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Once this is well set, other forms of intelligence follow. The Swinglis*
hadn't had much time yet, counted in aeons, to go beyond the early stage of
developing ways of avoiding being laughed at.
They even felt humiliated because they were not listed in
Morrison's Standard Dictionary of Alien Races
, not even in the addendum under Alien Races (Tall). Several documentaries
have been made on them recently, most notably Sloan Buster's searing
Thin
, which shows the Swinglis* in an altogether too favorable light. Swingli*
traders have occasionally appeared in Earth-dominated space, but they tend to
avoid it since humans always laugh at them. On their own planet, however, they
were able to arrange things more to their own needs. Their boast was, "You
won't laugh at us on Swingli*."
Due to their need to be taken seriously, the Swinglis* go to great expense to
maintain an impressive pomp and circumstance. Thus, when Bill was ushered into
the big room, he first noticed the high desk, cantilevered out over the floor
so that three black-gowned Swingli* judges, with powdered perukes set
precisely in place, could peer down at him through their granny glasses.
The Swinglis* had researched their justice system most carefully. Every race
has its own inborn directive, the secret rules, written on the genes,
expatiated upon in the spiraling DNA, which tell them what they are and what
they should strive for. Not only that, but also implanted in the fundamental
genetic equipment is the knowledge of what is funny and what is not, and a
driving need to look good at all times and under all circumstances. Due to
this racial imperative, the Swinglis*, when they first encountered alien
civilizations, took pains to discover a form of justice that really suited
them. Before encountering civilization, they had had no justice or legal
system worthy of the word. When a Swingli* grew annoyed at another Swingli*,
he bashed him over the head with the short lead-packed wooden clubs which were
aptly named, in Swingli*, UuQ-Olen, or friendship-stoppers. If anyone didn't
like this, he bashed the perpetrator over the head, and thus might in turn be
bashed over the head himself. Friendship-stopping was the only form of death
on the planet at this time, because a provident nature, always experimenting,
had given the Swinglis* immortality except when they were smacked on the head
with a wooden club packed with lead.
A proper justice system, for the Swingli*, had to look good. That was the
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prime consideration. The
Swinglis* at this time were in desperate need for a new way of controlling
friendship-stopping, since the
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Bill, the Galactic Hero on the Planet of Bottled Brains population had been
declining ever since the so-called Unpleasant Wars of the Nineties. They hit
upon a combination of various modalities. From the English they took the high
desks at which the judges sit, and the powdered perukes, and above all, the
awesome dignity that pervaded British dispensations of justice as shown in the
many Pinewood Studio pictures the Swingli* had unearthed in the ancient data
banks, the only thing saved from that long-destroyed planet. No one could
laugh at a three-man group of judges like that, they thought.
Bill couldn't control his giggle when he saw the three skinny judges with the
granny glasses slipping down their scaly faces, with white perukes on their
pointed heads, and a general air of testy dignity. The officer in the bearskin
nudged him in the ribs with an incredibly sharp and pointed elbow and he
sobered up at once.
The middle judge, in sepulchral tones, said, "Let the prisoner approach the
bar of justice."
Bill had intended to be dignified and contrite, but something about the
crashingly solemn nature of the thing, as well as thirst, made him say, "You
got any other kind of bar around here aside from a justice one? I sure could
use a drink before going on with this."
The judges looked at each other. The audience there were close to three
hundred Swinglis* in deck chairs watching the proceedings looked at the
judges. The guards looked at each other. Bill looked puzzled.
The middle judge remarked to the judge on his left. "Was that intelligible,
what he said?"
"I might perhaps hazard," the left judge said, "that the prisoner was essaying
a witticism."
"I could have told you that," said the judge on the right.
"Do you mean," the middle judge said, "that the prisoner was making a joke?"
"Impossible, yes, but it's true," said the left judge.
"But what was the point of the joke?" asked the middle judge.
"It must have been subtle," said the left judge, "because I didn't really get
it. Word play on bar, I suppose.
Bit of an odd way to begin, isn't it?"
"Yes, I should think so," said the middle judge. He peered down at Bill.
"Prisoner, did you in fact make a joke in our presence?"
"Well, yeah, I guess I did," Bill said. "I didn't mean anything by it." He
started to giggle again.
"And what," asked the middle judge, "is so funny?"
"Nothing, excuse me, I'm sorry," said Bill.
The middle judge turned to the right judge. "Why would he burst into laughter
like that?"
"I don't know," said the right judge, "but I fear the worst. I suppose, if you
thought it necessary, you could ask him."
"Prisoner, why did you laugh?"
"The fact is," Bill said, "I have a Chinger lodged in my left armpit and he's
tickling me."
"Did you hear that?" the left judge said to the right judge.
"Amazing, his effrontery."
"He couldn't actually have a lizard secreted on his person, could he?"
"I doubt it. Earthians and Chingers are hereditary enemies."
"I suppose," said the bearskin-hatted guard, "we could search him and find out
for sure."
"No," said the middle judge. "This is already bad enough. Frankly, I don't
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want to know."
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