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Title: Star chamber
Author: H. B. Fyfe
Illustrator: Leo Summer
Release date: December 12, 2023 [eBook #72391]
Language: English
Original publication: New York, NY: Ziff-Davis Publishing Company, 1963
Credits: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STAR CHAMBER ***
STAR CHAMBER
By H. B. FYFE
Illustrated by SUMMERS
_There were no courts on the isolated world._
_But there was a Judge._
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Amazing Stories March 1963.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
At the roar of landing rockets, Quasmin's first impulse was to dash out
to the hilltop to scan the skies.
When he left his shack, however, he did so cautiously, carrying a small
telescope salvaged from the crack-up of his own ship. This planet was
so far beyond the Terran sphere of exploration that he feared the
new-comers might not be human.
He was surprised to sight the spaceship settling about half a mile
away, in the vicinity of the wreck. The lines seemed to be Terran.
"They picked that spot on purpose," he muttered. "Couldn't be somebody
after me, could it?"
There was no lack of good reason for the law to be after him. In the
first place, the battered hull out there had not belonged to him. In
the second, the authorities might be trying to find out what had become
of the original crew. Quasmin could not answer that even if he wanted
to--a corpse was difficult to locate in interstellar space.
He took advantage of the cooling period after the ship had touched down
to make his way through the scrubby growth that resembled a forest
except for the purplish color of the drooping fronds. He found a good
spy point on a low hill and settled down to watch.
In due time, the airlock within Quasmin's view opened. A single
space-suited figure climbed clumsily down the ladder, paused to glance
about, and walked a circuit of the ship as if to survey the terrain.
Apparently deciding that nothing dangerous flew or crept in the
vicinity, the spacer returned to the base of the ladder to remove his
suit. He dropped it there, hitched at his belt--suggesting to Quasmin
the weight of a weapon--and began to stroll across the turf of springy
creepers toward the wreck. Quasmin followed as sneakily as he could.
Passing the strange ship, some instinct told him that it was now
unoccupied. The whole attitude of the spacer had suggested a man as
much alone as Quasmin himself. The latter temporarily abandoned his
skulking pace to walk boldly where he might be seen by any crew members
on watch. No activity resulted.
Keeping one eye on the distant figure, Quasmin moved toward the
spacesuit at the foot of the ladder. Just as he was about to reach out
for it, the air took on the resiliency of sponge-covered springs and
thrust his outstretched hand right back at him.
"Force shield!" he growled. "Damn! Probably set to his voice or some
such code. Well, I can't get closer, but it proves he must be alone."
He squinted at the nametape on the breast of the spacesuit and read,
"J. Trolla."
Then he hurried after the spacer, who was just disappearing behind a
clump of shrubbery.
* * * * *
He could not decide later just when Trolla had in some fashion become
aware of him. Quasmin could remember no careless move that might have
given him away, nor did he think it likely that he was confronted by
a practiced telepath. Such people existed, but they were not normally
permitted to risk their unique talents flitting about the unexplored
depths of interstellar space. Quasmin blamed it on natural animal
instinct.
If he could have seen Trolla during the latter's inspection of the
wrecked ship's interior, he would have worried even more. It was no
idle poking about for possible salvage. The spacer spent over an hour
examining those compartments accessible without the use of a torch to
burn away crumpled metal and plastic bulkheads. He displayed unusual
interest in things of obscure value, such as articles of clothing and
empty plastic crates that had once held food supplies.
He also talked a good deal to himself in a low voice, but the battered
hull concealed this from the man lurking outside.
That there was a watcher there, Trolla stopped doubting when he
mentally summed up the amount of minor equipment obviously removed from
the ship since the crash. He decided it was not necessary to penetrate
the broken-up drive sections in what had been the lower levels before
the hull had toppled over. The scavenging looked like the work of one
individual unable to salvage any of the heavier machinery.
"Just took some things to make himself more comfortable," he murmured.
"A few instruments, food, medicines, self-powered appliances, and the
like."
