Letter of the
Alan Edward Nourse
The place was dark and damp, and smelled like moldy leaves.
Meyerhoff followed the huge, bear-like Altairian guard
down the slippery flagstones of the corridor, sniffing the
dead, musty air with distaste. He drew his carefully tailored
Terran-styled jacket closer about his shoulders, shivering as his
eyes avoided the black, yawning cell-holes they were passing.
His foot slipped on the slimy flags from time to time, 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. Quite suddenly the corridor took a sharp bend, and the
Altairian stopped, producing a huge key ring from some obscure
fold of his hairy hide. "I still don't see any reason for
all the fuss," he grumbled in a wounded tone. "We've treated
him like a brother."
One of the huge steel doors clicked open. Meyerhoff peered
into the blackness, 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 man suddenly appeared in the guard's light, like a grotesque,
twisted ghost out of the blackness. Wide blue eyes
regarded Meyerhoff from beneath uneven black eyebrows, and
then the little man's face broke into a crafty grin. "Paul! So
they sent you! I knew I could count on it!" He executed 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 do under the circumstances."
Meyerhoff scowled, and turned abruptly to the guard. "We'll
have some privacy now, if you please. Interplanetary ruling.
And leave us the light."
The guard grumbled, and started for the door. "It's about
time you showed up!" cried the little man in the cell. "Great
day! Lucky they sent you, pal. Why, I've been in here for
"Look, Zeckler, the name is Meyerhoff, and I'm not your
pal," Meyerhoff snapped. "And you've been here for two
weeks, three days, and approximately four hours. You're getting
as bad as your gentle guards when it comes to bandying
the truth around." He peered through the dim light at the
gaunt face of the prisoner. Zeckler's face was dark with a
week's beard, and his bloodshot eyes belied the cocky grin
on his lips. His clothes were smeared and sodden, streaked
with great splotches of mud and moss. Meyerhoff's face softened
a little. "So Harry Zeckler's in a jam again," he said.
"You look as if they'd treated you like a brother."
The little man snorted. "These overgrown teddy-bears don't
know what brotherhood means, nor humanity, either. Bread
and water I've been getting, nothing more, and then only if they
feel like bringing it down." He sank wearily down on the rock
bench along the wall. "I thought you'd never get here! I sent
an appeal to the Terran Consulate the first day I was arrested.
What happened? I mean, all they had to do was get a man
over here, get the extradition papers signed, and provide transportation
off the planet for me. Why so much time? I've been
sitting here rotting—" He broke off in mid-sentence and stared
at Meyerhoff. "You brought the papers, didn't you? I mean,
we can leave now?"
Meyerhoff stared at the little man with a mixture of pity and
disgust. "You are a prize fool," he said finally. "Did you know
Zeckler's eyes widened. "What do you mean, fool? So I
spend a couple of weeks in this pneumonia trap. The deal was
worth it! I've got three million credits sitting in the Terran
Consulate on Altair V, just waiting for me to walk in and pick
them up. Three million credits—do you hear? That's enough
to set me up for life!"
Meyerhoff nodded grimly. "If you live long enough to walk
in and pick them up, that is."
"What do you mean, if?"
Meyerhoff sank down beside the man, his voice a tense
whisper in the musty cell. "I mean that right now you are
practically dead. You may not know it, but you are. You walk
into a newly opened planet with your smart little bag of tricks,
walk in here with a shaky passport and no permit, with no
knowledge of the natives outside of two paragraphs of inaccuracies
in the Explorer's Guide, and even then you're not
content to come in and sell something legitimate, something
the natives might conceivably be able to use. No, nothing so
simple for you. You have to pull your usual high-pressure stuff.
And this time, buddy, you're paying the piper."
"You mean I'm not being extradited?"
Meyerhoff grinned unpleasantly. "I mean precisely that.
