He shot off another of those tool-and-die salutes, which I alertly fielded and returned. “Well done, device,” I said, “well done,” in a warm and well-oiled tone calculated to win me the instant love of my troops. “Please bring in the prisoners.”

After another volley of precisely machined salutes, the three gleaming golems snapped about face and returned to the woods.

“Chester?” Michael, fatally wounded, implored.

“I don’t know any more about it than you do,” I assured him. “Maybe less.”

“I certainly hope so,” just short of a sob.

One thing was relatively sure: either those machines were programmed by some unidentified subversive overpoweringly disrespectful of our hallowed military traditions, or I programmed them myself and was in desperate need of psychiatric care. Imagine, as didn’t I dare, the anguish those boiler-plate parodies were inflicting on poor Michael. I felt a sinking certainty he’d never forgive me for this.

Our gang — impressed, overawed, or otherwise incapable of free expression — shuffled feet, beat twitchy rhythms on thighs, uttered fractional whispers, and displayed other symptoms of uncomprehending restlessness. An exaggerated red, white, and bluely chauvinistic butterfly glided by within a half inch of my nose.

“Cool it,” I suggested. “I think we’ve got it licked now.” I was careful not to define my terms.

Then the mechanical marines returned — a good two dozen of them — riding herd on nine psychotically depressed blue lobsters and one ambiguously frantic Laszlo Scott. The cockles of my heart — whatever they might be — warmed to an instant ruby glow at the sight. (But where in hell did two whole dozen robots come from?)

“Hiya, Lasz!” bleated Gary the compulsive Frog. Laszlo didn’t respond.

The metallic militia lined the wilted prisoners up before me, took a uniform giant step back, discharged a barrage of salutes clearly audible halfway to Fort Mudge, then aimed a complete assortment of semiportable artillery at the prisoners and stood as still as robots standing still.

And there I was, staring at the first honest-to-God real enemies I’d ever honest-to-God really defeated — and I discovered that I didn’t know what to do with them. Nothing in my previous experience had prepared me for this situation.

“Okay,” I asked the world at large, “now what am I supposed to do?”

“Why,” somebody started, “don’t you just…” and faded out. Right. Nobody said anything for a while.

Then, “I suppose there ought to be a trial,” I supposed “That’s what they did last time. Nuremberg. It seems to be traditional.”

The courtroom was dark, but the darkness illuminated it. The lobsters were standing on separate round raised platforms in bulletproof glass cylinders. Laszlo was similarly housed, but at some distance from the others.

The ceiling, dark and glowing, rose powerfully to meet the wall some forty-five feet above the judge’s bench, from which point a flag — a glowing spiral nebula against a field of light-absorbent black in depth — hung down almost to the floor.

The judge’s bench was a plain white table with an inset display screen, and a white straight-back chair.

The judge wore vibrant gray robes that perfectly concealed the shape of his body, and he was some three feet taller than you’d expect a man to be; but his face was acceptably human — longer than ours and narrower, more angular, considerably wise, hairless, and bright yellow: not Homo sap., but human all the way.

I didn’t know who was responsible for it, but I surely did admire that set.

“Pay heed to the court,” a deep and sourceless voice admonished.

“An unaffiliated group of native Terrans now bring cause against one non-Terran, Ktch, and against his coracialists and their superiors, if any, for the crimes of felonious trespass, inciting to warfare, intent to practice genocide, and conspiracy to enslave. Cause is also brought against one Terran, Laszlo Scott, for voluntary participation in crimes against his species, for conspiracy to enslave, and for racial treason,” the judge read solemnly from his display screen. “Are you people ready? Come on, now. Let’s not take all day.”

We stepped up to the bench, all a little overawed.

“These bastards are as guilty as sin,” the judge said. “What’s it worth? Want ’em killed?”

Pause.

“No,” Mike said quietly. “That doesn’t fit, somehow.”

“Okay. Then how about expulsion and sanctions?”

I wasn’t quite sure what that meant, but it sounded right to me, and I said so.

“Right. Offender Ktch, give heed. You — by which are also meant and included your coracialists and superiors, if any — stand convicted of each charge. It is the order of this court that you shall withdraw from Terra and adjacent space no later than one local hour after the end of the present trial. You are further ordered to abstain henceforth from the practice of conquest and colonization, and to abandon all colonies no older than the oldest living member of your race, under pain of termination. If we catch you at this racket one more time, you’ve had it.

“Now what about the other one?”

This I’d made plans for. I’d been five years gathering recipes for Laszlo’s just deserts. I knew to the erg how to pay him back for all the Laszlo tricks he’d played. Elaborate visions of quaint retribution were a minor mainstay of my fantasy life. But now all these schemes felt inappropriate.

“How about sending him off with the others?” That had a certain humorous appeal.

“Quite poetic,” the judge smiled (sideways, by our reckoning). “All beings present and attending now bear witness,” he intoned. “Offender Laszlo Scott stands convicted of each charge, accusers urging clemency. Therefore this court declares and redefines said Laszlo Scott coracial in perpetuity to offender of the first cause, in full and equal membership and subject to the sanctions of this court. Wherefore the present cause is now closed and this body is dismissed.

“All right, you people, you have an hour. Start hopping.”

Which put us all on battle beach again. I’d’ve blamed the whole thing on the pill, except that the lobsters were scurrying and Laszlo was complaining, “Hey, man, Cool it! That ain’t fair! What’re you picking on Me for? I mean, what’d I Do, man? What’d I Do? Hey, baby, No!”

I hadn’t counted on that: Laszlo in voluble distress, myself in empathy. Very depressing. I felt sad and righteous, a brand-new combination for me. And I pitied Laszlo, which I also hadn’t counted on.

Not all of us experienced this hangup.

“Please don’t let ’em do it to me, baby. Man! I won’t never see real people anymore!”

“Don’t sweat it, Laszlo,” Kevin said. “You probably won’t even notice the difference.

The lobsters’ ship — a conventional saucer model with a highly polished mirror finish — was concealed in a dune just a few yards away from the beach. They had it cleared and ready to fly in under twenty minutes.

Laszlo was still in his glass cage, screaming, “I don’t wanna go away! Oh wow, man, I’m like scared, man. Somebody help me!” He was falling apart unprettily.

“Hey, baby,” Patrick comforted, “just think of all them groovy things you’re gonna see. Wow, and all those far-out planets and like that. Hey, man, what a gas!”

“No! No, don’ wanna! No!”

Ktch very shyly sought me out.

“I must apologize, Mister Spy,” he abased himself. “We misjudged you. I am sorry.”

Not sorry for trying to conquer us and all. Sorry he’d insulted us by underestimating us. This wasn’t a way I could ever think, but even so I had to give him credit: Ktch had class.

I forgave him everything he thought needed it, and we parted on technically friendly terms half an hour ahead of schedule.

“Please!” Laszlo shrieked prayers as the lobsters carried him to the ship. “Nonono I’m Sorry! No! Please! I’m Really sorry! I’ll be good, I promise! No! Don’t put me out in the dark! I won’t do it anymore! Don’t make me all alone! Please! I’ll be Good!” Then the ship’s lock closed and no one ever heard the voice of Laszlo Scott again.