Norstrilia

THE TRIAL

Rod walked across the dusty lot, took three steps up the folding staircase which had been let down from the side of the big trailer van, knocked on the door once as he had been instructed to do, had a green light flash in his face, opened the door, and entered.

It was a garden.

The moist, sweet, scent-laden air was like a narcotic. There were bright green plants in profusion. The lights were clear but not bright; their ceiling gave the effect of a penetrating blue, blue sky. He looked around. It was a copy of Old Old Earth. The growths on the green plants were roses; he remembered pictures which his computer had showed him. The pictures had not gotten across the idea that they smelled nice at the same time that they looked nice. He wondered if they did that all the time, and then remembered the wet air: wet air always holds smells better than dry air does. At last, almost shyly, he looked up at the three judges.

With real startlement, he saw that one of them was not a Norstrilian at all, but the local Commissioner of the Instrumentality, the Lord Redlady — a thin man with a sharp, inquiring face. The other two were Old Taggart and John Beasley. He knew them, but not well.

“Welcome,” said the Lord Redlady, speaking in the funning singsong of a man from Manhome.

“Thank you,” said Rod.

“You are Roderick Frederick Ronald Arnold William MacArthur McBan the one hundred and fifty-first?” said Taggart, knowing perfectly well that Rod was that person.

Lord love a duck and lucky me! thought Rod, I’ve got my hiering, even in this place!

“Yes,” said the Lord Redlady.

There was silence.

The other two judges looked at the Manhome man; the stranger looked at Rod; Rod stared, and then began to feel sick at the bottom of his stomach.

For the first time in his life, he had met somebody who could penetrate his peculiar perceptual abilities.

At last he thought, “I understand.”

The Lord Redlady looked sharply and impatiently at him, as though waiting for a response to that single word “yes.”

Rod had already answered — telepathically.

At last Old Taggart broke the silence.

“Aren’t you going to talk? I asked you your name.”

The Lord Redlady held up his hand in a gesture for patience; it was not a gesture which Rod had ever seen before, but he understood it immediately.

He thought telepathically at Rod, “You are watching my thoughts.”

“Indeed I am,” thought Rod, back at him.

The Lord Redlady clapped a hand to his forehead. “You are hurting me. Did you think you said something?”

With his voice Rod said, “I told you that I was reading your mind.”

The Lord Redlady turned to the other two men and spieked to them: “Did either of you hier what he tried to spiek?”

“No.” “No.” They both thought back at him. “Just noise, loud noise.”

“He is a broadbander like myself. And I have been disgraced for it. You know that I am the only Lord of the Instrumentality who has been degraded from the status of Lord to that of Commissioner—”

“Yes,” they spieked.

“You know that they could not cure me of shouting, and suggested I die?”

“No,” they answered.

“You know that the Instrumentality thought I could not bother you here and sent me to your planet on this miserable job, just to get me out of the way?”

“Yes,” they answered.

“Then, what do you want to do about him? Don’t try to fool him. He knows all about this place already.” The Lord Redlady glanced quickly, sympathetically up at Rod, giving him a little phantom smile of encouragement. “Do you want to kill him? To exile him? To turn him loose?”

The other two men fussed around in their minds. Rod could see that they were troubled at the idea he could watch them thinking, when they had thought him a telepathic deaf-mute; they also resisted the Lord Redlady’s unmannerly precipitation of the decision. Rod almost felt that he was swimming in the thick wet air, with the smell of roses cloying his nostrils so much that he would never smell anything but roses again, when he became aware of a massive consciousness very near him — a fifth person in the room, whom he had not noticed at all before.

It was an Earth soldier, complete with uniform. The soldier was handsome, erect, tall, formal with a rigid military decorum. He was, furthermore, not human and he had a strange weapon in his left hand.

“What is that?” spieked Rod to the Earthman. The man saw his face, not the thought.

“An underman. A snake-man. The only one on this planet. He will carry you out of here if the decision goes against you.”

Beasley cut in, almost angrily. “Here, cut it out. This is a hearing, not a blossoming tea party. Don’t clutter all that futt into the air. Keep it formal.”

“You want a formal hearing?” said the Lord Redlady. “A formal hearing for a man who knows everything that all of us are thinking? It’s foolish.”