He considered returning to his own ship for equipment with which
to make a real check that would include search for and analysis of
fingerprints, hair, perspiration traces ... and perhaps even blood
samples.
"Why waste time?" he asked himself. "It has to be Quasmin, and there's
not much chance of finding anyone with him. Why not just see where he's
holed up--before he starts running again and makes it a long job?"
Emerging through a rent in the hull, he was again struck by the
sensation of being watched. He could not control a slight motion of
one hand to his belt for the reassuring touch of his gas gun. With
it, he could fill the air around any attacker with a scattering of
tiny, anesthetic pellets while the personal force shield he wore would
protect him from any hostile return. Though assuming that Quasmin
would be armed, he did not think the man could have obtained a shield.
None had been reported missing by any law-enforcement agency within
imaginable range of this untouched planet.
* * * * *
Trolla walked about the wreck twice before he spotted the dim trail
that revealed infrequent visits to the place. Cautiously, he followed
it along the edge of the taller, purplish growth that almost boasted
the dimensions of trees, wondering if he would presently detect sounds
of someone trailing _him_.
By the time he sighted the crude shack from a low hilltop, he believed
he had heard sounds three or four times. They _might_ have been
indications of native life forms. He forgot about them as he examined
the refuge that Quasmin had built.
The hut was crookedly assembled of bulkhead sections ripped from the
wreck. There had evidently been batteries available to power simple
tools, for lengths of bent plastic were bolted around the corners, and
two windows had been cut in the walls. A mound of dirt had been heaped
up against one of the sides.
"Digging in for the winter season," muttered Trolla, nodding. "Yes,
he'll need some insulation."
He delayed looking inside, lest he provoke some reaction before
learning all that he wished. Instead, he walked on past the shack, and
thus came upon a small stream and an almost pitiful attempt at building
a waterwheel.
"Must work, though," he told himself. "He must have been using it to
recharge batteries for the distress calls he has the nerve to keep
broadcasting. Wonder if he knows they don't have much effect over fifty
billion miles?"
He crossed the brook and looked over the two small fields beyond.
They had been cleared and roughly ploughed by some laborious means he
preferred not to contemplate. It was standard procedure for spaceships
to carry planting supplies for just such situations, and he had to
approve the beginnings made by Quasmin. Retracing his steps to the
shack, he found the opportunity to say so.
"Oh, there you are!" said Quasmin. "I was looking out near your ship to
see who landed. Is there just you?"
Trolla savored the glint of animal cunning not quite disguised in the
other's glance. He decided to quash the verbal sparring at the outset.
"How many did you expect, Quasmin?" he inquired pleasantly. "My
department has to police three planetary systems, spread widely along
this frontier. We can't afford fuel and rations to send a brass band
after you!"
The shock was good for three or four minutes of bristling silence.
Twice, Quasmin opened his mouth as if to deny his identity, but thought
better of it. His scowl faded into an expression of studied insolence.
"So you're a cop," he sneered. "What d'ya think ya gonna do, way out
here where ya can hardly even call in to headquarters?"
"That depends," said Trolla, eyeing him analytically. "To be perfectly
frank, I can't call headquarters. Don't you know how far out we are
from the outmost little observation post of humanity? Or did you just
give up all astrogation whenever you got rid of those crewmen you
kidnapped?"
"How can you prove I got rid of them?" demanded Quasmin with the same
sneer.
"I don't even want to bother. There are eleven murder charges hanging
over you besides drug-smuggling and that rape on Vammu IV; and even I
can hardly understand that last. Those people are only semi-humanoid!"
Quasmin grinned. Trolla felt vaguely sickened at the sudden realization
that his momentary betrayal of a sense of decency was taken as a sign
of timidity.
The other turned aside and took a few slow steps to where an empty
plastic crate had been braced against a rock for a seat. He sat down
and leaned his shoulders against the rock, but with an attitude of
alertness. It was the first physical move made by either since Trolla
had walked around the corner of the hut.
"Maybe ya think you'll arrest me," he said, watching Trolla carefully.
"Maybe ya think I don't pack the same handful of sleep you do!"
"And a shield too?"
