Chapter IV

Yon the Fisher felt expansive. At last, after twelve long years of waiting, he would have his spaceship! Of course, he had no intention of taking the crew of the _Caduceus_ anywhere; he wanted no spaceship but his own on Cardigan's Green. But now that a part of his dream was about to come true, he felt like making a grand gesture. He would throw a party. He was the second most important man on Cardigan's Green now, and eventually the old Commander would die, and Yon the Fisher would be elected.

He would _really_ throw a party then, but now he would do a good job. He would entertain this Islander in the grand manner.

The entertainment was held in a large stone hall. It was poorly lighted and almost bare of ornamentation. By the time everything was ready, the sun had set, and the hall was illuminated by oil torches set in sconces along the walls.

It was strictly a stag affair, which, as far as Hale was concerned, made it a very dull party indeed. There were speeches galore, and Yon the Fisher made about every third one.

Hungry as he was, it took a little time for Hale to work up enough courage to try the food placed before him. He had eaten foods on half a thousand different planets, but a thing like a pickled centipede had never been set before him before, and its pale blue-green color and translucent body did nothing to endear it to him. He finally tried one, after closing his eyes seraphically, as though he wanted to enjoy it to the fullest. It was delicious.

The beverage was a purplish, sour-tasting ferment that produced a nice glow. Hale drank three cups of it before he thought to wonder if it were made from the purple berry with the white worms inside. He wisely refrained from asking, and, after a few more cups, it ceased to worry him at all.

As the night went on, the party became more and more boisterous. Everyone had plenty of the purple ferment, and the conversation became more and more interesting as it made less and less sense.

It must have been rather early in the morning when the incident occurred that both shocked Hale back into sobriety and gave him a new zest for life.

As is usual in parties of that sort, the host somehow managed to underestimate the amount of liquor that would be consumed. The supply ran out, and Yon the Fisher had to send out for more.

"La!" he cried as he turned up the last earthenware jug, only to find a bare half-cupful within. "Out of juice! Are we all out? No more?" He gazed around, as though he expected any full jugs to stand up and announce themselves. None did. "Look around!" he bawled. "There must be another."

The whole group of thirty-odd men began turning jugs upside down. One of them had a little in it, but the man who turned it had failed to provide a receptacle, and it splashed on the floor. There were no full jugs.

"Ferek! You, Ferek!" Yon called loudly. One of the men stood up and came toward him. "Ferek, go get us some more. Wake up Lan the Brewer. Here--take this." He opened a leather bag that hung at the cincture of his robe and spilled out a handful of sparkling, blue-white stones. He selected one and handed it over. "And mind you make it snappy, Ferek; we're all thirsty!"

Ferek turned on his heel and fled, but Leland Hale did not watch his departure. Hale was staring at the handful of stones in Yon the Fisher's palm.

Diamonds! Perfect, blue-white octahedrons! He knew what they were; the vital tuning crystals for the subspace radio. So _that_ was what the _Morris_ had been carrying! The little crystals that were worth more than all the rest of a subspace radio, including installation. And they were using them as a medium of exchange!

Hale mentally rubbed his hands together, and the glitter of promised profit gleamed in his eyes.

When Ferek came back with the purple juice, fourteen jugs of it, Hale was ready for the fun to begin.

* * * * *

He woke up the next morning with a head that felt the way it deserved to feel. He vaguely remembered being courteously escorted back to "the brig" and ceremoniously locked in with the best of good wishes. He'd felt fine then; he didn't now.

He sat up, wishing he had his pack back so that he could get a couple of aspirin tablets.

Then the noise came to his ears--an excited muttering outside the window. He got to his feet carefully and walked over to the barred opening.

Outside, a group of men were standing across the narrow street from his cell. They seemed to be staring at the window, and when Hale's face appeared, they moved back a little, almost as though he'd struck at them. At the same time, the muttering ceased.

"What's going on out there?" he asked in his heavy baritone voice.

"It's the Plague," said one of them. Hale recognized him as the gun-wielding guard of the day before.

"The Plague?"

"That's right. Yon the Fisher has it. Seven others. I think you may have it."

"Don't be silly!" Hale snapped. "I feel fine. What kind of a plague is this?"

"Why--it's just the Plague."

"I mean, what are the symptoms?"

"Cough. Watery eyes. Nose runs. Then a fever and you die."