“In Old North Australia, we always have formal hearing,” said old Taggart. With an acuteness of insight born of his own personal danger, Rod saw Taggart all over again for the first time — a careworn poor old man, who had worked a poor farm hard for a thousand years; a farmer, like his ancestors before him; a man rich only in the millions of megacredits which he would never take time to spend; a man of the soil, honorable, careful, formal, righteous, and very just. Such men did not yield to innovation ever. They fought change.

“Have the hearing then,” said the Lord Redlady, “have the hearing if it is your custom, my Mister and Owner Taggart, my Mister and Owner Beasley.”

The Norstrilians, appeased, bowed their heads briefly.

Almost shyly, Beasley looked over at the Lord Redlady. “Sir and Commissioner, will you say the words. The good old words. The ones that will help us to find our duty and to do it.”

(Rod saw a quick flare of red anger go through the Lord Redlady’s mind as the Earth commissioner thought fiercely to himself, “Why all this fuss about killing one poor boy? Let him go, you dull clutts, or kill him.” But the Earthman had not directed the thoughts outward and the two Norstrilians were unaware of his private view of them.)

On the outside, the Lord Redlady remained calm. He used his voice, as Norstrilians did on occasion of great ceremony,

“We are here to hear a man.”

“We are here to hear him,” they responded.

“We are not to judge or to kill, though this may follow,” said he.

“Though this may follow,” they responded.

“And where, on Old Old Earth, does man come from?”

They knew the answer by rote and said it heavily together: “This is the way it was on Old Old Earth, and this is the way it shall be among the stars, no matter how far we men may wander:

“The seed of what is planted in dark, moist earth; the seed of man in dark, moist flesh. The seed of wheat fights upward to air, sun and space; the stalk leaves, blossom and grain flourish under the open glare of heaven. The seed of man grows in the salty private ocean of the womb, the sea-darkness remembered by the bodies of his race. The harvest of wheat is collected by the hands of men; the harvest of men is collected by the tenderness of eternity.”

“And what does this mean?” chanted the Lord Red-lady.

“To look with mercy, to decide with mercy, to kill with mercy, but to make the harvest of man strong and true and good, the way that the harvest of wheat stood high and proud on Old Old Earth.”

“And who is here?” he asked. They both recited Rod’s full name.

When they had finished, the Lord Redlady turned to Rod and said, “I am about to utter the ceremonial words, but I promise you that you will not be surprised, no matter what happens. Take it easy, therefore. Easy, easy.” Rod was watching the Earthman’s mind and the mind of the two Norstrilians. He could see that Beasley and Taggart were befuddled with the ritual of the words, the wetness and scent of the air, and the false blue sky in the top of the van; they did not know what they were going to do. But Rod could also see a sharp, keen triumphant thought forming in the bottom of the Lord Redlady’s mind, I’ll get this boy off! He almost smiled, despite the presence of the snake man with the rigid smile and the immovable glaring eyes standing just three paces beside him and a little to his rear, so that Rod could only look at him through the corner of his eye.

“Misters and Owners!” said the Lord Redlady.

“Mister Chairman!” they answered.

“Shall I inform the man who is being heard?”

“Inform him!” they chanted.

“Roderick Frederick Ronald Arnold William Mac-Arthur McBan the one hundred and fifty-first!”

“Yes sir,” said Rod.

“Heir-in-trust of the Station of Doom!”

“That’s me,” said Rod.

“Hear me,” said the Lord Redlady.

“Hear him!” said the other two.

“You have not come here, child and citizen Roderick, for us to judge you or to punish you. If these things are to be done, they must be done in another place or time, and they must be done by men other than ourselves. The only concern before this board is the following: should you or should you not be allowed to leave this room safe and free and well, taking into no account your innocence or guilt of matters which might be decided elsewhere, but having regard only for the survival and the safety and the welfare on this given planet? We are not punishing and we are not judging, but we are deciding, and what we are deciding is your life. Do you understand? Do you agree?”

Rod nodded mutely, drinking in the wet, rose-scented air and stilling his sudden thirst with the dampness of the atmosphere. If things went wrong now, they did not have very far to go. Not far to go, not with the motionless snake-man standing just beyond his reach. He tried to look at the snake brain but got nothing out of it except for an unexpected glitter of recognition and defiance.

The Lord Redlady went on, Taggart and Beasley hanging on his words as though they had never heard them before.

“Child and Citizen, you know the rules. We are not to find you wrong or right. No crime is judged here, no offense. Neither is innocence. We are only judging the single question. Should you live or should you not? Do you understand? Do you agree?”

Said Rod, “Yes, sir.”

“And how stand you, Child and Citizen?”