* * * * *
Quasmin's eyes narrowed at that. He seemed to estimate his chances of
calling a bluff, then relaxed slightly, accepting the truth.
"Suppose we shoot it out, then," he suggested. "You might kill me at
this range, with an overdose before the pellets scatter. Ya get too
much gas in me, an' you'll be up for murder too."
"That would be your mistake," said Trolla.
"Oh, you might get off," said Quasmin judiciously. "But there lots of
people will still say it's murder. You bein' a cop makes no difference.
Civilization bein' what it is, the law's gotta protect _me_ too! I
gotta right to be helped more than average, because I'm in more than
average trouble--right?"
Trolla nodded, but less in agreement than confirming some suspicion of
his own.
"And you'd refuse to come with me even if I ordered you?"
"What a dummy ya'd be to try an' make me!" grunted Quasmin. "You gotta
sleep sometime--an' you'd sure as hell wake up the wrong side of the
airlock!"
He grinned at the other with his ugly expression of petty triumph and
added, "Ya got nerve to try it after a fair warning?"
"Perhaps not," admitted Trolla.
"Huh! Ya got some sense after all. Why don't ya just go away an' let me
alone? Nobody ever gave your bunch jurisdiction out here. I bet this
planet was never even reported, was it?"
"It's not on record," Trolla confirmed. "As far as I know, the only
humans to reach it are you and I--and I almost turned back. How you
picked it up, I don't know, but I was playing a hunch when I picked up
your distress call."
Quasmin leaned back in more relaxed fashion.
"Well, ya got a problem," he grinned. "I ain't leavin' here with ya,
an' what chance have ya got of bringin' a judge an' jury out here? I
gotta right to a fair trial with legal an' psychiatric advice!"
Trolla took two steps to lean his shoulder against a corner of the hut.
The ill-constructed joint sagged under his weight.
"Didn't it occur to you that you're having your trial right now?" he
asked.
_That reached him_, he thought, with a certain ironic satisfaction.
Quasmin glared at him in outraged disbelief. He spat on the ground and
demanded, "What're ya doin'? Settin' yourself up as judge an' jury all
by yourself?"
"And executioner, if need be," agreed Trolla.
He watched in silence as the other's jaw hung slackly, then as Quasmin
slowly turned red with temper.
"You ... you ... why, ya dirty _cop_, ya! That's against every law
that ever was. They ... they wouldn't _let_ ya!"
"There's no other way. As you said, they can't send out people to hold
a trial here. It isn't safe to take you back alone. They couldn't spare
more officers to come with me on the off chance you'd be found way out
here."
"No matter how far it is, you ain't got any right to do that!"
Quasmin's right hand was beneath his shirt but Trolla, secure within
his shield, ignored that.
"Well, then," he said, "if mere distance doesn't put this planet beyond
human law, the same goes for _you_."
"I still have a fair trial comin' then!"
"You're having it right now," Trolla told him.
"Like hell!" Quasmin snarled. He was on his feet now, teetering on his
toes. "I know my rights. I oughta be gettin' rescue an' rehabilitation
help. _You_ can't do anything but kill me. You got no right!"
Trolla pushed off from the corner of the shack with a hunch of his
shoulder. He took a few steps toward the trail out of the clearing,
then hesitated.
"You've had a lot of rehabilitation work, haven't you?" he pointed
out. "I had plenty of time to study your records, on the way out from
Blauchen III."
"Ya can't talk me into comin' in for more psych treatments!" growled
Quasmin. "I had enough of those guys, since I was a kid."
"Yes, you were a little too smart for them," agreed Trolla. "The most
they ever managed was a good, thorough conditioning against suicide,
after you put on a psycho act to break up the second trial for murder."
Quasmin grinned again.
"I sure suckered them that time," he recalled with gloating. "The
treatment didn't hurt any 'cause I never did have any idea of killin'
myself; an' it got me outa the other mess till I could make a break."
"It won't get you out of this one."
Quasmin's grin left him.
"Made up your mind already?" he demanded, half drawing a gas pistol of
his own.
