Second Contact Read online

  “That may take a couple of days.”

  “I'll need it by the weekend at the latest,” said Becker seriously. “Otherwise, I'll probably have to ask for a postponement. We may be sending this guy to the funny farm, but I'm still an officer of the court, charged with protecting his interests.”

  Magnussen frowned.

  “They'll never give you a postponement, Max. Too many people are anxious to get this one over with fast.”

  “Which people?”

  “Important ones,” said Magnussen noncommittally. He took a puff on his cigar, then got to his feet. “I admire your thoroughness, Max. I'll instruct my staff to make sure you get what you need. Do you still have that cute little blonde secretary? You know, the one with the big—?”

  “No,” said Becker. “I lost her about the same time as I lost my wife.” He grimaced. “These days I've got a middle-aged woman named Karla who spends all her time reading espionage novels and wondering why nothing exciting ever happens in the Pentagon. Not exactly the kind of secretary who makes you want to get to the office early, but damned efficient. Just send everything to her, and tell her it's for the Jennings case. It'll make her day.”

  “Right.”

  “Thanks. Is there anything else I should be asking for?”

  “Not that I can think of at the moment.”

  “By the way, who's sitting on the tribunal?”

  Magnussen shrugged. “They haven't told me yet. As soon as they do, I'll let you know.” He paused. “Why don't you stop by for a drink at about 6:30 tonight? I might have some information on it by then.”

  “Thanks,” said Becker. “Maybe I'll take you up on it.”

  “We can sit around and talk about old times.”

  “I thought you had a family to go home to.”

  “They're visiting her parents in Montana. The vidphone hasn't stopped buzzing since I got here, and I practically have to beat the press off with a stick every time I go in or out of my townhouse. No sense putting my family through all that—though once this is over, I'd love to have you meet them.” He grinned. “You'll never forgive me for having spotted Irene before you did.”

  “Spotting pretty women never did me all that much good in the long run,” replied Becker. He paused. “Speaking of the press, are they going to be allowed in?”

  “Probably,” answered Magnussen. “It's a military court martial, and theoretically we can keep them out, but the service is very sensitive about being charged with a cover-up.”

  “How the hell can it be a cover-up if you lock him away for the rest of his life?”

  “You know the press. They always think we're hiding something.”

  “They're usually right.”

  “Not this time, Max. Anyway, I think they'll probably allow a dozen senior correspondents in to cover the trial.” Magnussen smiled. “Think of it—billions of people hanging upon our every word.”

  “Wonderful,” muttered Becker.

  “Cheer up, Max. I guarantee it'll be worth at least a million dollars in publicity if you ever quit the service and go into private practice.”

  “As the shyster who defended the Mad Butcher of the Fleet?” replied Becker sardonically. “Or as the totally immoral sonofabitch who helped him beat an open-and-shut murder rap on a technicality?”

  “There won't be any technicalities on this one, Max.”

  “Don't be so sure of yourself,” said Becker with a smile. “I'm a pretty good lawyer.”

  “So am I,” said Magnussen seriously. “And I'm not allowed to lose this case.”

  “Oh?”

  Magnussen nodded. “It's been explained to me that we can't have this maniac walking the streets.”

  “Explained by who?” asked Becker sharply.

  “By whom, Max,” Magnussen corrected him.

  “Am I to assume you're ducking the question?”

  Magnussen smiled. “I was beginning to wonder if you'd noticed.”

  Becker stared at him for a long moment, then checked his timepiece. “Well, I've got about an hour to grab some lunch before I visit Jennings. Care to join me?”

  Magnussen shook his head. “I wish I could, Max, but I've still got to make some sense out of this filing system.”

  Becker got to his feet, and Magnussen escorted him to the door.

  “Remember—tonight at 6:30.”

  “Right,” said Becker, fighting back an urge to cough as a cloud of cigar smoke engulfed him.

