ocked him into the big Northport jail. The whole ritual
of the Lobbies seemed like a fantasy after the villages.

It snapped back into focus, however, when they led him into the trial
room of the Medical Lobby building. It was a smaller version of his
trial on Earth. Fear washed in by association. The complete lack of
humanity in the procedure was something from a half-remembered and
horrible past.

The presiding officer asked the routine question: "Is the prisoner
represented by counsel?"

Blane, the dapper little prosecutor, arose quickly. "The prisoner is a
pariah, Sir Magistrate."

"Very well. The court will accept the protective function for the
prisoner. You may proceed."

_I'll be judge, I'll be jury._ And prosecution and defense. It made for
a lot less trouble. Of course, if Space Lobby had asserted interest, it
would have gone to a supposedly neutral court. But as usual, Space was
happy to leave it in the hands of Medical.

The tape was played as evidence. Doc frowned. The words were his, but
there had been a lot of editing that subtly changed the import of his
notes.

"I protest," he challenged. "It's not an accurate version."

The Lobby magistrate turned a wooden face to him. "Does the prisoner
have a different version to introduce?"

"No, but--"

"The evidence is accepted. One of the prisoner's six protests will be
charged against him."

Blane smiled smoothly and held up a small package. "We wish to introduce
this drug as evidence that the prisoner is a confirmed addict, morally
irresponsible under addiction. This is a package of so-called bracky
weed, a vile and noxious substance found in his possession."

"It has alkaloids no more harmful than nicotine," Feldman stated
sharply.

"Do you contend that you find the taste pleasing?" Blane asked.

"It's bitter, but I've gotten used to it."

"I've tasted it," the magistrate said. "Evidence accepted. Two
deductions, one for irregularity of presentation."

Doc shrugged and sat back. He'd tested his rights and found what he
expected. It was hard to see now how he had ever accepted such
procedure. Jake must be right; they'd been in power too long, and were
making the mistake of taking the velvet glove off the iron fist and
flailing about for the sheer pleasure of power.

It dragged on, while he became a greater and greater monster on the
record. But finally it was over, and the magistrate turned to Feldman.
"You may present your defense."

"