Fugitive From Asteron Read Online Free PDF Page B

male giant seemed to have an uncanny
premonition about the outcome.
    The prisoner rose to the stage. He
looked a generation older than I was, with the tanned skin and muscular arms of
a farmer.
    “You are accused of growing crops
in a secret field that you kept hidden so you would not have to contribute your
fair share,” the commissioner charged. “With a famine going on, do you realize
how unpatriotic your actions are and how serious a crime this is?”
    “But sir, I already contribute the
highest crop yield of any farmer in my group. I worked substantial overtime during
my scheduled time off to produce those extra crops. I cannot eat the dried
nutrient cakes we receive in our rations. They make me sick to my stomach.”
    The commissioner’s tone became more
heated. “In our challenging times, we are concerned with spreading the food
around so there is enough for everyone, and not with letting one person feast while
others go hungry!”
    “But, sir, I found a way to
increase my yield so that my fields would produce a surplus unheard of on that
land. I proposed my methods to the community supervisors. They said they would
discuss the matter with the town supervisors, who would discuss the matter with
the county supervisors, who would discuss the matter with the state supervisors,
and so on, and that I should receive an answer in five years. Instead of
waiting and starving, I put my methods into practice in what you call my secret
field, which was land thought to be barren and discarded by my community, and
my crop yield was fantastic.”
    “So why did you not share it?”
    There was no reply.
    “Who put you through school? Who
nurtured you through your childhood? Who built the plows you use? Who wove the
clothing you wear? Whatever you did, you did not accomplish it alone, without
the help of everybody else. You owe us. It is only fair to spread the food
around.”
    “Fair? Is that not for the judges to
decide?” said the farmer, now hot with anger. “You wear the robes of judges,
but you are not them. Where are the real judges the elders whisper about, who
once existed in another age? And where is the legislature the elders remember,
which used to be elected by the people to give them a say in their affairs?”
    Even from my distance, I could see Feran
bristle at the mention of treasonous topics.
    The Arm reached for a coffin from
the stack and placed it near the accused, a more encouraging sign to the eager faces
around me.
    “Ten people in your community
starved to death while you were gorging yourself. You profited while they died.
You killed them!” The commissioner fired back. “Now, how do you plead?”
    “But I only ate the way our rulers
eat. There are no dried nutrient cakes found in their residences!”
    The crowd snickered. The counselor
looked shocked by the farmer’s impertinence. Feran nodded to the commissioner.
    “The prisoner pleads guilty,” said
the commissioner.
    The farmer paled. He fell to his
knees, stunned, all life draining from him. The Arm of Justice nudged him, but
he did not rise. Then the Arm lifted him like a sack and carried him to the
scaffold, propped him up, tied his legs, and curled the noose around his neck.
With the hint of a flourish, the Arm pulled the bolt from the trapdoor under
the farmer’s feet, and the matter ended.
    The counselor said, “Justice has
been done.”
    The crowd applauded. I remained
motionless. A guard stared pointedly at me until I raised my hands and clapped.
    The commissioner called the next prisoner,
a reporter accused of writing and distributing political essays that contradicted
the principles of the regime. The charge was treason. The Arm reached for a
coffin.
    The counselor complained, as if she
were the injured party. “Our laws let you write and publish anything you wish—and
all we ask is that you not spread creeds that threaten the public safety. Is
that too much to ask? You violated these simple rules.”
    “But if I can publish