Letter of the Law

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  Letter of the Law

  by Alan E. Nourse

  The place was dark and damp, and smelled like moldy leaves. Meyerhofffollowed the huge, bear-like Altairian guard down the slipperyflagstones of the corridor, sniffing the dead, musty air with distaste.He drew his carefully tailored Terran-styled jacket closer about hisshoulders, shivering as his eyes avoided the black, yawning cell-holesthey were passing. His foot slipped on the slimy flags from time totime, and finally he paused to wipe the caked mud from his trouser leg."How much farther is it?" he shouted angrily.

  The guard waved a heavy paw vaguely into the blackness ahead. Quitesuddenly the corridor took a sharp bend, and the Altairian stopped,producing a huge key ring from some obscure fold of his hairy hide. "Istill don't see any reason for all the fuss," he grumbled in a woundedtone. "We've treated him like a brother."

  One of the huge steel doors clicked open. Meyerhoff peered into theblackness, catching a vaguely human outline against the back wall."Harry?" he called sharply.

  There was a startled gasp from within, and a skinny, gnarled little mansuddenly appeared in the guard's light, like a grotesque, twisted ghostout of the blackness. Wide blue eyes regarded Meyerhoff from beneathuneven black eyebrows, and then the little man's face broke into acrafty grin. "Paul! So they sent _you_! I knew I could count on it!" Heexecuted a deep, awkward bow, motioning Meyerhoff into the dark cubicle."Not much to offer you," he said slyly, "but it's the best I can dounder the circumstances."

  Meyerhoff scowled, and turned abruptly to the guard. "We'll have someprivacy now, if you please. Interplanetary ruling. And leave us thelight."

  The guard grumbled, and started for the door. "It's about time youshowed up!" cried the little man in the cell. "Great day! Lucky theysent you, pal. Why, I've been in here for years--"

  "Look, Zeckler, the name is Meyerhoff, and I'm not your pal," Meyerhoffsnapped. "And you've been here for two weeks, three days, andapproximately four hours. You're getting as bad as your gentle guardswhen it comes to bandying the truth around." He peered through the dimlight at the gaunt face of the prisoner. Zeckler's face was dark with aweek's beard, and his bloodshot eyes belied the cocky grin on his lips.His clothes were smeared and sodden, streaked with great splotches ofmud and moss. Meyerhoff's face softened a little. "So Harry Zeckler's ina jam again," he said. "You _look_ as if they'd treated you like abrother."

  The little man snorted. "These overgrown teddy-bears don't know whatbrotherhood means, nor humanity, either. Bread and water I've beengetting, nothing more, and then only if they feel like bringing itdown." He sank wearily down on the rock bench along the wall. "I thoughtyou'd never get here! I sent an appeal to the Terran Consulate the firstday I was arrested. What happened? I mean, all they had to do was get aman over here, get the extradition papers signed, and providetransportation off the planet for me. Why so much time? I've beensitting here rotting--" He broke off in mid-sentence and stared atMeyerhoff. "You _brought_ the papers, didn't you? I mean, we can leavenow?"

  Meyerhoff stared at the little man with a mixture of pity and disgust."You are a prize fool," he said finally. "Did you know that?"

  Zeckler's eyes widened. "What do you mean, fool? So I spend a couple ofweeks in this pneumonia trap. The deal was worth it! I've got threemillion credits sitting in the Terran Consulate on Altair V, justwaiting for me to walk in and pick them up. Three million credits--doyou hear? That's enough to set me up for life!"

  Meyerhoff nodded grimly. "_If_ you live long enough to walk in and pickthem up, that is."

  "What do you mean, if?"

  Meyerhoff sank down beside the man, his voice a tense whisper in themusty cell. "I mean that right now you are practically dead. You may notknow it, but you are. You walk into a newly opened planet with yoursmart little bag of tricks, walk in here with a shaky passport and nopermit, with no knowledge of the natives outside of two paragraphs ofinaccuracies in the Explorer's Guide, and even then you're not contentto come in and sell something legitimate, something the natives mightconceivably be able to use. No, nothing so simple for you. You have topull your usual high-pressure stuff. And this time, buddy, you're payingthe piper."

