun sat down, confident the prosecutor couldn’t top that one.

“I have already researched the law on the point, Your Honor. As my opponent well knows there is no statutory definition of the term. We must therefore, revert to the Texas Government code, specifically, section 311.011, to which P.C. Section 1.05 refers us. Section 311.011 says, ‘Words and phrases shall be read in context and construed according to the rules of grammar and common usage, unless,’ it goes on, ‘they have acquired a technical or particular meaning, by legislative definition or otherwise.’

“I believe my opponent will have to concede the latter is not true, and as to the former I suggest to the court that the term means any sentient being, as opposed to animals who lack reason. In any event, the Earthians to this day have never known any other sentients, so human languages lack another usage for the term. It is, at worst, a case of first impression.”

“Mr. Calhoun?”

“The argument is absurd, Your Honor, he—”

“Cite me some precedent, Mr. Calhoun.”

But Calhoun couldn’t think of anything. Deep down, he knew this argument was lost. The Texas law was still with him on another capital point, though, self-defense, if it came to that, if they made it past Batson. There he had ample precedent. And, he chuckled, Luck would be with him. That was, he noted, quite a pun, Luck v. State, 588 SW2d 371, Tex. Cr. App„ 1979, the leading case on the Texas Law of self-defense. And with Luck on his side, Calhoun believed, he had it greased. So, he made no further argument. When trial time arrived he would fire his next salvo. That would sink them, of that he was absolutely confident. He almost felt sorry for the prosecutor.

“Very well,” the judge said, “the motion is denied. Do either of you have anything further?” When nobody answered the court adjourned.

“Bailiff, bring in the jury panel.”

Calhoun watched as the alien bailiff obediently trotted out of the courtroom. He had to admit the aliens had the routine down pat. They must have worked their pointy little heads to the bone to do it.

The bailiff opened the door again, and the panel began waddling in. Calhoun had been on this world long enough so that they no longer all looked alike to him. He could tell many individuals apart through physical variations. They seemed to differ as widely as humans did.

When the panel was seated in the jury box the judge began his preliminary questioning, in English, and the panel answered in English. Calhoun was astonished. The aliens had worked even harder than he thought. It was too bad it would all be for nothing.

When the judge was finished, and was ready to turn them over to the prosecution for voir dire, Calhoun’s pulse quickened. Now he would make his big move, and blow the DA right out of the water. He stood. “Your honor, I object to this entire panel.”

“State your grounds, Counsel.”

“The 6th amendment of the US Constitution, Your Honor. My right is not merely to trial by jury but to trial by a jury of my peers. There is a similar guarantee made in the Texas Constitution, and in Article 1.12 of the Texas Code of Criminal Procedure. This is purposeful discrimination. These people are not my peers.” He sat down. He felt smug. If the DA squawked he’d throw Batson v. Kentucky at him.

“Mr. Prosecutor?”

“Not my doing, Your Honor. The clerk followed the Texas law to the letter in selecting them. I had nothing to do with it. The accused waived indictment so the problem didn’t come up with the grand jury.”

“Mr. Calhoun?”

Calhoun stood, ready with a pat answer. He’d waived indictment specifically so the question wouldn’t arise. He wanted to spring this on the aliens cold, renew his motion for dismissal and get out of here. As he saw it, the aliens had no other choice unless they were willing to compromise their principles and kidnap enough humans to make up a panel. He was sure they wouldn’t do that. He decided this was the time to pounce. “Your Honor, I—”

“Just who do you consider your peers to be, Mr. Calhoun?”

Calhoun was annoyed at the interruption, nevertheless he kept his cool. “Why, people like me, Your Honor. Earth people, with the experience and emotions and habits of my own kind.”

“I see. The closer they come to your own personality and the more closely they resemble you the better?”

“Y-yeah, that’s about it.” Something about this discourse suddenly gave Calhoun the jitters. The judge was taking it all too calmly. This guy was up to something. Unfortunately, Calhoun had no idea what.

“You would not object to people who met these qualifications?”

“I didn’t say that. There might be other reasons why they weren’t suitable.” He paused, then added. “There are grounds that apply even in human courts, you know.”

“People who knew you and didn’t like you, perhaps? People who hated lawyers as a class? People like that?”

“Yes. People like that.”

“It sounds like you’re saying that your ideal peers would be twelve lawyers, just like you, Mr. Calhoun, people with precisely the same experiences in life as you’ve had. People with the same background, the same drives, the same personalities?”

“Well, uh, theoretically I don’t suppose I could object to that, but then you couldn’t find twelve people like that even on Earth.”

“We’d have to compromise, would we?”

“Well, sure.”

“Earth courts can’t be super-picky, either, then?”

Now Calhoun was sure he was being baited, he just didn’t know how. He stalled as long as he could and then he answered, “No.”