  He left the room, then took an airlift down to the third floor, where he stopped at the commissary for a sandwich and a cup of coffee. He spent the next few minutes eating and skimming through the psychiatrists’ reports. Then, still wondering why such an open-and-shut case had to be tried at all, he descended to the main floor, walked outside, and went off to meet his newest client.

  2.

  Becker stood directly behind his military escort as the walkway transported them through the sterile white corridors of the Maximum Security Wing. The windows were barred, the doors triple-latched, the atmosphere oppressive. After a few minutes they stepped onto another walkway that went off to the left, and soon found themselves approaching a door that was guarded by two armed men standing at attention.

  “End of the line, sir,” said his escort, stepping from the walkway onto the solid floor.

  “Thank you, lieutenant,” said Becker, following him.

  “Do you want anyone to come inside with you?” asked the officer.

  “I'm not sure,” said Becker. “Do you think it's necessary?”

  “That has to be your decision, sir.”

  “He hasn't been violent?”

  “Not to my knowledge, sir.”

  “May I assume someone will be observing us?”

  The lieutenant nodded. “At all times, sir.”

  Becker shrugged. “Then I'll go in alone. It may put him more at his ease.”

  The lieutenant saluted, unlatched the door, then touched a five-digit code on the computer lock, and stepped aside as Becker entered the room.

  Despite all he had been told, he had half-expected to find himself inside a padded cell, facing a wild-eyed man wrapped in a straitjacket. Instead, the room seemed more like a first-class hotel accommodation—bed, chairs, desk, even a television set, and a door leading to a separate bathroom. Commander Wilbur H. Jennings was sitting on an upholstered chair, smoking a cigarette and staring out the barred window. He wore a white shirt with the collar open and his cuffs unbuttoned and rolled halfway up to his elbows, and a pair of neatly-pressed blue trousers.

  Jennings got to his feet and stared at Becker questioningly. He was a stocky man in his mid-fifties. His steel-gray hair was clipped quite short, and his nose had been broken at least twice in his youth. His teeth were white but uneven.

  “Commander Jennings?” said Becker.

  “Yes?”

  “My name is Max Becker. I'm your attorney.”

  Becker extended his hand and Jennings took it after a momentary pause.

  “Have a seat, Major,” he said at last, indicating an empty chair a few feet away from his own.

  “Thank you,” said Becker, walking over to it.

  Jennings sat down on his own chair, snuffed his cigarette out in an ashtray, and immediately lit another, studying Becker all the while. “So you're my lawyer.”

  “That's right.”

  “Who are you working for?”

  “I'm working for you, sir,” said Becker.

  Jennings shook his head irritably. “Why are you here—to help me, or to keep me quiet?”

  “To be perfectly honest, I'm here because I didn't have any choice in the matter,” replied Becker bluntly. “I was preparing to take a long-overdue furlough when I was informed that I had been selected as your attorney.”

  “Why should I believe you?”

  “Look,” said Becker, “for better or worse, we're stuck with each other. You might as well trust me; I guarantee they're not going to take me off the case.”
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  “You've tried to get reassigned?” asked Jennings.

  “Frankly, sir, yes.”

  “Good,” said Jennings.

  “Good?” repeated Becker.

  “My life is at stake here,” said Jennings. “I don't want it to depend upon a stupid lawyer, and only a stupid lawyer would want to take this case.” He paused. “Have they set a date for the trial?”

  “Yes, sir. It's less than two weeks off.”

  “That's not a very long time to prepare a case,” noted Jennings.

  “If I may speak frankly, sir,” said Becker, “I get the distinct impression that your case is considered open-and-shut, and that I am expected to strike a bargain rather than prepare a defense.” He paused. “Under the circumstances, it seems the most reasonable course of action.”

  “I'm sure it does, major,” said Jennings irritably. “They want a nice, tidy, whitewash for the media.” He paused. “They're doomed to be disappointed.”