You've committed a crime here—a major crime. The Altairians
are sore about it. And the Terran Consulate isn't willing
to sell all the trading possibilities here down the river just to
get you out of a mess. You're going to stand trial—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 what they tried to sell me! You've never
seen such a pack of liars as these critters." He glanced up at
Meyerhoff. "They'll probably drop a little fine on me and let
"A little fine of one Terran neck." Meyerhoff grinned nastily.
"You've committed the most heinous crime these creatures can
imagine, and they're going to get you for it if it's the last thing
they do. I'm afraid, my friend, that your con-man days are
Zeckler fished in the other man's pocket, extracted a cigarette,
and lighted 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 from botching things up still worse for the Trading
Commission, that's all. I wouldn't get tangled up in a mess
with those creatures for anything!" He shook his head. "You're
your own lawyer, Mr. Super-salesman. It's all your show. And
you'd better get your head out of the sand, or you're going 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, he thought, 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 more jams than Meyerhoff could
count. Trading brought scalpers; it was almost inevitable that
where rich and unexploited trading ground was uncovered, it
would first fall prey to the fast-trading boys. They spread out
from Terra with the first wave of exploration—the slick, fast-talking
con-men who could work new territories unfettered by
the legal restrictions that soon closed down the more established
planets. The first men in were the richest out, and
through some curious quirk of the Terrestrial mind, they knew
they could count on Terran protection, however crooked and
underhand their methods.
But occasionally a situation arose where the civilization and
social practices of the alien victims made it unwise to tamper
with them. Altair I had been recognized at once by the Trading
Commission as a commercial prize of tremendous value, but
early reports had warned of the danger of wildcat trading on
the little, musty, jungle-like planet with its shaggy, three-eyed
inhabitants—warned specifically against the confidence 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 in troubled concentration. "But I didn't do anything!"
he exploded finally. "So I pulled an old con game. So what?
Why should they get so excited? So I clipped a few thousand
credits, pulled a little fast business." He shrugged eloquently,
spreading his hands. "Everybody's doing it. They do it to each
other without batting an eye. You should see these critters
operate on each other. Why, my little scheme was peanuts by
Meyerhoff pulled a pipe from his pocket, and began stuffing
the bowl with infinite patience. "And precisely what sort of
con game was it?" he asked quietly.
Zeckler shrugged again. "The simplest, tiredest, moldiest
old racket that ever made a quick nickel. Remember the old
Terran gag about the Brooklyn Bridge? The same thing. Only
these critters didn't want bridges. They wanted land—this
gooey, slimy swamp they call 'farm land.' So I gave them
what they wanted. I just sold them some land."
Meyerhoff nodded fiercely. "You sure did. A hundred square
kilos at a swipe. Only you sold the same hundred square kilos
to a dozen different natives." Suddenly he threw back his hands
and roared. "Of all the things you shouldn't have done—"
"But what's a chunk of land?"
Meyerhoff shook his head hopelessly. "If you hadn't been
so greedy, you'd have found out what a chunk of land was to
these natives before you started peddling it. You'd have found
out other things about them, too. You'd have learned that
in spite of all their bumbling and fussing and squabbling
they're not so dull. You'd have found out that they're marsupials,
and that two out of five of them get thrown out of
their mother's pouch before they're old enough to survive.
You'd have realized that they have to start fighting for individual
rights almost as soon as they're born. Anything goes,
as long as it benefits them as individuals."
Meyerhoff grinned at the little man's horrified face. "Never
heard of that, had you? And you've never heard of other things,
too. You've probably never heard that there are just too many
Altairians here for the food their planet can supply, and their
diet is so finicky that they just can't live on anything that
doesn't grow here. And consequently, land is the key factor
in their economy, not money; nothing but land. To get land,
it's every man for himself, and the loser starves, and their
entire legal and monetary system revolves on that principle.
They've built up the most confusing and impossible system of
barter and trade imaginable, aimed at individual survival, with
land as the value behind the credit. That explains the lying—of
course they're liars, with an economy like that. They've
completely missed the concept of truth. Pathological? You bet
they're pathological! Only a fool would tell the truth when his
life depended on his being a better liar than the next guy!
