Birthright

turned back to the boy. “They'll be taking you to Komornos, a moon of Atria V, to await trial. I've got

your preliminary hearing and bill of indictment here, along with transcripts of our interviews, so unless something comes up, I won't be seeing you until the trial.” As the youth was led out, Khalinov pressed two more buttons to summon his junior partners, Kominsky and Braque. Neither of them ever saw the inside of a courtroom if it was possible to avoid it, for neither had anything approximating Khalinov's eloquence, but that didn't mean they were drawing their salaries for nothing. Kominsky, an Orthodox Jew in an age when almost every other religion had atrophied from lack of interest, knew more about nonhuman criminal law than Khalinov could ever hope to learn, while Braque, a former governor of Praesepe III, was the man who handled the miles upon miles of red tape that magically appeared every time a human stood trial on an alien world. There were other partners and assistants as well, twenty-seven of them to be exact, but most were concerned with corporate law and interstellar commerce, vital fields but totally devoid of the type of publicity that surrounded Khalinov's more famous cases.

“I hear we've got a real stinker this time,” said Braque, pulling out a long yellow legal pad. (Some customs never changed.)

“If I were a betting man,” said Khalinov “and were feeling extremely conservative, I'd offer five million to one that our boy is tried, convicted, sentenced, and executed inside of three hours.” “What did he do?” asked Kominsky.

“He sneezed.”

“Then what?” asked Braque.

“Then he resisted arrest and fled to Deluros VIII.” “That's all?”

“Yep.”

“You're pulling my leg,” said Braque.

“Am I?”

“Not necessarily,” said Kominsky, his eyes alight with interest. “Where did this happen?” “Atria XVI.”

“A methane world?”

Khalinov nodded. “The damned fool had his T-pack off.” Kominsky nodded grimly, but Braque just looked puzzled. “I don't see the problem,” he said. “The problem,” said Khalinov, “is simply this: the Atrians are a crystalline race methane-breathers living at an awfully cold temperature. Young Heinrich Krantz—yes, the Commander's son—was there as a military aide on a trading mission. I don't know if he was drunk or sober, but, for whatever reason, he voluntarily or involuntarily—he swears it was the latter—turned off his T-pack while walking down a