Doc Feldman nodded and reached for the bracky. He knew that this was their way of trying to make him feel his work hadn't been for nothing, and he was grateful for Wilson's visit. "It was a good year for me. Damned good. But time's running short. I'd better brief you on the latest on the plague." Wilson began making notes until Doc was finished. Finally he got up as steps sounded from the hall. "Anything else?" "Just a guess. A lot of Earth germs can't live in Mars-normal flesh; maybe this can't live in Earth-normal. Tell them so long for me." "So long, Doc." He shook hands briefly and was waiting at the door when the guard opened it. An hour later, the Lobby police took Feldman to the Northport shuttle rocket. They had some trouble on the way; a runner cut down the street, with the crowds frantically rushing out of his way. Terror was reaching the cities already. Doc flashed a look at Chris. "Mob hysteria. Like flying saucers and wriggly tops, I suppose?" he asked, before the guard could stop him. They locked his legs, but left his hands free in the rocket. He unfolded the paper Wilson had brought and buried his face in it. Then he swore. They _were_ explaining the runners as a case of mob hysteria! Northport was calmer. Apparently they had yet to have first-hand experience with the plague. But now nothing seemed quite real to Doc, even when they locked him into the big Northport jail. The whole ritual of the Lobbies seemed like a fantasy after the villages. It snapped back into focus, however, when they led him into the trial room of the Medical Lobby building. It was a smaller version of his trial on Earth. Fear washed in by association. The complete lack of humanity in the procedure was something from a half-remembered and horrible past. The presiding officer asked the routine question: "Is the prisoner represented by counsel?" Blane, the dapper little prosecutor, arose quickly. "The prisoner is a pariah, Sir Magistrate." "Very well. The court will accept the protective function for the prisoner. You may proceed." _I'll be judge, I'll be jury._ And prosecution and defense. It made for a lot less trouble. Of course, if Space Lobby had asserted interest, it would have gone to a supposedly neutral court. But as usual, Space was happy to leave it in the hands of Medical. The tape was played as evidence. Doc frowned. The words were his, but there had been a lot of editing that subtly changed the import of his notes. "I protest," he challenged. "It's not an accurate version." The Lobby magistrate turned a wooden face to him. "Does the prisoner have a different version to introduce?" "No, but--" "The evidence is accepted. One of the prisoner's six protests will be charged against him."