Lying is the time-honored tradition, with their entire legal
system built around it."
Zeckler snorted. "But how could they possibly have a legal
system? I mean, if they don't recognize the truth when it slaps
them in the face?"
Meyerhoff shrugged. "As we understand legal systems, I
suppose they don't have one. They have only the haziest idea
what truth represents, and they've shrugged off the idea as
impossible and useless." He chuckled maliciously. "So you
went out and found a chunk of ground in the uplands, and
sold it to a dozen separate, self-centered, half-starved natives!
Encroachment on private property is legal grounds for murder
on this planet, and twelve of them descended on the same
chunk of land at the same time, all armed with title-deeds."
Meyerhoff sighed. "You've got twelve mad Altairians in your
hair. You've got a mad planet in your hair. And in the meantime,
Terra's most valuable uranium source in five centuries
is threatening to cut off supply unless they see your blood
splattered liberally all the way from here to the equator."
Zeckler was visibly shaken. "Look," he said weakly, "so I
wasn't so smart. What am I going to do? I mean, are you
going to sit quietly by and let them butcher me? How could
I defend myself in a legal setup like this?"
Meyerhoff smiled coolly. "You're going to get your sly little
con-man brain to working, I think," he said softly. "By Interplanetary
Rules, they have to give you a trial in Terran legal
form—judge, jury, court procedure, all that folderol. They
think it's a big joke—after all, what could a judicial oath mean
to them?—but they agreed. Only thing is, they're going to
hang you, if they die trying. So you'd better get those stunted
little wits of yours clicking—and if you try to implicate me,
even a little bit, I'll be out of there so fast you won't know
With that Meyerhoff walked to the door. He jerked it inward
sharply, and spilled two guards over on their faces.
"Privacy," he grunted, and started back up the slippery corridor.
It certainly looked like a courtroom, at any rate. In the front
of the long, damp stone room was a bench, with a seat behind
it, and a small straight chair to the right. To the left was a stand
with twelve chairs—larger chairs, with a railing running along
the front. The rest of the room was filled almost to the door
with seats facing the bench. Zeckler followed the shaggy-haired
guard into the room, nodding approvingly. "Not such a bad
arrangement," he said. "They must have gotten the idea fast."
Meyerhoff wiped the perspiration from his forehead, and
shot the little con-man a stony glance. "At least you've got
a courtroom, a judge, and a jury for this mess. Beyond that—"
He shrugged eloquently. "I can't make any promises."
In the back of the room a door burst open with a bang.
Loud, harsh voices were heard as half a dozen of the huge
Altairians attempted to push through the door at once. Zeckler
clamped on the headset to his translator unit, and watched the
hubbub in the anteroom with growing alarm. Finally the question
of precedent seemed to be settled, and a group of the
Altairians filed in, in order of stature, stalking across the room
in flowing black robes, pug-nosed faces glowering with self-importance.
They descended upon the jury box, grunting and
scrapping with each other for the first-row seats, and the judge
took his place with obvious satisfaction behind the heavy
wooden bench. Finally, the prosecuting attorney appeared,
flanked by two clerks, who took their places beside him. The
prosecutor eyed Zeckler with cold malevolence, then turned
and delivered a sly wink at the judge.
In a moment the room was a hubbub as it filled with the
huge, bumbling, bear-like creatures, jostling each other and
fighting for seats, growling and complaining. Two small fights
broke out in the rear, but were quickly subdued by the group
of gendarmes guarding the entrance. Finally the judge glared
down at Zeckler with all three eyes, and pounded the bench top
with a wooden mallet until the roar of activity subsided. The
jurymen wriggled uncomfortably in their seats, exchanging
winks, and finally turned their attention to the front of the
"We are reading the case of the people of Altair I," the
judge's voice roared out, "against one Harry Zeckler—" he
paused for a long, impressive moment—"Terran." The courtroom
immediately burst into an angry growl, until the judge
pounded the bench five or six times more. "This—creature—is
hereby accused of the following crimes," the judge bellowed.
