Robert Heinlein - Variable Star

“Wow. Thanks, Your Magistrate, that’s really fuckin’ awesome.”

“Richie,” Jules began.

“Well, it is,” Richie said. “Okay, so you saw it. That dick got all pissy for no reason, and started talking about proctors and shit. Well, I’m already on probation, like you pointed out before, and who’s a proctor gonna listen to, me or some citizen? So I got mad and told him he was being an asshole, ’cause he was. And what does he do? He punches me in the face!”

No. That wasn’t possible. Surely I hadn’t—

Dr. Will said, “At that point, a proctor would have seen your face and his knuckles and believed you. Why didn’t you call one?”

“Well, I would’ve got around to it,” he said defensively. “I was kind of fuckin’ busy just then.”

“Busy whacking him,” Jules muttered.

“I was trying to, like, knock his punches aside,” Richie insisted. “So I kept missing. Big fuckin’ deal. What am I, a boxer? Anyway, Your Wordship, my point is, after that the whole thing kind of got out of hand and nothing that happened was really anybody’s fault, and the stuff that was somebody’s fault wasn’t really, so much, because all of us were full of shit, so what I say is, why don’t we let water under the bridge lay where Jesus flang it, and just forget the whole thing? That’s fair.”

Jules said, “I hate to admit it, but he’s right, Your Honor. It’s a wash. No harm, no foul.”

Dr. Will sat breathing through her nose for a while, looking at the pair of them. Finally she said, “Here is my judgment. You will both apologize to Mr. Johnston for invading his privacy, disturbing his harmony, and ruining his furniture. You will repair the damage yourselves. For the next month you will each be confined to your quarters whenever you are not either working or eating.” She closed a folder that lay before her.

Richie couldn’t believe his luck. “That’s it ?”

She cleared her throat meaningfully, and his grin vanished. “I would be considerably harsher,” she assured him. “But the Sheffield ’s Senior Healer, Dr. Lewis, has advised me that she considers moderate recreational use of happy hour acceptable on this voyage, and the Captain concurs. Neither of you knew that when you approached Mr. Johnston—but it was a fact all the same. You have narrowly escaped serious sanctions. Consider yourselves lucky that camera’s microphone did not malfunction.”

“We do. Thank you, Your Honor,” Jules said at once. “Let’s go, Rich.”

They both got up and left the frame, and a few seconds later, the door I was facing dilated, and they both came out together, accompanied by Lahey, their potbellied Advocate. They were striving hugely, and without much success, to suppress grins big enough to frighten a hired killer or even a real estate agent. When they saw me, their grins did not falter, just became more wolflike somehow. “Hey, Farmer Brown,” Richie called. “Knock knock.”

I was so confused and demoralized I played along. “Who’s there?”

“A fucked-in-the-head dipshit with manure on his shoes who goes around punching people ’cause he doesn’t know his ass from his elmo,” he said triumphantly.

I opened my mouth… but if there is a comeback to that remark, I still don’t know what it is.

“Good luck in there, arsehole,” Jules said, and took a sip of his ever-present drink. “Come on, Rich, let’s go.” They both walked boldly through us, making us step out of their way, and left through the door behind us.

“You have your lines?” Solomon asked again.

I started, and patted my breast pocket. “Damn. I should have studied them—”

“Too late now,” he said. “Let’s go.”

I soon found myself in a surprisingly comfortable chair, facing The Three Bears.

To the left sat Coordinator Grossman. She wasn’t that big, physically. But she was a little bigger than the human average in all dimensions—and more important she was one of those larger-than-life people who can dominate any room she cares to. Right now she was just observing, but she was doing even that with gusto, with appreciation, hoping I would prove entertaining.

Directly ahead of me was Middle Size Bear, Magistrate Will, average height and mass. On the monitor outside her eyes had seemed skeptical. Now they were more… knowing . Mothers always know what you’re thinking, I’ve been told. Until you reach a certain age, anyway. Apparently I hadn’t reached it. I was glad there was a third bear because it gave me a reason to pull my eyes away from hers—

—and then was sorry I had. Littlest Bear, Lieutenant Bruce, was really more of a bantam rooster. Most small men learn to deal with it, but if they get picked on enough, early enough, sometimes they never do get over it. He was permanently pissed off at everyone. And me he was allowed to be pissed at. I tried not to look, and failed, and sure enough, his feet did not quite reach the floor, even with the lifts he was wearing. And he caught me looking.

“Good afternoon, Joel,” Dr. Will said.

I turned back to her and opened my mouth, and only then realized that every molecule of moisture in my oral tract had gone someplace else. I made a faint croaking sound. Solomon said, “Good afternoon, Doctor,” and gestured to someone outside my peripheral vision,

“You speak for Citizen Johnston, Dr. Short?” Lieutenant Bruce asked, surprised.

“Yes, Third Officer.”

A bottle of water was put before me. Once again, I was glad—but only momentarily. The instant the first sip touched my lips, I suddenly knew exactly where all that missing moisture had gone to, where all the moisture in my body had gone to.

Use of his honorific had pleased Lieutenant Bruce. “Do you mind if I ask why, Dr. Short?”

“He plays the saxophone, sir.”

This response clearly baffled Bruce. He wanted to find it contemptible—but even he couldn’t be contemptuous of a Relativist.

Dr. Will cut in, and again it was one of those glad-but-only-for-a-second deals, because with her first words, I realized she was speaking in courtroom tones. “Joel, we’re here to adjudicate the events that occurred in your quarters earlier this afternoon. First we will establish what facts we can. You will have an opportunity to explain, interpret, argue, or rebut, afterward, but please reserve your comments if any until we’ve finished examining the record. The Sheffield ’s AI began saving this recording when one of you spoke one of its trigger phrases, ‘gray market.’ Under the terms of the Covenant, the recording was brought to official human attention only upon the observed commission of a breach of harmony which occurs several seconds in—”

Oh, shit, here we go, I thought. Okay, okay: when it gets to the crucial point in the playback, they’ll all hear how close it sounded like “poppy flower.” They’ll see how it was an honest mistake.

The playback began on the monitor before me, with a peripheral echo over on Prosecutor Dooley’s table.

And of course they’ll agree that if somebody had been trying to peddle poppy products in a small society like this one, they should have been spaced. Anybody might take a poke at guys like that, before getting control of their emotions.

Reluctantly I admitted to myself that onscreen, they did not look particularly like villains. They looked like idiots—somehow still optimistic enough to think they might put one over on The Man despite a consistent record of failure. Worse, they were clearly harmless idiots, not nearly as menacing as I remembered them.

Richie said his High Japonics line again, and Sol brayed with laughter, even though he’d heard it already, outside in the anteroom.