  "_You mean I'm not being extradited?_"

  Meyerhoff grinned unpleasantly. "I mean precisely that. You've committeda crime here--a major crime. The Altairians are sore about it. And theTerran Consulate isn't willing to sell all the trading possibilitieshere down the river just to get you out of a mess. You're going to standtrial--and these natives are out to get you. Personally, I think they're_going_ to get you."

  Zeckler stood up shakily. "You can't believe anything the natives say,"he said uneasily. "They're pathological liars. Why, you should see whatthey tried to sell _me_! You've never seen such a pack of liars as thesecritters." He glanced up at Meyerhoff. "They'll probably drop a littlefine on me and let me go."

  "A little fine of one Terran neck." Meyerhoff grinned nastily. "You'vecommitted the most heinous crime these creatures can imagine, andthey're going to get you for it if it's the last thing they do. I'mafraid, my friend, that your con-man days are over."

  Zeckler fished in the other man's pocket, extracted a cigarette, andlighted it with trembling fingers. "It's bad, then," he said finally.

  "It's bad, all right."

  Some shadow of the sly, elfin grin crept over the little con-man's face."Well, at any rate, I'm glad they sent you over," he said weakly."Nothing like a good lawyer to handle a trial."

  "_Lawyer?_ Not me! Oh, no. Sorry, but no thanks." Meyerhoff chuckled."I'm your advisor, old boy. Nothing else. I'm here to keep you frombotching things up still worse for the Trading Commission, that's all. Iwouldn't get tangled up in a mess with those creatures for anything!" Heshook his head. "You're your own lawyer, Mr. Super-salesman. It's allyour show. And you'd better get your head out of the sand, or you'regoing to lose a case like it's never been lost before!"

  * * * * *

  Meyerhoff watched the man's pale face, and shook his head. In a way, hethought, it was a pity to see such a change in the rosy-cheeked, dapper,cocksure little man who had talked his way glibly in and out of morejams than Meyerhoff could count. Trading brought scalpers; it was almostinevitable that where rich and unexploited trading ground was uncovered,it would first fall prey to the fast-trading boys. They spread out fromTerra with the first wave of exploration--the slick, fast-talkingcon-men who could work new territories unfettered by the legalrestrictions that soon closed down the more established planets. Thefirst men in were the richest out, and through some curious quirk of theTerrestrial mind, they knew they could count on Terran protection,however crooked and underhand their methods.

  But occasionally a situation arose where the civilization and socialpractices of the alien victims made it unwise to tamper with them.Altair I had been recognized at once by the Trading Commission as acommercial prize of tremendous value, but early reports had warned ofthe danger of wildcat trading on the little, musty, jungle-like planetwith its shaggy, three-eyed inhabitants--warned specifically against theconfidence tactics so frequently used--but there was always somebody,Meyerhoff reflected sourly, who just didn't get the word.

  Zeckler puffed nervously on his cigarette, his narrow face a study introubled concentration. "But I didn't _do_ anything!" he explodedfinally. "So I pulled an old con game. So what? Why should they get soexcited? So I clipped a few thousand credits, pulled a little fastbusiness." He shrugged eloquently, spreading his hands. "Everybody'sdoing it. They do it to each other without batting an eye. You should_see_ these critters operate on each other. Why, my little scheme waspeanuts by comparison."

>   Meyerhoff pulled a pipe from his pocket, and began stuffing the bowlwith infinite patience. "And precisely what sort of con game was it?" heasked quietly.

  Zeckler shrugged again. "The simplest, tiredest, moldiest old racketthat ever made a quick nickel. Remember the old Terran gag about theBrooklyn Bridge? The same thing. Only these critters didn't wantbridges. They wanted land--this gooey, slimy swamp they call 'farmland.' So I gave them what