"Conspiracy to overthrow the government of Altair I. Brutal
murder of seventeen law-abiding citizens of the village of
Karzan at the third hour before dawn in the second period
after his arrival. Desecration of the Temple of our beloved
Goddess Zermat, Queen of the Harvest. Conspiracy with the
lesser gods to cause the unprecedented drought in the Dermatti
section of our fair globe. Obscene exposure of his pouch-marks
in a public square. Four separate and distinct charges of jail-break
and bribery—" The judge pounded the bench for order—"Espionage
with the accursed scum of Altair II in preparation
for interplanetary invasion."
The little con-man's jaw sagged lower and lower, the color
draining from his face. He turned, wide-eyed, to Meyerhoff,
then back to the judge.
"The Chairman of the Jury," said the Judge succinctly, "will
read the verdict."
The little native in the front of the jury-box popped up like
a puppet on a string. "Defendant found guilty on all counts,"
"Defendant is guilty! The court will pronounce sentence—"
"Now wait a minute!" Zeckler was on his feet, wild-eyed.
"What kind of railroad job—"
The judge blinked disappointedly at Paul Meyerhoff. "Not
yet?" he asked, unhappily.
"No." Meyerhoff's hands twitched nervously. "Not yet, Your
Honor. Later, Your Honor. The trial comes first."
The judge looked as if his candy had been stolen. "But you
said I should call for the verdict."
"Later. You have to have the trial before you can have the
The Altairian shrugged indifferently. "Now—later—" he
"Have the prosecutor call his first witness," said Meyerhoff.
Zeckler leaned over, his face ashen. "These charges," he
whispered. "They're insane!"
"Of course they are," Meyerhoff whispered back.
"But what am I going to—"
"Sit tight. Let them set things up."
"But those lies. They're liars, the whole pack of them—" He
broke off as the prosecutor roared a name.
The shaggy brute who took the stand was wearing a bright
purple hat which sat rakishly over one ear. He grinned the
Altairian equivalent of a hungry grin at the prosecutor. Then
he cleared his throat and started. "This Terran riffraff—"
"The oath," muttered the judge. "We've got to have the
The prosecutor nodded, and four natives moved forward,
carrying huge inscribed marble slabs to the front of the court.
One by one the chunks were reverently piled in a heap at the
witness's feet. The witness placed a huge, hairy paw on the
cairn, and the prosecutor said, "Do you swear to tell the truth,
the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you—" he
paused to squint at the paper in his hand, and finished on a
puzzled note, "—Goddess?"
The witness removed the paw from the rock pile long enough
to scratch his ear. Then he replaced it, and replied, "Of course,"
in an injured tone.
"Then tell this court what you have seen of the activities of
this abominable wretch."
The witness settled back into the chair, fixing one eye on
Zeckler's face, another on the prosecutor, and closing the third
as if in meditation. "I think it happened on the fourth night
of the seventh crossing of Altair II (may the Goddess cast
a drought upon it)—or was it the seventh night of the fourth
crossing?—" he grinned apologetically at the judge—"when I
was making my way back through town toward my blessed
land-plot, minding my own business, Your Honor, after weeks
of bargaining for the crop I was harvesting. Suddenly from the
shadow of the building, this creature—" he waved a paw at
Zeckler—"stopped me in my tracks with a vicious cry. He had
a weapon I'd never seen before, and before I could find my
voice he forced me back against the wall. I could see by the
cruel glint in his eyes that there was no warmth, no sympathy
in his heart, that I was—"
"Objection!" Zeckler squealed plaintively, jumping to his
feet. "This witness can't even remember what night he's talking
The judge looked startled. Then he pawed feverishly through
his bundle of notes. "Overruled," he said abruptly. "Continue,
The witness glowered at Zeckler. "As I was saying before
this loutish interruption," he muttered, "I could see that I was
face to face with the most desperate of criminal types, even
for Terrans. Note the shape of his head, the flabbiness of his
ears. I was petrified with fear. And then, helpless as I was, this
two-legged abomination began to shower me with threats of
evil to my blessed home, dark threats of poisoning my land
unless I would tell him where he could find the resting place
of our blessed Goddess—"
"I never saw him before in my life," Zeckler moaned to
Meyerhoff. "Listen to him! Why should I care where their
Meyerhoff gave him a stony look. "The Goddess runs things
around here. She makes it rain. If it doesn't rain, somebody's
insulted her. It's very simple."
