The communication screen in the next room was buzzing.  Maybe that was Victor.  He gulped the brandy left in the glass and hurried to it.

It was Leslie Coombes, his face remotely expressionless.

“Oh, hello, Leslie.”

“Good afternoon, Dr. Kellogg.”  The formality of address was studiously rebuking.  “The Chief Prosecutor just called me; Judge Pendarvis has denied the nolle prosequi he entered in your case and in Mr. Holloway’s, and ordered both cases to trial.”

“You mean they’re actually taking this seriously?”

“It is serious.  If you’re convicted, the Company’s charter will be almost automatically voided.  And, although this is important only to you personally, you might, very probably, be sentenced to be shot.”  He shrugged that off, and continued:  “Now, I’ll want to talk to you about your defense, for which I am responsible.  Say ten-thirty tomorrow, at my office.  I should, by that time, know what sort of evidence is going to be used against you.  I will be expecting you, Dr. Kellogg.”

He must have said more than that, but that was all that registered.  Leonard wasn’t really conscious of going back to the other room, until he realized that he was sitting in his relaxer chair, filling the glass with brandy.  There was only a little ice in it, but he didn’t care.

They were going to try him for murder for killing that little animal, and Ham O’Brien had said they wouldn’t, he’d promised he’d keep the case from trial and he hadn’t, they were going to try him anyhow and if they convicted him they would take him out and shoot him for just killing a silly little animal he had killed it he’d kicked it and jumped on it he could still hear it screaming and feel the horrible soft crunching under his feet....

He gulped what was left in the glass and poured and gulped more.  Then he staggered to his feet and stumbled over to the couch and threw himself onto it, face down, among the cushions.

* * * * *

Leslie Coombes found Nick Emmert with Victor Grego in the latter’s office when he entered.  They both rose to greet him, and Grego said “You’ve heard?”

“Yes.  O’Brien called me immediately.  I called my client—­my client of record, that is—­and told him.  I’m afraid it was rather a shock to him.”

“It wasn’t any shock to me,” Grego said as they sat down.  “When Ham O’Brien’s as positive about anything as he was about that, I always expect the worst.”

“Pendarvis is going to try the case himself,” Emmert said.  “I always thought he was a reasonable man, but what’s he trying to do now?  Cut the Company’s throat?”

“He isn’t anti-Company.  He isn’t pro-Company either.  He’s just pro-law.  The law says that a planet with native sapient inhabitants is a Class-IV planet, and has to have a Class-IV colonial government.  If Zarathustra is a Class-IV planet, he wants it established, and the proper laws applied.  If it’s a Class-IV planet, the Zarathustra Company is illegally chartered.  It’s his job to put a stop to illegality.  Frederic Pendarvis’ religion is the law, and he is its priest.  You never get anywhere by arguing religion with a priest.”