Bill 03 Bill on the Planet of Bottled Brains by Harry Harrison

Author:Harry Harrison
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2011-01-16T00:00:00+00:00

population had been declining ever since the so-called Unpleasant Wars of the Nineties. They hit upon a

combination of various modalities. From the English they took the high desks at which the judges sit, and

the powdered perukes, and above all, the awesome dignity that pervaded British dispensations of justice

as shown in the many Pinewood Studio pictures the Swingli* had unearthed in the ancient data banks, the

only thing saved from that long-destroyed planet. No one could laugh at a three-man group of judges like

that, they thought.

Bill couldn't control his giggle when he saw the three skinny judges with the granny glasses slipping

down their scaly faces, with white perukes on their pointed heads, and a general air of testy dignity. The

officer in the bearskin nudged him in the ribs with an incredibly sharp and pointed elbow and he sobered

up at once.

The middle judge, in sepulchral tones, said, "Let the prisoner approach the bar of justice."

Bill had intended to be dignified and contrite, but something about the crashingly solemn nature of the

thing, as well as thirst, made him say, "You got any other kind of bar around here aside from a justice

one? I sure could use a drink before going on with this."

The judges looked at each other. The audience — there were close to three hundred Swinglis* in deck

chairs watching the proceedings — looked at the judges. The guards looked at each other. Bill looked

puzzled.

The middle judge remarked to the judge on his left. "Was that intelligible, what he said?"

"I might perhaps hazard," the left judge said, "that the prisoner was essaying a witticism."

"I could have told you that," said the judge on the right.

"Do you mean," the middle judge said, "that the prisoner was making a joke?"

"Impossible, yes, but it's true," said the left judge.

"But what was the point of the joke?" asked the middle judge.

"It must have been subtle," said the left judge, "because I didn't really get it. Word play on bar, I suppose.

Bit of an odd way to begin, isn't it?"

"Yes, I should think so," said the middle judge. He peered down at Bill. "Prisoner, did you in fact make a

joke in our presence?"

"Well, yeah, I guess I did," Bill said. "I didn't mean anything by it." He started to giggle again.

"And what," asked the middle judge, "is so funny?"

"Nothing, excuse me, I'm sorry," said Bill.

The middle judge turned to the right judge. "Why would he burst into laughter like that?"

"I don't know," said the right judge, "but I fear the worst. I suppose, if you thought it necessary, you could

ask him."

"Prisoner, why did you laugh?"

"The fact is," Bill said, "I have a Chinger lodged in my left armpit and he's tickling me."

"Did you hear that?" the left judge said to the right judge.

"Amazing, his effrontery."

"He couldn't actually have a lizard secreted on his person, could he?"

"I doubt it. Earthians and Chingers are hereditary enemies."

"I suppose," said the bearskin-hatted guard, "we could search him and find out for sure."

"No," said the middle judge. "This is already bad enough. Frankly, I don't want to know.

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