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and I hope Iā€™m not called on to rule on that, at least at the start. Either way, Coombes or Brannhard would accuse me of showing prejudice.ā€

ā€œI want to see them. Iā€™ve seen them on screen, but I want to see them for real.ā€

ā€œYou havenā€™t been in one of my courts for a long time, Claudette. If I find that theyā€™ll be brought in today, Iā€™ll call you. Iā€™ll even abuse my position to the extent of arranging for you to see them outside the courtroom. Would you like that?ā€

Sheā€™d love it. Claudette had a limitless capacity for delight in things like that. They kissed goodbye, and he went to where his driver was holding open the door of the aircar and got in. At a thousand feet he looked back; she was still standing at the edge of the roof garden, looking up.

Heā€™d have to find out whether it would be safe for her to come in. Max Fane was worried about the possibility of trouble, and so was Ian Ferguson, and neither was given to timorous imaginings. As the car began to descend toward the Central Courts buildings, he saw that there were guards on the roof, and they werenā€™t just carrying pistolsā ā€”he caught the glint of rifle barrels, and the twinkle of steel helmets. Then, as he came in, he saw that their uniforms were a lighter shade of blue than the constabulary wore. Ankle boots and red-striped trousers; Space Marines in dress blues. So Ian Ferguson had pushed the button. It occurred to him that Claudette might be safer here than at home.

A sergeant and a couple of men came up as he got out; the sergeant touched the beak of his helmet in the nearest thing to a salute a Marine ever gave anybody in civilian clothes.

ā€œJudge Pendarvis? Good morning, sir.ā€

ā€œGood morning, sergeant. Just why are Federation Marines guarding the court building?ā€

ā€œStanding by, sir. Orders of Commodore Napier. Youā€™ll find that Marshal Faneā€™s people are in charge below-decks, but Marine Captain Casagra and Navy Captain Greibenfeld are waiting to see you in your office.ā€

As he started toward the elevators, a big Zarathustra Company car was coming in. The sergeant turned quickly, beckoned a couple of his men and went toward it on the double. He wondered what Leslie Coombes would think about those Marines.

The two officers in his private chambers were both wearing sidearms. So, also, was Marshal Fane, who was with them. They all rose to greet him, sitting down when he was at his desk. He asked the same question he had of the sergeant above.

ā€œWell, Constabulary Colonel Ferguson called Commodore Napier last evening and requested armed assistance, your Honor,ā€ the officer in Space Navy black said. ā€œHe suspected, he said, that the city had been infiltrated. In that, your Honor, he was perfectly correct; beginning Wednesday afternoon, Marine Captain Casagra, here, on Commodore Napierā€™s orders, began landing a Marine infiltration force, preparatory to taking over the Residency. Thatā€™s been accomplished now; Commodore Napier is there, and both Resident General Emmert and Attorney General Oā€™Brien are under arrest, on a variety of malfeasance and corrupt-practice charges, but that wonā€™t come into your Honorā€™s court. Theyā€™ll be sent back to Terra for trial.ā€

ā€œThen Commodore Napierā€™s taken over the civil government?ā€

ā€œWell, say heā€™s assumed control of it, pending the outcome of this trial. We want to know whether the present administrationā€™s legal or not.ā€

ā€œThen you wonā€™t interfere with the trial itself?ā€

ā€œThat depends, your Honor. We are certainly going to participate.ā€ He looked at his watch. ā€œYou wonā€™t convene court for another hour? Then perhaps Iā€™ll have time to explain.ā€

Max Fane met them at the courtroom door with a pleasant greeting. Then he saw Baby Fuzzy on Jackā€™s shoulder and looked dubious.

ā€œI donā€™t know about him, Jack. I donā€™t think heā€™ll be allowed in the courtroom.ā€

ā€œNonsense!ā€ Gus Brannhard told him. ā€œI admit, he is both a minor child and an incompetent aborigine, but he is the only surviving member of the family of the decedent Jane Doe alias Goldilocks, and as such has an indisputable right to be present.ā€

ā€œWell, just as long as you keep him from sitting on peopleā€™s heads. Gus, you and Jack sit over there; Ben, you and Gerd find seats in the witness section.ā€

It would be half an hour till court would convene, but already the spectatorsā€™ seats were full, and so was the balcony. The jury box, on the left of the bench, was occupied by a number of officers in Navy black and Marine blue. Since there would be no jury, they had apparently appropriated it for themselves. The press box was jammed and bristling with equipment.

Baby was looking up interestedly at the big screen behind the judgesā€™ seats; while transmitting the court scene to the public, it also showed, like a nonreversing mirror, the same view to the spectators. Baby wasnā€™t long in identifying himself in it, and waved his arms excitedly. At that moment, there was a bustle at the door by which they had entered, and Leslie Coombes came in, followed by Ernst Mallin and a couple of his assistants, Ruth Ortheris, Juan Jimenezā ā€”and Leonard Kellogg. The last time he had seen Kellogg had been at George Luntā€™s complaint court, his face bandaged and his feet in a pair of borrowed moccasins because his shoes, stained with the blood of Goldilocks, had been impounded as evidence.

Coombes glanced toward the table where he and Brannhard were sitting, caught sight of Baby waving to himself in the big screen and turned to Fane with an indignant protest. Fane shook his head. Coombes protested again, and drew another headshake. Finally he shrugged and led Kellogg to the table reserved for them, where they sat down.

Once Pendarvis and his two associatesā ā€”a short, round-faced man on his right, a tall, slender man with white hair and a black mustache on his leftā ā€”were seated, the trial got underway briskly. The charges were read, and then Brannhard, as the Kellogg prosecutor, addressed the courtā ā€”ā€œbeing

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