"And you say Yon the Fisher has it?" Hale felt things were going even better than he had expected. But if the Fisher were to die, the whole deal might fall through. "Look here," he said, "I've got some stuff in my pack that will fix those boys up in no time. Just let me out of here, and I'll--"

The muttering in the crowd began again, and the guard said: "I can't let you out without permission from Yon the Fisher."

"Now, look here," Hale began.

Hale had a persuasive tongue. Even in a strange dialect, he could, given time enough, work men around to his way of thinking. Some years before, according to the court records of the Supreme People's Court of Vega VII, one Leland Hale had been indicted for kidnap-murder, a crime which can only be tried on Vega VII by the SPC. Five learned judges, wise in the law, heard the case. At the same time, a full tape transcript was made. The prosecution presented its case and amply proved motive, opportunity, and identity. Hale defended himself, using the charts and evidence presented by the prosecution.

No logic robot would have accepted the defendant's testimony for more than the first paragraph, but the five learned judges listened carefully, believing that they were weighing both sides impartially.

When it was over, the vote was three-two in favor of acquittal. The majority opinion apologized to Mr. Hale for inconveniencing him by bringing him to trial. There was no minority opinion; the other two judges merely abstained from voting.

When Hale's defense was subjected to semantic analysis, it was discovered that his statements, taken at face value without the emotional content, were a confession and admission of guilt!

The press had a field day. The three judges of the majority were forced to resign by public opinion, and the other two left the bench soon after. The entire judicial system of Vega VII was revamped in a frenzied flurry of legislative activity.

But it was too late to do anything about Leland Hale--he was three sectors away by that time, and the law couldn't touch him anyway.

Hale was glib, clever, and persuasive. Within fifteen minutes, he was heading towards the home of Yon the Fisher with his pack on his back and a goodly crowd following well behind.

Hale rapped on the door and announced himself. A feminine voice from within said: "Go away! The Plague is here!"

"Never mind! I've had it! I'm immune! Let me in!" He tried the door and found it unlocked. He stepped in--and stopped.

Before him, staring wide-eyed, was the most beautiful honey-blonde he had ever seen.

_If all their women look like this_, Hale thought, _it's no wonder they keep them at home!_

"Where is Yon the Fisher?" he asked aloud.

"In--in the bedroom," she said softly, pointing.

Hale strode in. Yon was lying on a pallet of the same rough gray-brown material that his robe was made of, his breath heavy and rasping. "You should not have come here, Leland Hale," he said. "You'll get the Plague and die."

"Rot," said Leland Hale. "Here, take these." He gave Yon twenty-five grains of aspirin, two hundred milligrams of thiamine hydrochloride, and five hundred milligrams of ascorbic acid. He made the Village Officer swallow them with a good slug of the purple ferment and told him to relax. For good measure, he put two capsules of a powerful laxative on a dish beside the bed. "Take one of those in two hours, and the other one four hours later." He turned to the woman, who had followed him into the room. "Don't give him any solid food for two days--just soup."

He looked the girl up and down again, then turned back towards the pallet. "I forgot one pill," he said. He gave Yon the Fisher half a grain of narcolene.

"What about Caryl?" asked Yon, indicating his wife. "Will she catch the Plague?"

"Don't worry, Yon," Hale assured him. "I'm going to fix her right up."

He gave her ten grains of aspirin and made her wash it down with a full cup of the purple liquor. Then he gave her ten more, which also had to be followed by a full cup of juice. After that came ascorbic acid, chased with a third cup of liquor.

"Now just sit down a minute while that takes effect," he said ambiguously. She sat down on a stone bench near a big slab of stone which served as a table.

"Will Yon really be all right?" she asked. "Really?"

"I guarantee it," Hale said. Over on the pallet, Yon slowly closed his eyes.

"And I won't catch it?" There was a note of fear in her voice.

"If you do, it will be mild," Hale said. From the pallet came the sound of soft snoring. The narcolene had taken effect.

And something else was taking effect. Caryl looked up at him and blinked. "I feel queer," she said. As Hale had suspected, drinking was strictly For Men Only on Cardigan's Green.

"It's just the medicine," Hale told her.

"Mr. Hale," she said softly, "you're a very brave and very wonderful man. I don't know how I can ever repay you for what you've done for us."

Succinctly, Hale told her.

She looked at him, wide-eyed. "But--"

"Precisely," said Leland Hale.