“All right,” the judge replied. He turned to the bailiff. “Bring in the next panel.”

The bailiff disappeared for tense moments. When he returned twelve new jurors followed him into the courtroom, past a stunned and speechless Calhoun. Calhoun’s lower jaw still rested against his chest when they were seated.

“Well, Mr. Calhoun, what do you think of this panel?”

“Mr. Calhoun? Mr. Calhoun, are you all right?”

“Uh—fine, Your Honor.” Calhoun reached his hand up to wipe his mouth. Calhoun was drooling. He gazed at the figures in the jury box, twelve identical human forms, each dressed in a black suit with a string bow tie, each, as far as he could discern, absolutely identical to himself. How the aliens had accomplished this he did not know, but, if the identification was as close in other respects they had wasted their time. The case was over. This was indeed a jury of his peers. These jurors would understand him as no others ever could. They would relate to him, sympathize with him. They would never condemn him.

“You may begin your voir dire, Mr. Prosecutor,” the judge announced solemnly.

Calhoun huddled in the hollow between two huge boulders, the folds of his tattered robe gathered around him against the chill of the wind. He longed for peaceful sleep but in this season the wind was as constant as the light of the three suns. Of all the things he’d left on Earth the night was what Calhoun missed most. Night had been his friend, concealing his secrets from prying eyes.

He would never see Earth again. That was his punishment. That and endless wandering over this alien world. “We misled you. We have not executed anyone within historical times. No survivor has exercised his right of revenge in more than a terrestrial millennium,” the judge had announced when he passed sentence.

“Death is not the punishment that life is. We have insured that you will have ample time to repent. We have cleansed your body of all its resident viri. Microbes which evolved among us cannot harm you; consequently, though you are not immortal, you may expect to live an extraordinarily long time. While you live our entire society will share the vengeance of your victim’s kinsmen.”

That, Calhoun soon learned, was literally true. Though he wandered where he would and no one harmed him, neither did they help him. No one spoke to him. No one gave him food, or water, or shelter. Wherever he went they were ready, and shut themselves up inside their houses until he was gone. If he tried to take something that belonged to them they simply took it back. There were always enough of them so that he was easily overpowered without any serious injury. It was maddening.

Worse, he had only himself to blame—literally. Having anticipated his demand and puzzled out his strategy the wary aliens had sprung their trap. It was an ingenious one, and he hadn’t seen the flaw in his reasoning until it was far too late.

Twelve cloned copies of him, twelve exact alter egos, copies of Calhoun correct in every essential detail, including his most minute memories, impressed upon them by some arcane means yet beyond the science of Earth. They were short-lived. They would survive only a couple of terrestrial years, but they had not been told this.

Calhoun had been allowed to test them during voir dire, and satisfy himself that up to the very moment of their creation these were absolutely identical. And then he took the bait.

In hindsight, he realized he should have been alerted by the prosecutor’s failure to object, and the court’s observation that in ancient English law, where the jury system had originated, acquaintance with the accused had initially been mandatory for jurors.

Something stirred to his right. He caught it in his peripheral vision. He was suddenly distracted by his everpresent hunger. Here on this accursed world he seemed always to just barely get enough nourishment to keep himself alive but never enough to satisfy the gnawing.

In a moment he had confirmed, this was an “edible,” a creeping repulsive-looking creature slow enough and stupid enough to be caught with the bare hands and that would yield a mouthful or two of foul-tasting protein and moisture.

Calhoun stalked it carefully, and at the propitious moment pounced. He gobbled it up without relish, then returned to his meager shelter between the rocks, back to the memory of his most monumental miscalculation.

The memory was vivid. Even now, years later, the fallacy still exerted a fatal attraction.

It had been a moment of elation. How could it miss? It was every defendant’s dream, to be judged if he must be judged, by himself.

But they were too closely identical. Aside from their abbreviated lifespans, which the aliens had built into them, they shared all of Calhoun’s failings and foibles. Calhoun supposed that this absolute identity would make them kindred, and in a way, he had guessed right. But the kinship was perverse.

Instead of empathizing with him, each of them—as greedy, ruthless and ambitious as their prime—had expected to compete with the others for what Calhoun had left behind on Earth.

Calhoun assumed that they would instantly vote to acquit him. That way all would be returned to Earth.

They reasoned that by voting him guilty each would have one less competitor for the spoils. As prisoners of the Calhoun psyche they could choose no other course.

He never knew, of course, whether or not the aliens had ever transported the copies to Earth. He assumed that if they had, the copies had died of old age within days of arrival, as their preprogrammed lives ran out.

He would liked to have watched this happen, to enjoy their shock at the realization that they too had been beguiled and betrayed. Though quite literally they were he, and he was they, he felt no sympathy for them. There is no honor among thieves, nor any love either.