Citadel of the Green Death

At the coldly gleaming Experimental Station they flung this choice in Outlaw Joel Hakkyt's teeth: Grinding, endless slavery on Asgard, that Alpha Centauri hell—or a writhing, screaming guinea-pig's death here? He chose Asgard, naturally. But what was natural—on Asgard?
Joel Hakkyt stirred impatiently in the prisoner's chair. His features, homely, strong-boned and intelligent, were inscrutable. But he didn't know how much longer he could bottle up his indignation. It had been accumulating all during his trial. Now this delay!
The machines had been whisked from the chamber. The investigating psychologist should have returned with his verdict minutes ago. What was wrong?
Joel glanced at his parents, at his wife. They were the only spectators, the three of them sitting stiffly in the front row of benches.
Doctor Hakkyt refused to meet his son's eyes. A plump, tall man, the doctor looked stonily out the windows at the park-like grounds surrounding the Hall of Justice. He was president of Clear Springs Community, and his angry red expression said plainly as words that his son had disgraced him.
Mrs. Hakkyt dabbed at cold eyes with a scrap of handkerchief. Joel's glance passed over her swiftly and on to his wife.
She sat next to his mother with a notebook on her knee, a pencil poised in her hand. Joel's wife was a specialist in creative writing, and all through his trial, she had watched him with the same impersonal curiosity she might have bestowed on some animal, jotting down his reactions.
In sudden disgust, Joel wondered why he had consented to marry her. It had been her looks, he supposed. She had a sensual rather pretty face....
A panel behind the bench clicked loudly in the silence. The guard stood up, saying: Attention, please.
It was a useless formality, because everyone's eyes had jerked instantly to the slowly opening door.
The investigating psychologist bustled in, sat down behind his desk. He arranged his black gown with a tug, rattled the papers in his hand.