William Bankier: Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 103, No. 3 & 4. Whole No. 625 & 626, March 1994

The shuttles automatically locked in on Pirmacha’s homing beacon and let themselves be guided to the colony’s landing field. Mother’s voice spoke in their ears. “Force wall is up. The Pirmachans wish you to undergo decontamination.”

Hartley said something obscene.

“It’s an obvious requirement, Hartley,” Mother said in a tone of mild reprimand. “You know that. They may have requested your help, but you are a guest on their world and you will behave like one.”

“ Yes, Mother,” Hartley said with all the sarcasm at his command. Britt snickered. “I swear to God,” Hartley growled as he climbed out of his shuttle, “on the next circuit, I’m going on a nonsentient ship or I’m not going.”

“You don’t mean that,” Britt said sharply. “Putting your life in the hands of strangers? Relying on quick responses on the part of crew members you don’t even know?”

“Yeah, tell me about it,” Hartley grumbled.

“I’m trying to,” Britt replied earnestly. “You’ve never traveled on a nonsentient ship, Hartley — I have. Even a 619-X ship computer can’t handle every emergency without a human initiator. What if somebody forgets to start some necessary repair sequencing? Or is two seconds too slow? You could die, Hartley.”

“Uh—”

“So the artificial intelligences in the motherships take their ‘protector’ function a little too seriously — so what? You put up with it.”

Hartley was silent a moment, and then said, “You’re quite right, Britt. I fell into the trap of taking Mother for granted. It’s a mistake I’ll not make again.” His voice was low and somber.

Duncan swallowed a laugh. He’d seen it before: the minute Hartley got out of physical contact with the mothership, he became more lordly and magisterial. Not that any of them ever truly got away from Mother, thanks to their implanted communicators. She’d been listening to every word.

No Pirmachans were in sight. The three visitors followed flashing green arrows to a small building apart from the regular landing field facilities. Inside, the automatics put them through the standard decontamination procedures, a process that required only twenty minutes.

“The force wall is down,” Mother’s voice spoke in their ears. “A Pirmachan is waiting for you by Exit One.”

Outside the exit, a woman with close-cropped gray hair and angry brown eyes stood glaring at them. “You certainly took your time getting here,” she said abruptly. “Which is the prime arbiter?”

Duncan raised an eyebrow. “I am.” He gestured toward Britt. “Second arbiter.” Then Hartley. “Third arbiter.” They never identified themselves by name when called upon to sit in judgment.

The Pirmachan woman nodded briefly. “My name is Copely. I’ve been delegated by the High Council to be your escort while you are on Pirmacha. This way.” No time wasted on amenities; just let’s-get-on-with-it.

Copely led the three Circuit arbiters to ground transport nearby. Their route to the city led them past one of the planet’s famous horsebreeding facilities, with its bioclean stables and sweeping exercise grounds. Although the breeding and training of racehorses had been only a minor enterprise when the colony was first established, Pirmacha had eventually found itself galaxy-famous as one of the few places left where the purebred Arabian could still be found. Other earth strains had been hopelessly interbred with the multiplicity of equine species encountered in other star systems, from the dragon-sized Donnerpferde on Wagner’s World to those eight-legged oddities in the Aldebaran IV system.

But Pirmacha had no indigenous horses, and the colonists had wisely forbidden the importation of any horses at all once their Arabian stock was established and flourishing. And that decision had made their fortune. An ugly disease called osteodisjunctus, picked up on some outlying world and spread from planet to planet, was able to lie dormant for four or five generations before bursting forth to wipe out horses by the herd. There was no cure, not even a treatment; the disease struck swiftly and inexorably. No case of osteodisjunctus had ever been reported among Pirmachan Arabians, however; and horsebreeders everywhere began turning to Pirmacha for “clean” stock with which to rebuild their stables.

On the other side of a faintly shimmering force wall, a handsome colt with more energy than he knew what to do with easily paced their ground transport. The three newcomers to Pirmacha admired the small head, the graceful sweep of the neck, the seemingly effortless movement of the slender legs. Then suddenly the colt tired of the game and bolted away. It was a safe guess that the reason the tribunal had been summoned to Pirmacha had something to do with the horses. The Pirmachan High Council had been stingy with details in their request for aid. They’d said only that a murder had been committed, and that while Security had narrowed the number of suspects to two, High Council had been unable to determine which of the two was guilty. The Pirmachan request for an outside tribunal had concluded with the assertion that the case was dividing the Pirmachan people and an early resolution was imperative.

“The schism,” Mother prompted.

Right. “Copely,” Duncan said as they entered the city, “exactly how is this murder case dividing the people? Is everyone taking sides, or what?”

Copely snorted. “You could say that. The two suspects are named Roj Kordan and Anita Verdoris. Does that mean anything to you?”

“Owners?” Britt guessed.

“Owners of the two biggest spreads on Pirmacha,” Copely confirmed. “That’s Kordan’s land you’re looking at now. Every small breeder here is dependent in some way on either Kordan or Verdoris — for off-planet animal transport, specialized veterinary medicine, stud service, you name it. Every single person here with any connection to horses whatsoever has a stake in the outcome.”

“And that’s why you asked for us,” Duncan said suddenly. “Whichever way High Council decided, they’d alienate half the population. You’re passing the buck.”

“Duncan!” Mother’s voice said sharply in his ear. “That’s not the kind of judgment you’ve been called on to render here. Apologize to her. Quickly.”

Damn; she was right. “Copely, I’m sorry — that was out of line,” Duncan said hurriedly. “Of course you want outside judges. You’re all too close to the matter to be impartial, and you have the good sense to know it.”

The Pirmachan woman grunted something unintelligible.

“Really, Duncan,” Mother murmured in his ear. “You’re the senior member of this tribunal. You’re supposed to know better.”

Duncan touched the spot behind his right ear where the communicator was implanted and wished, not for the first time, that the thing came with an on/off switch. He exchanged glances with Britt and Hartley. So they’d been handed a political hot potato; it wouldn’t be the first time.

Hartley coughed politely and asked, “What was the victim’s name?”

“Longstride,” Copely told him. “He was found in the Kordan stables with his throat cut. You’ll find all the details in your console brief.”

No attempt to make it look like an accident, then. They came to the High Council Building without further talk. It was there they would hear testimony via remote visuals and ultimately render their verdict.

The hallways were crowded with visitors who’d come to gawk at the three arbiters. They all had that same angry look that Copely had, some of them even seething; the place seemed ready to explode. “Best wrap this up fast,” Duncan said in a low voice to the other two as they entered the judgment chamber.