"Not yet," said Trolla. "I'll go back to my ship to think it over."
* * * * *
He walked away, though keeping a prudent watch over his shoulder until
he was a hundred meters distant. Even after that, he turned around
occasionally. This made it difficult for Quasmin to follow him, but the
outlaw managed to be in position to observe Trolla's arrival at his
ship.
He spied as the detective recovered his spacesuit and climbed the
ladder to the airlock. When there appeared to be no likelihood of his
emerging for some time, Quasmin scuttled back to his hut.
"No sense bein' here if he comes lookin' for me with his gun an'
shield," he growled to himself. "Maybe I bluffed him, an' maybe I
didn't."
He threw together a small bundle of rations and rolled it with a water
bottle in a blanket. As he did so, he muttered a stream of curses.
"He's got no right to try anythin'," he reassured himself. "The law
says I gotta have a chance at rehabilitation whether I co-operate or
not. I didn't make up the law, but I can use it as much as he can. He
wouldn't dare overgas me!"
His anger helped him start out at a brisk pace. In less than three
hours, he reached an area of rough, cliff-broken hills where there were
caves that would take Trolla weeks to check. There he concealed himself
for the night.
Sometime during the darkness, a distant rumble awakened him.
Suspiciously, Quasmin poked his head out of the cave in which he had
been sleeping. He was just in time to see the flare of rockets in the
starry sky.
"He backed down!" was his triumphant conclusion.
He watched the flaring light until he was satisfied that Trolla was
making for space and not for another landing place. Then he returned to
sleep.
Just to be sure, Quasmin remained in the hills two more days, until his
supplies ran low and he thought it might be comfortable to return to
the hut. He made his way back warily, lest Trolla should have left some
sort of trap.
At the shack, he found nothing but his own things, so he hiked through
the purplish shrubbery to the landing spot. To his surprise, he
discovered that Trolla had left a number of crates behind. He sat down
to think that over.
When no explanation occurred to him, he went to the wreck of his own
ship. In the partly stripped control room were a few instruments that
still functioned when he hooked up batteries to power them.
"Might be smart to see if he's in orbit," he muttered. "Maybe he thinks
he can soften me up by leaving presents."
Emerging an hour later, he looked puzzled. As much by luck as by
skill and accuracy, he had succeeded in picking up Trolla's ship on
the rangefinder. The instrument was not meant to operate efficiently
through an atmosphere and Quasmin was no expert in its use; but it
definitely showed Trolla was heading out-system.
"Well, then, I might as well see if he left a bomb," decided Quasmin.
He approached the crates close enough to read the stenciled labels.
Scowling in bewilderment, he set about opening them. Just as the
lettering indicated, he found an assortment of electric motors,
equipment for building a new generator that could be powered by his
waterwheel, and even a supply of glow-panels for light if he should get
an electrical system into operation.
There was also a chest of tools and parts, and several boxes of grain
and vegetable seeds. The prize of all was a small, three-wheeled,
battery-powered vehicle that looked just large enough to pull a
homemade plow.
The man sat on an open crate and burst into hysterical laughter.
"All a bluff!" he chortled. "I _knew_ he didn't dare do anything!"
* * * * *
It was after he staggered to his feet to haul the little machine from
its crate that he found Trolla's note attached to the handlebar.
_Dear Quasmin_, it said. _As you tried to point out, there is some
argument whether a society has any moral right to punish a criminal
or merely an obligation to help him heal himself._
Quasmin roared with laughter. He looked up at the clear sky.
"That's right, Trolla! I'm _sick_--an' don't you forget it!"
_On the other hand_, he read on, _an individual owes support to
the society that protects his rights. I think a breach of the
contract by one party nullifies it for the other too. Think that
over--Trolla._
Quasmin scowled at the words, then at the sky, and finally at the tools
and materials that would help maintain him on this strange planet for
many years.
"Years and years and years," he muttered, glancing about at the
hanging, purplish fronds in the silent background.
A stunned expression crept over his face, as he realized what kind of
sentence had been passed upon him.
THE END
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