  Becker studied him closely for a long minute without speaking.

  “What are you staring at, major?” demanded Jennings.

  “You're not quite what I expected, sir.”

  “You would prefer someone foaming at the mouth and screaming about how God told him to do it, no doubt?”

  “It might make matters easier,” admitted Becker with a smile. “The prosecution has agreed to accept a plea of temporary insanity, but permanent insanity is much easier to prove.”

  “Don't worry about it, major.”

  “Oh?”

  “I have no intention of pleading insanity.”

  “You don't?”

  Jennings shook his head. “No.”

  Becker frowned. “You're making a serious mistake, sir. If you plead guilty, the death penalty is mandatory. The prosecution has already expressed its willingness to deal.”

  “I'm not pleading guilty, either.”

  Becker grimaced. “If you wanted to plead innocent, you shouldn't have confessed to killing two members of your crew.”

  “But I did kill them.”

  “Then how am I to convince the court that you're innocent?” asked Becker.

  “I intend to plead justifiable homicide.”

  “Justifiable homicide?” repeated Becker, unable to hide his surprise.

  “That's correct.”

  “Did the two men you killed attempt to mutiny?”

  “No.”

  “Did they threaten you physically?”

  “No.”

  “That's going to make killing them awfully difficult to justify.”

  “Put me on the stand and I'll explain my actions.”

  “Perhaps you'd better start by explaining them to me.”

  Jennings shook his head. “Not until I'm sure I can trust you.”

  “Right at this moment, I am probably the only person in the world that you can trust.”

  “Perhaps,” said Jennings. “But I have to be certain. I have to make sure you're not here just to silence me.”

  “I'm your attorney,” repeated Becker. “If you're going to plead innocent, I'm legally compelled to present your story to the court, whether I believe it or not.”

  “Maybe,” said Jennings.

  “Why wouldn't I?” demanded Becker in exasperation.

  “Because once I explain my actions to you, major, you'll demand that I plead insanity, and when I refuse to, you'll drop the case and they'll just give me another lawyer who won't believe me either.”

  “I'm ethically predisposed to believe you,” said Becker patiently. “You're my client.” He paused. “Now, if you can't convince me that it was justifiable homicide, how are you going to convince the court?”

  “That's my problem, major.”

  “It's supposed to be our problem,” Becker corrected him.

  “It's my problem,” repeated Jennings firmly. “I'm the one who's facing a death sentence.”

  “This is no good,” said Becker. “We're going to have to come to an understanding right here and now.” He paused again. “I'm your attorney, and if you want to plead innocent, then I'll prepare the best damned case for innocence that I can. But I can't do it in a vacuum. You've got to give me some information that I can use.”

  Jennings stared at him again, then seemed to come to a decision.

  “Do I seem irrational to you, major?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  “And you want me to confide in you completely?”

  “I insist upon it.”

  “What if I were to tell you that if you try to prove my story, you may be putting your life at risk?”

  “I wouldn't believe you,” said Becker bluntly.

  “I have no reason to lie to you. It is in my best interest that you try to prove my innocence.”

  “Why don't you just tell me your story, and we'll worry about the rest of it later?”

  Jennings sighed deeply, then opened a desk drawer and pulled out a notebook. “It's all in here, major,” he said. “What I did, why I did it, why I'm convinced that I was acting in the best interests of my ship.”

  He handed the notebook over to Becker, who thumbed through it briefly and then placed it inside his briefcase.

  “I'll read it tonight,” promised Becker. “But right at this moment, I'd rather hear it first hand, and interrupt with any questions that may occur to me.”

  “All right, major. Where shall I begin?”

  “You can begin by telling me why you killed crewmen Greenberg and Provost.”

  “I didn't.”

  Becker frowned. “Just a minute. You just admitted to killing them.”

  “That is incorrect,” said Jennings. “You asked me if I killed two members of my crew, and I said I did.”

