Yorkan stood up and looked up at the stars. I know who did it, he thought. But I couldn't prove it.
He had seen the man's face just before he had blanked out from the stungun. When he had awakened, he found himself with a corpse and a charge of murder against him.
He looked down at himself again. His suit was coarsely woven and crude. He reached instinctively into his pocket and pulled out a billfold. The cards in it said he was John Arthur Stern, a retired war veteran who had been badly wounded during his service in the United Nations Police, during the African Insurrection of 1986.
"Well, fine," he said bitterly to the trees around him. "Where does that get me?"
"You're an Earthman now," said a voice. "That's what you'll have to remember."
Yorkan whirled at the sound of the soft, liquid voice.
"Who's that?" He found himself using English, the predominant language of this part of the exile planet. The language had been hypnotically implanted in his brain.
The girl was standing less than ten yards from him. In the moonlight, her hair and skin seemed almost silvery. She was light of complexion, he realized, and her hair was a light red-blonde. "Who the devil are you?"
She smiled a little and walked toward him. He felt a little odd; here he was, in a wood on a primitive planet, knowing almost nothing of the civilization that surrounded him, confronted by an Earthgirl who seemed to know him.
"It's a shock, I know," she was saying, "but you'll get over it. I know where you came from; you're a Condelarian. You've been exiled to this planet. We don't ask why you were sent here, nor what you did, nor what your real name is. What's the name on your identity card?"