"But how can I fight testimony like that?"
"I doubt if you can fight it."
"But they can't prove a word of it—" He looked at the jury,
who were listening enraptured to the second witness on the
stand. This one was testifying regarding the butcherous slaughter
of eighteen (or was it twenty-three? Oh, yes, twenty-three)
women and children in the suburban village of Karzan. The
pogrom, it seemed, had been accomplished by an energy
weapon which ate great, gaping holes in the sides of buildings.
A third witness took the stand, continuing the drone as the
room grew hotter and muggier. Zeckler grew paler and paler,
his eyes turning glassy as the testimony piled up. "But it's not
true," he whispered to Meyerhoff.
"Of course it isn't! Can't you understand? These people
have no regard for truth. It's stupid, to them, silly, a mark of
low intelligence. The only thing in the world they have any
respect for is a liar bigger and more skillful than they are."
Zeckler jerked around abruptly as he heard his name bellowed
out. "Does the defendant have anything to say before
the jury delivers the verdict?"
"Do I have—" Zeckler was across the room in a flash, his
pale cheeks suddenly taking on a feverish glow. He sat down
gingerly on the witness chair, facing the judge, his eyes bright
with fear and excitement. "Your—Your Honor, I—I have a
statement to make which will have a most important bearing
on this case. You must listen with the greatest care." He
glanced quickly at Meyerhoff, and back to the judge. "Your
Honor," he said in a hushed voice. "You are in gravest of
danger. All of you. Your lives—your very land is at stake."
The judge blinked, and shuffled through his notes hurriedly
as a murmur arose in the court. "Our land?"
"Your lives, your land, everything you hold dear," Zeckler
said quickly, licking his lips nervously. "You must try to
understand me—" he glanced apprehensively over his shoulder
"now, because I may not live long enough to repeat what
I am about to tell you—"
The murmur quieted down, all ears straining in their headsets
to hear his words. "These charges," he continued, "all of
them—they're perfectly true. At least, they seem to be perfectly
true. But in every instance, I was working with heart and
soul, risking my life, for the welfare of your beautiful planet."
There was a loud hiss from the back of the court. Zeckler
frowned and rubbed his hands together. "It was my misfortune,"
he said, "to go to the wrong planet when I first came to
Altair from my homeland on Terra. I—I landed on Altair II,
a grave mistake, but as it turned out, a very fortunate error.
Because in attempting to arrange trading in that frightful place,
I made certain contacts." His voice trembled, and sank lower.
"I learned the horrible thing which is about to happen to this
planet, at the hands of those barbarians. The conspiracy is
theirs, not mine. They have bribed your Goddess, flattered her
and lied to her, coerced her all-powerful goodness to their own
evil interests, preparing for the day when they could persuade
her to cast your land into the fiery furnace of a ten-year-drought—"
Somebody in the middle of the court burst out laughing.
One by one the natives nudged one another, and booed, and
guffawed, until the rising tide of racket drowned out Zeckler's
words. "The defendant is obviously lying," roared the prosecutor
over the pandemonium. "Any fool knows that the Goddess
can't be bribed. How could she be a Goddess if she could?"