“What do you mean?”

“This board is asking you, what is your opinion? Should you live or should you not?”

“I’d like to,” said Rod, “but I’m tired of all these childhoods.”

“That is not what the board is asking you, Child and Citizen,” said the Lord Redlady. “We are asking you, what do you think? Should you live or should you not live?”

“You want me to judge myself?”

“That’s it, boy,” said Beasley, “you know the rules. Tell them, boy. I said we could count on you.”

The sharp friendly neighborly face unexpectedly took on great importance for Rod. He looked at Beasley as though he had never seen the man before. This man was trying to judge him, Rod; and he, Rod, had to help decide on what was to be done with himself. The medicine from the snake-man and the giggle-giggle death, or a walk out into freedom. Rod started to speak and checked himself; he was to speak for Old North Australia. Old North Australia was a tough world, proud of its tough men. No wonder the board gave him a tough decision. Rod made up his mind and he spoke clearly and deliberately:

“I’d say no. Do not let me live. I don’t fit. I can’t spiek and hier. Nobody knows what my children would be like, but the odds are against them. Except for one thing…”

“And what, Child and Citizen, is that?” asked the Lord Redlady, while Beasley and Taggart watched as though they were staring at the last five meters of a horse race.

“Look at me carefully, Citizens and Members of the Board,” said Rod, finding that in this milieu it was easy to fall into a ceremonious way of talking. “Look at me carefully and do not consider my own happiness, because you are not allowed, by law, to judge that anyhow. Look at my talent — the way I can hier, the big thunderstorm way I can spiek.” Rod gathered his mind for a final gamble and as his lips got through talking, he spat his whole mind at them:

anger-anger, rage-red

blood-red,

fire-fury,

noise, stench, glare, roughness, sourness and hate hate hate,

all the anxiety of a bitter day.

crutts, whelps, pups!

It all poured out at once. The Lord Redlady turned pale and compressed his lips, Old Taggart put his hands over his face, Beasley looked bewildered and nauseated. Beasley then started to belch as calm descended on the room.

In a slightly shaky voice, the Lord Redlady asked,

“And what was that supposed to show, Child and Citizen?”

“In grown-up form, sir, could it be a useful weapon?”

The Lord Redlady looked at the other two. They talked with the tiny expressions on their faces; if they were spieking, Rod could not read it. This last effort had cost him all telepathic input.

“Let’s go on,” said Taggart.

“Are you ready?” said the Lord Redlady to Rod.

“Yes sir,” said Rod.

“I continue,” said the Lord Redlady. “If you understand your own case as we see it, we shall proceed to make a decision and, upon making the decision, to kill you immediately or to set you free no less immediately. Should the latter prove the case, we shall also present you with a small but precious gift, so as to reward you for the courtesy which you will have shown this board, for without courtesy there could be no proper hearing, without the hearing no appropriate decision, and without an appropriate decision there could be neither justice nor safety in the years to come. Do you understand? Do you agree?”

“I suppose so,” said Rod.

“Do you really understand? Do you really agree? It is your life which we are talking about,” said the Lord Redlady.

“I understand and I agree,” said Rod.

“Cover us,” said the Lord Redlady.

Rod started to ask how when he understood that the command was not directed at him in the least.

The snake-man had come to life and was breathing heavily. He spoke in clear old words, with an odd dropping cadence in each syllable:

“High, my lord, or utter maximum?”

For answer, the Lord Redlady pointed his right arm straight up with the index finger straight at the ceiling. The snake-man hissed and gathered his emotions for an attack. Rod felt his skin go goose-pimply all over, then he felt the hair on the back of his neck rise, finally he felt nothing but an unbearable alertness. If these were the thoughts which the snake-man was sending out of the trailer van, no passerby could possibly eavesdrop on the decision. The startling pressure of raw menace would take care of that instead.

The three members of the board held hands and seemed to be asleep.

The Lord Redlady opened his eyes and shook his head, almost imperceptibly, at the snake-soldier.

The feeling of snake-threat went off. The soldier returned to his immobile position, eyes forward. The members of the board slumped over their table. They did not seem to be able or ready to speak. They looked out of breath. At last Taggart dragged himself to his feet, gasping his message to Rod,

“There’s the door, boy. Go. You’re a citizen. Free.”

Rod started to thank him but the old man held up his right hand:

“Don’t thank me. Duty. But remember — not one word, ever. Not one word, ever, about this hearing. Go along.”

