He strode to the window and looked out. The compound, at first glance, seemed full of aliens. Actually there were only a dozen, he realized, but they were clad in full panoply, bright red and harsh green robes, carrying spears and ornamental swords. Half a dozen enlisted men were watching them nervously from a distance, their hands ready to fly to blasters instantly if necessary. He weighed the choices one last time. If he handed Leonards over, the temporary anger of the aliens would be appeased--but perhaps at a long-range cost to Earth's prestige. Devall had long regarded himself as an essentially weak man with a superb instinct for camouflage--but would his yielding to the aliens imply to the universe that all Earth was weak? On the other hand, he thought, suppose he refused to release Leonards to the aliens. Then he would be, in essence, bringing down the overlord's thumb, letting the universe know that Earthmen were responsible only to themselves and not to the peoples the worlds they visited. Either way, he realized, the standing of Earth in the galaxy's estimation would suffer. One way, they would look like appeasing weaklings; the other, like tyrants. He remembered a definition he had once read: _melodrama is the conflict of right and wrong, tragedy the conflict of right and right_. Both sides were right here. Whichever way he turned, there would be difficulties. And there was an additional factor: the boy. What if they executed him? Family considerations seemed absurdly picayune at this moment, but still, to hand his own nephew over for possible execution by an alien people-- He took a deep breath, straightened his shoulders, sharpened the hard gaze of his eyes. A glance at the mirror over the bookcase told him he looked every inch the commanding officer; not a hint of the inner conflict showed through. He depressed the intercom stud. "Send in the high priest. Let the rest of them wait outside." * * * * * The priest looked impossibly tiny and wrinkled, a gnome of a man whose skin was fantastically gullied and mazed by extreme age. He wore a green turban over his hairless head--a mark of deep mourning, Devall knew. The little alien bowed low, extending his pipestem arms behind his back at a sharp angle, indicating respect. When he straightened, his head craned back sharply, his small round eyes peering directly into Devall's. "The jury has been selected; the trial is ready to begin. Where is the boy?" Devall wished fleetingly he could have had the services of an interpreter for this last interview. But that was impossible; this was something he had to face alone, without help. "The accused man is in his quarters," Devall said slowly. "First I want to ask some questions, old one." "Ask." "If I give you the boy to try, will there be any chance of his receiving the death penalty?" "It is conceivable." Devall scowled. "Can't you be a little more definite than that?"