"I can’t believe Cletus Calhoun was threatening an alien."

"Don’t dismiss this so fast, Frank. There are possibilities here. Say Calhoun wanted to — I don’t know — say he wanted to thump Hask on the back, all friendly-like, but being hit there, say that’s fatal to a Tosok. Hask might have thought he was in imminent danger of being killed, and so responded with deadly force."

"It seems unlikely. Why wouldn’t he have told us if that were the case?"

"I don’t know."

"You said there’s another possible defense."

Dale nodded. "Insanity."

"Insanity," repeated Frank, as though he’d never heard the word before.

"That’s right. We prove that, by human standards, Hask is non compos mentis."

"Can you do that?"

"I don’t know. It may be that all Tosoks are bonkers by human standards.

But if he did it, and it wasn’t self-defense, pleading insanity is the only thing that will get him off."

"It’s an interesting approach."

"That it is, but the insanity defense is used in less than one percent of all criminal cases. And of those, only fifteen percent are murder cases. In all cases, the insanity defense works — that is, results in an acquittal — only about twenty-five percent of the time."

"So it’s not an easy out?" asked Frank.

"No — despite what the media claims. Eighty-nine percent of those who are acquitted under an insanity defense are done so because they’ve been diagnosed as being either mentally retarded, or having a severe mental illness, such as schizophrenia. Eighty-two percent of acquittees have already been hospitalized at least once for mental problems."

"Wait a minute — did you say mentally retarded?"

Dale moved his massive head in a slow nod.

"Is there a legal definition for that?"

"Doubtlessly. I can get my clerk to check."

" ‘Cause if it’s a matter of IQ, you know, they often charge that IQ tests are culturally biased. If Hask gets a really low score on a standard IQ test, he could qualify as retarded."

Dale shook his head. "We’ve got to sell this to a jury, remember? A jury isn’t going to buy that he’s retarded. Everybody on Earth saw him piloting that lander, and has seen how he picked up English. No, that’s out. It’s got to be insanity. But the problem is that normally a person acquitted under the insanity defense doesn’t just go free. Rather, almost automatically, if they’re found insane, they’re committed to a mental institution. Remember the Jeffrey Dahmer trial? He tried the insanity defense. So did John Wayne Gacy and the Hillside Strangler. All of them failed on that defense, but if they had succeeded, I can guarantee they would have been committed for life. See, once you’re found legally insane, the burden shifts dramatically.

You’re no longer innocent until the State can prove you guilty. Rather, once you’re committed, you’re insane until you can prove that you’re not."

"What about temporary insanity?"

"That’s a possibility, too," said Dale. "Some aspect of Earth’s environment — whether it’s pollution, pollen, or Twinkies — made him temporarily crazy. The problem with that, though, is that first Hask has to confess — and he still refuses to do that."

"Well," said Frank, "we certainly can’t let them lock Hask up as a mental patient."

"No, of course not. And that means, if we can’t prove temporary insanity, then we have to show that not only is Hask bonkers, but we also have to prove that human psychiatry is incompetent to treat him — that he’s so bonkers that there’s nothing we can do for him, and yet, at the same time, that he’s not a menace to society and doesn’t have to be locked up."

"And can we do that?"

"That’s what we have to find out. The standard test for insanity is whether the person can distinguish right from wrong. The standard problem is that if the person has taken steps to avoid punishment — such as hiding the body — then he must know what he did was wrong, and therefore he’s sane."

Dale considered. "Of course, in this case, the body was as conspicuous as possible, so maybe we are onto something here…"

Dale and Frank went down to Hask’s room in Valcour Hall, accompanied by Dr. Lloyd Penney, a psychiatrist Dale sometimes used as a consultant.

Hask was sitting on the corner of his bed, propping his back up with his back hand. In his front hand, he was holding a piece of the disk that broke the night he’d been arrested.

"Hello, Hask," said Frank. "This is Dr. Penney. He’d like to ask you a few questions."

Penney was in his late thirties, with curly light-brown hair. He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt. "Hello, Hask," he said.

"Dr. Penney."

Dale sat down on the edge of the bed as well. The bed had been modified: a trough ran down its center to accommodate Mask’s back arm when he was resting. Frank leaned against the wall, and Penney sat down on the one human chair in the room.

Hask was still holding the broken piece of disk. "What’s that?" asked Penny.

Hask did not look up. "A lostartd — a form of art."

"Did you make it?" asked Penney.

Mask’s tuft waved backward in negation. "No. No, it was made by Seltar — the Tosok who died during our flight to Earth. I kept it to remember her by; she had been my friend."

Penney held out a hand toward Hask. "May I see?" Hask handed it to him.

Penney looked at it. The painting on the disk is stylized, but apparently depicted an alien landscape. The other piece was sitting on Hask’s desk.

Penney motioned for Frank to hand it to him; Frank did so. Penney joined the two parts together. The picture showed a world with a large yellow sun and a small orange one in its sky. "A clean break," said Penney. "Surely it could be fixed."

Frank smiled to himself. Doubtless keeping a broken artifact around was pregnant with psychological meaning.

’’Of course it can be fixed," said Hask. "But I would need to return to the mothership to get the adhesive I need, and the terms of my bail do not allow that."

"We have powerful adhesives, too," said Frank. "A couple of drops of Crazy Glue should do the trick."

"Krazy Glue?" repeated Hask. His untranslated voice seemed slow, sad.

"Cyanoacrylate," said Frank. "It’ll bond almost anything. I’ll go out and buy you a tube today."

"Thank you," said Hask.

Dr. Penney placed the two pieces of the lostartd disk on Hask’s desk. "Dale and Frank have brought me here to ask you some questions, Hask."

"If you must," said the alien.

"Hask," said the psychiatrist, "do you know the difference between right and wrong?"

"They are opposites," said Hask.

"What is right?" asked Penney.

"That which is correct."

"So, for instance, two plus two equals four is right?" said Penney.

"In all counting systems except base three and base four, yes."

"And, in base ten now, two plus two equals five is wrong, correct?"

"Yes."

"Do the words right and wrong have any other meaning?"

"Right also refers to the direction that is to the south when one is facing east."

"Yes, yes. Right on its own has other meanings, but the concept of ‘right’ and ‘wrong,’ do they apply to anything other than factual matters?

"Not in my experience."

Penney looked briefly at Dale, then turned back to Hask. "What about the terms ‘good’ and ‘bad’?"

"A food item that has an agreeable taste is said to be good; one that has putrefied is said to be bad."

"And what about the concepts of moral and immoral?"

"These apparently have to do with human religion."

"They have no bearing on Tosok religion?"

"Tosoks believe in predetermination — we do the will of God."

"You believe in a single God?"

"We believe in a single being that was foremother to our race."

"And this God — she is good?"

"Well, she has not begun to putrefy."