"I'd snap your picture," said Palma, "if these lads hadn't confiscated all my equipment"

The Robot Magistrate hammered on the desk. "Enough of this useless jawing. Let us get on with the sentencing."

Palma asked, "What happened to the trial?"

The judge ignored him, picking up a sheet of foolscap and reading from it "Scarlet Angel, I hereby sentence you, for crimes too numerous to mention, to be taken to the public gallows two days hence and thereon, at high noon, to be hanged and thereafter your vile body buried in potter's field Palma, for similar crimes against the territory, I do now sentence you to be escorted to that selfsame public gallows and to witness the hanging of the t.i.tian-haired harlot who has been your companion in crime and evil. After that you will have your turn on the gibbet and to be hanged by the neck until dead.

Your body will then be cut into four quarters and your guts spilled on the paving stones .... Hold on a sec...." He picked up an electric quill to scribble in additions to the sentence. "Then the top of your bald skull will be sawed open and the hangman will step on your brains with dirty boots. Then your ears and nose shall be sliced off to be thrown to the hungry dogs that are always in attendance at such occasions.

That should teach you to play games with a respected jurist's eye."

"Everything after the hanging part I don't expect will hurt much," said Palma. "But, listen, Judge, I must insist you allow me to contact-"

Take them to their separate cells," ordered the robot "Let us have the next case. Ah, this rascal has stolen a seedm.u.f.fin from a bakery, has he?"

The Scarlet Angel managed to touch Palma's hand before they were separated.

Palma scrutinized the cell wall. "Why does it say fluffy home-style hotcakes with fresh creamery b.u.t.ter and real maple syrup, then?" he asked the ordering mechanism set in the wall below the row of food slots. An illuminated breakfast menu glowed next to the ten slots."Because we serve fluffy home-style hotcakes with fresh creamery b.u.t.ter and real maple syrup,"

replied the voice grid.

"OK, so I'm in this condemned cell and it says right here on the bottom of the menu, 'Your choice of last meals.' "

"But this, sir, isn't your last meal. It's your first meal. You're not due for extermination for two days."

"How about fresh-squeezed orange juice and home-style Danish pastry, then? Can I have that?"

"You can have the fresh-squeezed orange juice."

"How come no Danish?"

Tour dietician won't permit it."

"Dietician? I haven't seen any dietician."

"She saw you, though, sir. Through the one-way wall in the courtroom."

Palma asked, "What does she say I can have?"

"A man with your chunky build and obvious anxiety-p.r.o.ne temperament should really watch the old carbohydrates, says she."

"I'm not chunky. She ought to see me with my clothes off."

"Prunes," said the voice of the food-serving mechanism.

"What's that mean?"

"Prunes is what you can have for breakfast, or a six-ounce serving of stewed yings."

"I'm not familiar with yings. What are they?"

"Well, a ying is a small purple fruit, wrinkled and quite similar to-"

"Prunes," said Palma. "OK, I'll have prunes and orange juice."

"You'll feel much better for it, sir, says she. Even during one's last days among the living a sensible change in diet can do a great deal of good."

Palma eased closer to the wall. "Can you make a phone call for me? Try to get through to Jack Summer at the-"

"Oh, we can't do anything like that Food is our business, sir. Prunes and fresh-squeezed orange juice coming up."

When the dish of prunes and the gla.s.s of juice appeared in two of the wall slots Palma took them to the white-painted metal table and sat in a white-painted metal chair.

His white-painted cell door opened. "Mr. Palma, Mr. Palma, good morning." A blue lizardman with a briefcase stepped in.

Behind him came a dapper parrot-headed man. The door banged shut. "A very good head you have on your shoulders, Palma. I like that head, that head will move. Bert?"

"One hundred thousand at least, Howie."

"Two hundred thousand is more like it, Bert."

The lizardman leaned to his left, studying Palma. "Could be, Howie. Yes, it definitely could be."

"Lawyers usually carry briefcases," said Palma. "Would you lads be lawyers?"

"You can trust us, Palma," the parrot-headed man a.s.sured him. "No need for a lawyer to tell you we've got the fairest contracts in all the Barnum System."

"He's a little chunky," observed Bert, "but he'll look good on a horse."

"Yeah, they'll love him on a horse. What do you figure we can count on selling?"

"A hundred thousand?"

"Make it two."

Palma got up from his prunes. "What are we selling, gents?"

"Didn't you give him our card, Bert?"

"My error, Howie. Here, Mr. Palma."

The photographer took the card. "Criminal Exploitations, Ltd. What are you, crooks?"

Howie laughed, beak clacking. "Crooks, he thinks, Bert"

Bert laughed, tongue flapping. "He thinks we're crooks, Howie."

"Palma, we are creators," explained the parrotman. "We bring romance and fantasy into thehumdrum lives of everyday people. We weave the joys and tensions of life into fabrics of entertainment, fashioning new myths and mysteries for this jaded age. At the same time we educate, bring a moral message into millions of lives of myriad-"

"What are you selling?"

Howie took a breath. "Do you mean to tell me you've never heard of Criminal Exploi? Fill him in, Bert."

Bert snapped open his briefcase. "Salt and pepper shakers ... you'll no doubt recognize the Wilton Mangier, he's pepper, and one of his nubile victims, she's salt." After flicking a little salt into his hand, he set the shakers next to the prunes. "Deck of cards ... look, the Notorious Monster of Kirkham Street is the King of Hearts, his helpless victims make up the Queens and Jacks. Sold two hundred thousand. And here's a really nice one, sold over four hundred thousand. A board game ent.i.tled Rape in the Fog, the only fully authorized board game based on the vicious life and crimes of Iron Skull McNulty."