Zeckler grew paler. "But—perhaps they were very clever—"
"And how could they flatter her, when she knows, beyond
doubt, that she is the most exquisitely radiant creature in all
the Universe? And you dare to insult her, drag her name in
The hisses grew louder, more belligerent. Cries of "Butcher
him!" and "Scald his bowels!" rose from the courtroom. The
judge banged for silence, his eyes angry.
"Unless the defendant wishes to take up more of our precious
time with these ridiculous lies, the jury—"
"Wait! Your Honor, I request a short recess before I present
my final plea."
"A few moments to collect my thoughts, to arrange my
The judge settled back with a disgusted snarl. "Do I have
to?" he asked Meyerhoff.
Meyerhoff nodded. The judge shrugged, pointing over his
shoulder to the anteroom. "You can go in there," he said.
Somehow, Zeckler managed to stumble from the witness
stand, amid riotous boos and hisses, and tottered into the anteroom.
Zeckler puffed hungrily on a cigarette, and looked up at
Meyerhoff with haunted eyes. "It—it doesn't look so good,"
Meyerhoff's eyes were worried, too. For some reason, he
felt a surge of pity and admiration for the haggard con-man.
"It's worse than I'd anticipated," he admitted glumly. "That
was a good try, but you just don't know enough about them
and their Goddess." He sat down wearily. "I don't see what
you can do. They want your blood, and they're going to have
it. They just won't believe you, no matter how big a lie you
Zeckler sat in silence for a moment. "This lying business,"
he said finally, "exactly how does it work?"
"The biggest, most convincing liar wins. It's as simple as
that. It doesn't matter how outlandish a whopper you tell.
Unless, of course, they've made up their minds that you just
naturally aren't as big a liar as they are. And it looks like that's
just what they've done. It wouldn't make any difference to
them what you say—unless, somehow, you could make them
Zeckler frowned. "And how do they regard the—the biggest
liar? I mean, how do they feel toward him?"
Meyerhoff shifted uneasily. "It's hard to say. It's been my
experience that they respect him highly—maybe even fear him
a little. After all, the most convincing liar always wins in any
transaction, so he gets more land, more food, more power.
Yes, I think the biggest liar could go where he pleased without
Zeckler was on his feet, his eyes suddenly bright with excitement.
"Wait a minute," he said tensely. "To tell them a lie
that they'd have to believe—a lie they simply couldn't help
but believe—" He turned on Meyerhoff, his hands trembling.
"Do they think the way we do? I mean, with logic, cause and
effect, examining evidence and drawing conclusions? Given
certain evidence, would they have to draw the same conclusions
that we have to draw?"
Meyerhoff blinked. "Well—yes. Oh, yes, they're perfectly
Zeckler's eyes flashed, and a huge grin broke out on his
sallow face. His thin body fairly shook. He started hopping
up and down on one foot, staring idiotically into space. "If I
could only think—" he muttered. "Somebody—somewhere—something
"Whatever are you talking about?"
"It was a Greek, I think—"
Meyerhoff stared at him. "Oh, come now. Have you gone
off your rocker completely? You've got a problem on your
"No, no, I've got a problem in the bag!" Zeckler's cheeks
flushed. "Let's go back in there—I think I've got an answer!"
The courtroom quieted the moment they opened the door,
and the judge banged the gavel for silence. As soon as Zeckler
had taken his seat on the witness stand, the judge turned to
the head juryman. "Now, then," he said with happy finality.
"Hold on! Just one minute more."
The judge stared down at Zeckler as if he were a bug on a
rock. "Oh, yes. You had something else to say. Well, go ahead
and say it."
Zeckler looked sharply around the hushed room. "You want
to convict me," he said softly, "in the worst sort of way. Isn't
Eyes swung toward him. The judge broke into an evil grin.
"But you can't really convict me until you've considered
carefully any statement I make in my own defense. Isn't that
The judge looked uncomfortable. "If you've got something
to say, go ahead and say it."