Rod plunged for the door, lurched through, and was in his own yard. Free.

For a moment he stood in the yard, stunned.

The dear grey sky of Old North Australia rolled low overhead; this was no longer the eerie light of Old Earth, where the heavens were supposed to shine perpetually blue. He sneezed as the dry air caught the tissue of his nostrils. He felt his clothing chill as the moisture evaporated out of it; he did not think whether it was the wetness of the trailer van or his own sweat which had made his shirt so wet. There were a lot of people there, and a lot of light. And the smell of roses was as far away as another life might be.

Lavinia stood near him, weeping.

He started to turn to her, when a collective gasp from the crowd caused him to turn around.

The snake-man had come out of the van. (It was just an old theater van, he realized at last, the kind which he himself had entered a hundred times.) His earth uniform looked like the acme of wealth and decadence among the dusty coveralls of the men and the poplin dresses of the women. His green complexion looked bright among the tanned faces of the Norstrilians. He saluted Rod.

Rod did not return the salute. He just stared.

Perhaps they had changed their minds and had sent the giggle of death after him.

The soldier held out his hand. There was a wallet of what seemed to be leather, finely chased, of off-world manufacture.

Rod stammered, “It’s not mine.”

“It — is — not — yours,” said the snake man, “but — it — is — the — things — gift — which — the — people — promised — you — inside. — Take — it — because — I — am — too — dry — out — here.”

Rod took it and stuffed it in his pocket. What did a present matter when they had given him life, eyes, daylight, the wind itself?

The snake-soldier watched with flickering eyes. He made no comment, but he saluted and went stiffly back to the van. At the door he turned and looked over the crowd as though he were appraising the easiest way to kill them all. He said nothing, threatened nothing. He opened the door and put himself into the van. There was no sign of who the human inhabitants of the van might be. There must be, thought Rod, some way of getting them in and out of the Garden of Death very secretly and very quietly, because he had lived around the neighborhood a long time and had never had the faintest idea that his own neighbors might sit on a board.

The people were funny. They stood quietly in the yard, waiting for him to make the first move.

He turned stiffly and looked around more deliberately.

Why, it was his neighbors and kinfolk, all of them — McBans, MacArthurs, Passarellis, Schmidts, even the Sanders!

He lifted his hand in greeting to all of them.

Pandemonium broke loose.

They rushed toward him. The women kissed him, the men patted him on the back and shook his hand, the little children began a piping little song about the Station of Doom. He had become the center of a mob which led him to his own kitchen.

Many of the people had begun to cry.

He wondered why. Almost immediately, he understood—

They liked him.

For unfathomable people reasons, mixed-up non-logical human reasons they had wished him well. Even the auntie who had predicted a coffin for him was sniveling without shame, using a corner of her apron to wipe her eyes and nose.

He had gotten tired of people, being a freak himself, but in this moment of trial their goodness, though capricious, flowed over him like a great wave. He let them sit him down in his own kitchen. Among the babble, the weeps, the laughter, the hearty and falsely cheerful relief, he heard a single fugue being repeated again and again: they liked him. He had come back from death: he was their Rod McBan.

Without liquor, it made him drunk. “I can’t stand it,” he shouted, “I like you all so dashed bloomed crutting much that I could beat the sentimental brains out of the whole crook lot of you…”

“Isn’t that a sweet speech?” murmured an old farm wife nearby.

A policeman, in full uniform, agreed.

The party had started. It lasted three full days, and when it was over there was not a dry eye or a full bottle on the whole Station of Doom.

From time to time he cleared up enough to enjoy his miraculous gift of hiering. He looked through all their minds while they chatted and sang and drank and ate and were as happy as Larry; there was not one of them who had come along vainly. They were truly rejoicing. They loved him. They wished him well. He had his doubts about how long that kind of love would last, but he enjoyed it while it lasted.

Lavinia stayed out of his way the first day; on the second and third days she was gone. They gave him real Norstrilian beer to drink, which they had brought up to one-hundred-and-eight proof by the simple addition of raw spirits. With this, he forgot the Garden of Death, the sweet wet smells, the precise offworld voice of the Lord Redlady, the pretentious blue sky in the ceiling.

He looked in their minds and over and over again he saw the same thing,

“You’re our boy. You made it. You’re alive. Good luck, Rod, good luck to you, fellow. We didn’t have to see you stagger off, giggling and happy, to the house that you would die in.”

Had he made it, thought Rod, or was it chance which had done it for him?