The priest looked impossibly tiny and wrinkled, a gnome of a man whose skin was fantastically gullied and mazed by extreme age. He wore a green turban over his hairless head—a mark of deep mourning, Devall knew.
The little alien bowed low, extending his pipestem arms behind his back at a sharp angle, indicating respect. When he straightened, his head craned back sharply, his small round eyes peering directly into Devall's.
"The jury has been selected; the trial is ready to begin. Where is the boy?"
Devall wished fleetingly he could have had the services of an interpreter for this last interview. But that was impossible; this was something he had to face alone, without help.
"The accused man is in his quarters," Devall said slowly. "First I want to ask some questions, old one."
"Ask."
"If I give you the boy to try, will there be any chance of his receiving the death penalty?"
"It is conceivable."
Devall scowled. "Can't you be a little more definite than that?"
"How can we know the verdict before the trial takes place?"