"I've got just one statement to make. Short and sweet. But
you'd better listen to it, and think it out carefully before you
decide that you really want to convict me." He paused, and
glanced slyly at the judge. "You don't think much of those
who tell the truth, it seems. Well, put this statement in your
record, then." His voice was loud and clear in the still room.
"All Earthmen are absolutely incapable of telling the truth."
Puzzled frowns appeared on the jury's faces. One or two
exchanged startled glances, and the room was still as death.
The judge stared at him, and then at Meyerhoff, then back.
"But you"—he stammered. "You're"—He stopped in mid-sentence,
his jaw sagging.
One of the jurymen let out a little squeak, and fainted dead
away. It took, all in all, about ten seconds for the statement
to soak in.
And then pandemonium broke loose in the courtroom.
"Really," said Harry Zeckler loftily, "it was so obvious I'm
amazed that it didn't occur to me first thing." He settled himself
down comfortably in the control cabin of the Interplanetary
Rocket and grinned at the outline of Altair IV looming larger
in the view screen.
Paul Meyerhoff stared stonily at the controls, his lips compressed
angrily. "You might at least have told me what you
"And take the chance of being overheard? Don't be silly.
It had to come as a bombshell. I had to establish myself as a
liar—the prize liar of them all, but I had to tell the sort of lie
that they simply could not cope with. Something that would
throw them into such utter confusion that they wouldn't dare
convict me." He grinned impishly at Meyerhoff. "The paradox
of Epimenides the Cretan. It really stopped them cold. They
knew I was an Earthmen, which meant that my statement that
Earthmen were liars was a lie, which meant that maybe I wasn't
a liar, in which case—oh, it was tailor-made."
"It sure was." Meyerhoff's voice was a snarl.
"Well, it made me out a liar in a class they couldn't approach,
Meyerhoff's face was purple with anger. "Oh, indeed it did!
And it put all Earthmen in exactly the same class, too."
"So what's honor among thieves? I got off, didn't I?"
Meyerhoff turned on him fiercely. "Oh, you got off just fine.
You scared the living daylights out of them. And in an eon of
lying they never have run up against a short-circuit like that.
You've also completely botched any hope of ever setting up
a trading alliance with Altair I, and that includes uranium, too.
Smart people don't gamble with loaded dice. You scared them
so badly they don't want anything to do with us."
Zeckler's grin broadened, and he leaned back luxuriously.
"Ah, well. After all, the Trading Alliance was your outlook,
wasn't it? What a pity!" He clucked his tongue sadly. "Me,
I've got a fortune in credits sitting back at the consulate waiting
for me—enough to keep me on silk for quite a while, I
might say. I think I'll just take a nice, long vacation."
Meyerhoff turned to him, and a twinkle of malignant glee
appeared in his eyes. "Yes, I think you will. I'm quite sure of
it, in fact. Won't cost you a cent, either."
Meyerhoff grinned unpleasantly. He brushed an imaginary
lint fleck from his lapel, and looked up at Zeckler slyly. "That—uh—jury
trial. The Altairians weren't any too happy to
oblige. They wanted to execute you outright. Thought a trial
was awfully silly—until they got their money back, of course.
Not too much—just three million credits."
Zeckler went white. "But that money was in banking custody!"
"Is that right? My goodness. You don't suppose they could
have lost those papers, do you?" Meyerhoff grinned at the
little con-man. "And incidentally, you're under arrest, you
A choking sound came from Zeckler's throat. "Arrest!"
"Oh, yes. Didn't I tell you? Conspiring to undermine the
authority of the Terran Trading Commission. Serious charge,
you know. Yes, I think we'll take a nice long vacation together,
straight back to Terra. And there I think you'll face a jury
Zeckler spluttered. "There's no evidence—you've got nothing
on me! What kind of a frame are you trying to pull?"
"A lovely frame. Airtight. A frame from the bottom up, and
you're right square in the middle. And this time—" Meyerhoff
tapped a cigarette on his thumb with happy finality—"this time
I don't think you'll get off."