He felt hands lift him, felt himself being carried down a ladder and into a cooler room. Then he blanked out as a sudden thrust of acceleration struck him. His last conscious thought was that he was now on the last leg of his one-way journey to Earth, condemned to the dumping-ground of the universe for a crime he never committed. _I didn't kill him_, he thought fiercely. _I didn't kill him._ When he awoke, he found himself lying in a wooded area. He sat up in the grass and tried to get his bearings. He was dressed in rough, oddly-cut clothing, and in his hand was a letter-capsule. He broke it open and read the note inside. _To Yorkan Varr_: _You have been accused and found guilty of the crime of murder. Therefore, you have been placed on the planet Sol III to live out the rest of your natural life._ _However, in order that you may not be helpless, we have provided you with clothing, money, and identification. You will be able to get along in this society if you are careful. We warn you, however, that the people of this planet actually kill for punishment of certain crimes. Govern yourself accordingly._ _The Council of Judges._ As Yorkan read the last line, the message paper faded, grayed, and crumbled in his hand. It became a powder and fell, like fine ash, from his fingers. And with it went the last thing that connected him with the Condelari Federation. Yorkan stood up and looked up at the stars. _I know who did it_, he thought. _But I couldn't prove it._ He had seen the man's face just before he had blanked out from the stungun. When he had awakened, he found himself with a corpse and a charge of murder against him. He looked down at himself again. His suit was coarsely woven and crude. He reached instinctively into his pocket and pulled out a billfold. The cards in it said he was John Arthur Stern, a retired war veteran who had been badly wounded during his service in the United Nations Police, during the African Insurrection of 1986. "Well, fine," he said bitterly to the trees around him. "Where does that get me?" "You're an Earthman now," said a voice. "That's what you'll have to remember." Yorkan whirled at the sound of the soft, liquid voice. "Who's that?" He found himself using English, the predominant language of this part of the exile planet. The language had been hypnotically implanted in his brain. The girl was standing less than ten yards from him. In the moonlight, her hair and skin seemed almost silvery. She was light of complexion, he realized, and her hair was a light red-blonde. "Who the devil are you?" She smiled a little and walked toward him. He felt a little odd; here he was, in a wood on a primitive planet, knowing almost nothing of the civilization that surrounded him, confronted by an Earthgirl who seemed to know him.