"We can't stress that authorized too much, Palma. It means your next of kin will receive a substantial royalty so long as any of the merchandise based on you and your vicious crimes stays in circulation. That can mean, at our generous four percent royalty, a tidy sum."

"For instance, the widow of the Butcher's Alley Fiend is still receiving checks," said the lizardman, "nearly seven years after his vicious dismemberments shocked the planet."

"Show him the book, Bert."

"Ah, yes, being a literary man yourself, Mr. Palma, you'll of course want to give us the right to produce a book based on your grim career as a knight of the road. This is a dummy our art and copy people whipped up this morning soon as we learned of your capture."

Palma took the book gingerly between thumb and forefinger. "A Narrative of the Remarkable Life of the Notorious Palma, Giving an Exact Description of His Robberies, Escapes, etc. and Based on Previously Unknown Facts. I have to admit I like the t.i.tle; it has a bestseller ring to it."

"Will sell two hundred thousand in hardcover, one million in paper," said Howie. "Especially if we get all the juicy details of your romances into it."

"Might even make a series," said Palma. "The only real stumbling block I can see, gents, is this. I am not a highwayman. I'm a photographer, working for Coult Publications. Surely you've heard of us."

"Everybody's heard of Coult."

"Then instead of cluttering up my cell with all these trinkets, will you put through a call to somebody at Coult on Barnum ... ask for Fred Flowers.

Tell him I need an attorney and fast."

Bert started gathering up the merchandise. "You're only one of the many convicted killers we deal with, Mr. Palma."

"If we make a fuss about you," amplified Howie, "we might well screw up our relationship with the whole of officialdom. We merchandise more than twenty killers, fiends, and monsters a year."

"You might as well sign with us," the lizardman said. "There are a number of compet.i.tors in this business, none of whom bother with getting permissions and authorizations. As you ride to the gallows you're going to see Palma toys, Palma games, and Palma books being hawked. Wouldn't it be a comfort to know your loved ones were going to turn a buck on some of that stuff?"

"OK, if you won't call Barnum," said Palma, "how about phoning my partner right here in Laranja East? His name is Jack Summer, he should be at the Laranja-Sheraton. Tell him-"

"Is that Jack Summer, the muckraking reporter?" asked Howie.

"The fellow who writes those incisive exposes from all over the universe?"

"That's the very Jack Summer I mean, yes. Call him for me."

The parrotman looked at the lizardman. "I've always been a fan of Summer's, Bert."

"As have I, Howie."

"Here's a chance to do him a possible favor. What say?"

"Risky."

"n.o.body will know you called," Palma told them. "We'll have to think it over, Palma." "Sorry we can't do business," said Bert "That head of yours would look great on a salt shaker."

CHAPTER 20.

"... Furthermore, a.s.serted the Secretary of Famine, the reports of widespread hunger in areas over which fighting has been raging are highly exaggerated Secretary Zwack pointed out that while a starvation death rate of twenty percent of the population of those areas might look higher, at first glance, than last month's figure of ten percent, it is not. Radicals and quislings have clouded the issue, averred the Secre-tary of Famine at this morning's press conference which followed a breakfast in the Lotus Room of the Laranja-Sheraton. Meanwhile our beloved monarch, King Waldo the second, has again broken in on all media to deliver another of his much-appreciated fire-side talks. Here is a replay of the significant portion of that talk... "

Directly in front of his eyes Summer saw smooth bare b.u.t.tocks. Raising himself on an elbow he looked over the naked girl and saw the TV-ball floating close beside the bed.

A swarthy man, wearing a crown a size too large, was on the oval screen. "My fellow subjects, let me once again tell you that I am no killer. Such a thing would be pretty silly, wouldn't it? I mean, to be a king and a killer at the same time. You and I realize such a notion is silly, but certain radicals and uislings who continue-"

"Did I awaken you, Jack?" The unclothed princess placed a hand against his ear, reaching over her bare backside to do it. "I believe it's my duty to keep informed, so one of the things I unfailingly do is watch the midday news."

"It's midday already?"

"A few minutes beyond," Joline said.

"... A man might be, say, a shoemaker and a killer or a dentist and a killer. There have been such cases. But, my fellow subjects, it's ridiculous to think a man would want to be a king and a killer. Let me tell you just being your king is plenty enough for me. I've always wanted to be king. Why, even when I was a little prince I-"

"I usually don't sleep till midday." Summer worked himself to the head of the bed and sat up.

"You usually don't spend the night with a princess after having been tortured for several days."

"True, that's true."

She looked at him again, away from the floating image of her father. "Were my life not dedicated to helping the people, Jack, it would be enjoyable to spend much time with you."

"You're right, though; our careers come first." He placed his hand on her back.

"The next few days, the next weeks will be very difficult," Princess Joline said "I cannot, knowing what I now do, allow Father to continue on the throne. I've suspected his addiction to the war spray, and now Dr. Ferrier has confirmed it. To think that Father could throw a man like Dr. Ferrier into St Charlie's unjustly!"

"Or a man like me even." Summer slid his hand around until it rested just below her right breast "Yes, that's dreadful, too. The whole idea of what St Charlie's has become is repugnant to me.

To use a place meant for healing as nothing more than a political prison. I suspected something of this, but was trying not to see how corrupt and awful my father's reign has become."

Summer rubbed his forefinger over the breast's nipple.

"... The message is plain, fellow subjects, I'm no killer. No, sir. Not me."

"Thus our beloved King Waldo the second once again stated he is not the Phantom of the Fog.

Here in the studio with me is the noted political a.n.a.lyst, Sri Nogo. Sri, how did the king's protestations strike you?"

"Oscar, there's no doubt in my-"

"I'm Lanny."