It snapped back into focus, however, when they led him into the trial room of the Medical Lobby building. It was a smaller version of his trial on Earth. Fear washed in by association. The complete lack of humanity in the procedure was something from a half-remembered and horrible past.
The presiding officer asked the routine question: "Is the prisoner represented by counsel?"
Blane, the dapper little prosecutor, arose quickly. "The prisoner is a pariah, Sir Magistrate."
"Very well. The court will accept the protective function for the prisoner. You may proceed."
I'll be judge, I'll be jury. And prosecution and defense. It made for a lot less trouble. Of course, if Space Lobby had asserted interest, it would have gone to a supposedly neutral court. But as usual, Space was happy to leave it in the hands of Medical.
The tape was played as evidence. Doc frowned. The words were his, but there had been a lot of editing that subtly changed the import of his notes.
"I protest," he challenged. "It's not an accurate version."
The Lobby magistrate turned a wooden face to him. "Does the prisoner have a different version to introduce?"
"No, but—"
"The evidence is accepted. One of the prisoner's six protests will be charged against him."