Eyes swung toward him. The judge broke into an evil grin. "That's right."
"But you can't really convict me until you've considered carefully any statement I make in my own defense. Isn't that right?"
The judge looked uncomfortable. "If you've got something to say, go ahead and say it."
"I've got just one statement to make. Short and sweet. But you'd better listen to it, and think it out carefully before you decide that you really want to convict me." He paused, and glanced slyly at the judge. "You don't think much of those who tell the truth, it seems. Well, put this statement in your record, then." His voice was loud and clear in the still room. "All Earthmen are absolutely incapable of telling the truth."
Puzzled frowns appeared on the jury's faces. One or two exchanged startled glances, and the room was still as death. The judge stared at him, and then at Meyerhoff, then back. "But you"—he stammered. "You're"—He stopped in mid-sentence, his jaw sagging.
One of the jurymen let out a little squeak, and fainted dead away. It took, all in all, about ten seconds for the statement to soak in.
And then pandemonium broke loose in the courtroom.
"Really," said Harry Zeckler loftily, "it was so obvious I'm amazed that it didn't occur to me first thing." He settled himself down comfortably in the control cabin of the Interplanetary Rocket and grinned at the outline of Altair IV looming larger in the view screen.
Paul Meyerhoff stared stonily at the controls, his lips compressed angrily. "You might at least have told me what you were planning."