  “Well?” asked Becker, confused.

  “You didn't ask me if they were Greenberg and Provost.”

  Becker pulled a paper out of his briefcase. “It says right here that you shot and killed Robert Greenberg and Jonathan Provost, Jr.”

  “I know what it says—and it's wrong.”

  “All right,” said Becker. “Who did you kill?”

  “I don't know—but they weren't Greenberg and Provost.”

  “You don't know?” repeated Becker.

  “No.”

  “All right. Who do you think they were?”

  Jennings drew a deep breath and exhaled it slowly.

  “Two aliens.”

  “Oh, shit!” muttered Becker. “It had to be aliens? It couldn't be spies?”

  “They almost certainly were spies as well.”

  “Aliens?” repeated Becker.

  “Aliens.”

  “Well, let's follow it through,” said Becker grimly. “Did they look like humans?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did any of your staff ever suggest they might be aliens?”

  “No.”

  “Did they pass their weekly physical exams during the mission?”

  “Yes.”

  “They didn't speak with an accent?”

  “None.”

  “Do you know the odds against an alien race evolving to the point where they could pass for men?”

  “Millions to one, I suppose,” answered Jennings.

  “Billions to one,” Becker corrected him.

  “Nevertheless, that's what they were,” said Jennings firmly.

  “And you're the only one who was able to recognize them as aliens?”

  “As far as I know.”

  “How did you spot them? What did they do?”

  “Little things,” said Jennings. “There was no single thing you could put your finger on and say that it was conclusive evidence.”

  “Give me an example.”

  “One evening Greenberg brought me a cup of coffee while I was on the bridge. He kept his thumb in it the whole time he carried it—and I had him wait while I issued some commands to adjust our course—but when I tried to drink it, it was still so hot that I burned my mouth. And when I examined his thumb, it wasn't e
ven red.”

  “And you blew him away because he had a thumb that was insensitive to heat?” demanded Becker incredulously.

  Jennings shook his head. “No, of course not. There were other things, lots of them. Like the fact that the computer in the crew's lavatory said Provost hadn't urinated in more than a week.”

  “Maybe he was a bed-wetter,” said Becker. “Maybe he used the officer's lavatory. Maybe he used the toilet instead of the urinal. Maybe he got drunk every night and pissed in the sink. Maybe...”

  “I told you it wasn't any single thing,” explained Jennings testily. “But during our four months in deep space I kept noticing little things. Any one or two of them could be explained away, but not ten or twenty of them. They're all listed there,” he continued, pointing to the edge of his notebook, which was visible inside Becker's briefcase. “When I was finally convinced that I was right, I decided that the safety of the ship and the security of Earth itself required me to terminate them as quickly as possible.”

  “Why not simply place them under arrest?”

  “They were aliens. I had no idea what their physical or mental capabilities were. It was possible that our brig couldn't hold them, or that they were capable of damaging the ship even from detention.”

  “You did something else, too, didn't you?” said Becker, scanning still more sheets that he had withdrawn from his briefcase. “Besides killing them, I mean.”

  “Yes,” said Jennings. “I turned over command of the Roosevelt to my executive officer and confined myself to my quarters.”

  Becker shook his head. “Before that.”

  “I relieved Chief Medical Officer Gillette from duty and placed him under arrest.”

  “Right,” said Becker. “Why?”

  “I suspected that he was an alien, too.”

  “Then why didn't you kill him?”

  “I had made no first-hand observations of any aberrant behavior.”

  “Then what made you think he was an alien?”

  “Because when he examined the bodies of crewmen Greenberg and Provost after I killed them, he made no mention of the fact that they were aliens.”

  “Possibly because they weren't.”

  “They were,” said Jennings firmly, “and he must therefore have been in collusion with them, whether he was a human or an alien.” He paused. “I asked him point-blank if they were humans and he answered in the affirmative. I couldn't allow him to remain on duty after that.”