Robert Silverberg: Planet of Death

Now, though, the money for the furs was bulging in his pocket. Soon it would be in the bank. Then he could give himself a few days off. If the scientists hadn’t blasted off yet, he’d go to meet them. Maybe he could even talk them into taking him with them to World Seven of Star System Z-16. If not, well, he’d go yang-hunting again in a week or two.

He was only a block and a half away from the bank when trouble struck.

He could see the tall green-colored bank building on the far side of the next avenue. The streets weren’t crowded. A few slim, soft-eyed Vellirani natives were walking up ahead of him.

Then he heard a disturbance behind him. Footsteps. Shouts. The sound of running. An Earthman’s voice. Crawford started to turn around to see what was going on.

Things happened very fast. Crawford didn’t have any idea what was taking place. It felt like being clubbed over the head and getting struck by lightning, all at the same time.

He blanked out.

But he didn’t fall down. When his mind cleared, he was still standing right where he had been. He could feel the money still bulging in his pocket. The street was very quiet. Everyone was looking at him.

There was something in his hand. A knife. A long, wicked-looking knife with three big blue jewels set in its hilt. The blade was dripping with blood.

Not Earthman blood. It was the bronze-colored blood of a Vellirani native.

And there was a dead Vellirani lying at Crawford’s feet. The little native looked peaceful even in death. But he hadn’t died peacefully at all. His slim blue body had been cruelly ripped open with a knife. With the same knife that now was held in Crawford’s hand.

“Arrest him!” somebody yelled. “He’s a murderer!”

“Police! Murder!” came a cry from the other side. “Help! Murder!”

Crawford didn’t try to run. He was too confused for that. He stood there staring at the knife in his hand, and at the dead Vellirani on the ground. There was a strange, sweet taste in his mouth that he couldn’t explain.

Murder? What was this all about? This wasn’t his knife. He had never seen the dead Vellirani before. And though he had a hot temper, Crawford was no killer.

Swiftly three Vellirani policemen appeared. Like all the natives, they were small men who hardly came up to the middle of Crawford’s chest. But they were holding blast-guns in their many-fingered hands. Crawford wasn’t about to argue with three drawn blast-guns.

“You’re under arrest,” one of the policemen said. “The charge is murder.”

“It’s all a mistake!” Crawford shouted. “I’ve never killed anybody!”

“The knife is in your hand, Earthman. You can’t deny that you’re guilty.”

“But—”

“Don’t resist arrest,” the policeman closest to Crawford warned him. “Come peacefully. It’s the best way.”

Crawford shook his head slowly. He couldn’t believe that this was happening to him. He was no murderer. He was a successful yangskin hunter, on the way to the bank to make a deposit. Someone had framed him. That had to be it.

But the bloody murder knife had been in his hand.

A terrific surge of anger ran through him. Who had put him in this spot? And why? And how? He had blanked out just when the crime was committed. How come?

A Vellirani policeman touched his elbow. Crawford pulled free.

“Let go of me,” he snapped. “I’m not guilty! I didn’t do a thing!”

The strange eyes of the Vellirani stared into his. The policemen looked very serious. But Crawford knew that when a Vellirani wore a solemn-looking expression, he was really laughing. The policemen were laughing at him. They thought it was funny that he would deny his guilt. After all, he had been caught with the bloody murder knife right in his hand!

“Come along,” the nearest policeman said again.

There was no use trying to resist arrest. That would only get him into worse trouble.

Very puzzled, Crawford let himself be taken to jail.

They put him up in a comfortable cell. Half an hour after he was arrested, Crawford had some visitors. Jeff Hallam came to see him. He brought along an Earthman named Brewster whose job it was to help any Earthman who got into trouble on Velliran. With Hallam and Brewster was a Vellirani native named Hork Kliskan. Hork Kliskan was a lawyer. Crawford would need a native lawyer to defend him against the charge of murder.

“What’s this all about?” Brewster wanted to know.

Crawford shrugged. “I don’t have the foggiest idea. I was on my way to the bank, and things went blank for a moment. Then there was a knife in my hand and a dead Vellirani on the sidewalk in front of me.”

“You didn’t know the dead man?” Hork Kliskan asked.

“Never saw him in my life.”

“It sounds phony to me,” said Jeff Hallam. “There’s some trickery here. Someone’s out to get you.”

“You bet,” Crawford said grimly. “But how can I prove it?”

“We’ll try to get you a fair trial,” Brewster said. “Hork Kliskan is one of the best trial lawyers on this planet.”

Crawford looked straight at the little blue-skinned being. “Can you do it? Can you get me free?”

“I will do my best,” Hork Kliskan replied. His voice was a soft buzzing sound. “But it looks difficult. There are witnesses who say they saw you kill the man.”

“They’re lying!” Crawford blazed.

“Perhaps. Perhaps. I will do my best when the trial begins,” said the Vellirani lawyer.

Crawford said, “Isn’t there some way I can get tried by my fellow Earthmen instead?”

Brewster shook his head. “Any Earthmen accused of crimes here get tried in Vellirani courts. It’s the law. I’m sorry, Crawford.”

“Besides,” Hallam said, “you’ve got a bad reputation among the Earthmen here. You’re a hothead. You knock people down when you don’t like things they do or say. It wouldn’t be hard for them to think you got angry enough to kill.”

“You’ll get a fair trial this way,” Brewster said. “I promise you that. Vellirani justice is very fair.”

Vellirani justice also moved very quickly. Crawford came to trial only three days later. On Earth, it might have taken months for the trial to begin.

The trial was held in one of the government buildings. Under local law, there was no jury. A Vellirani judge would hear the case and decide if Roy was guilty.

Crawford, Jeff Hallam, and Mr. Brewster were the only Earthmen in the court. The judge sat on a high seat; the prosecutor sat on his left, the defense lawyer on his right. Some Vellirani witnesses were in the back of the room.

“Court is in order,” said the judge. “The charge is murder.”

The prosecutor stood up. He was a very short, very fat Vellirani with deep purple skin. He had a big ring on each of his sixteen fingers. He walked up and down the room, looking very important. Then he began to speak.

He described the crime. He produced the murder weapon and told how Crawford had been found with it in his hand. He showed photographs that the policemen had taken a few minutes after the murder. In the photos Crawford was seen gripping the knife and staring down at the body.

The judge seemed to be smiling. That meant he was taking this very, very seriously. When a Vellirani turned the corners of his mouth up, it was a sign that he was unhappy.

“Looks bad,” Jeff Hallam whispered.

Crawford nodded. “But they’ve got to realize that it’s a frameup!”

The prosecutor was still talking. Now he was speaking about Roy Crawford’s bad temper. Certainly he had done some homework in these three days, because he knew a lot about Crawford. He told of the fights that Crawford had been in. He discussed Crawford’s habit of trying to settle quarrels with his fists. He even knew that Crawford had knocked a hunter down on his last yangskin expedition. He painted Crawford as a terribly violent man who might stab a perfect stranger for getting in his way.