"All a bluff!" he chortled. "I knew he didn't dare do anything!"
It was after he staggered to his feet to haul the little machine from its crate that he found Trolla's note attached to the handlebar.
Dear Quasmin, it said. As you tried to point out, there is some argument whether a society has any moral right to punish a criminal or merely an obligation to help him heal himself.
Quasmin roared with laughter. He looked up at the clear sky.
"That's right, Trolla! I'm sick—an' don't you forget it!"
On the other hand, he read on, an individual owes support to the society that protects his rights. I think a breach of the contract by one party nullifies it for the other too. Think that over—Trolla.
Quasmin scowled at the words, then at the sky, and finally at the tools and materials that would help maintain him on this strange planet for many years.
"Years and years and years," he muttered, glancing about at the hanging, purplish fronds in the silent background.
A stunned expression crept over his face, as he realized what kind of sentence had been passed upon him.