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Quence’s powdered wig while he waited.
    â€œThe bailiff will take those, Master Hashoone,” Judge Quence said after a moment, without looking up.
    Tycho heard people laugh behind him. He turned and saw the bailiff waiting with his hand extended, face impassive. Tycho gave the man the papers and scurried back to his chair.
    â€œThank you, Master Hashoone,” Judge Quence said. “You may now transmit electronic versions for the record.”
    Diocletia turned to Mavry, who nodded and punched commands into his mediapad. Judge Quence stared down at his own device for a time, then looked up and pursed his lips.
    â€œMaster Hashoone, am I reading this correctly?” he asked. “You intercepted a freighter in the outer asteroid belt, discovered she was carrying an accredited Earth diplomat, and brought her to Ceres as a prize anyway?”
    Before Tycho could speak, the bald man in the expensive suit was on his feet, turning first one way and then the other to survey the courtroom.
    â€œThat’s exactly right, Your Honor. This is a most distressing case.” The man’s voice was bright and friendly, carrying easily from one end of the courtroom to the other. “As you’ll find from our own documents entered into the record, the Shadow Comet has violated the terms of her letter of marque by ignoring a clear case of diplomatic immunity, a deliberate and extraordinary event that must be swiftly and severely punished. On behalf of Captain Hans Wofford, the GlobalRex Corporation, and His Majesty’s Sovereign Government of Earth, I ask Your Honor to impose penalties against her performance bond for piracy and interference with commerce, and to recommend charges against her crew of kidnapping and multiple counts of illegal operation of a starship.”
    Judge Quence peered out at the man, who was standing confidently before the table with his hands behind his back.
    â€œAre you Master Hashoone?” Judge Quence asked.
    â€œNo, Your Honor,” the man said. “Allow me to—”
    â€œIf you’re not Master Hashoone, then why are you speaking?” Judge Quence asked.
    Huff brayed laughter.
    â€œThat there is the biggest stuffed shirt this side o’ Neptune,” he growled to Carlo, loud enough for Tycho to hear. Judge Quence gaveled him into silence as Diocletia spun and gave her father a poisonous look.
    â€œNow, Master Hashoone, what’s the meaning of all this?” Judge Quence asked.
    â€œWell, Your Honor—” Tycho began, but then his mother laid her hand on his.
    â€œIf I may, Your Honor?” Diocletia asked.
    Judge Quence nodded, and Diocletia pointed over at Soughton, who sat smiling behind the other table.
    â€œThat man does indeed have diplomatic credentials,” she said. “But we don’t believe he’s a diplomat.”
    â€œYour Honor, if I may—” exclaimed the man in the fancy suit, springing back to his feet.
    BAM! went the gavel. Judge Quence’s wig slid a couple of inches to the right.
    â€œYou may not , sir,” Judge Quence said. “Captain Hashoone, if a man has diplomatic credentials, does that not make him a diplomat? I’m aware the question borders on the philosophical, but . . . you do have credentials, correct, Mr. Soughton?”
    Soughton got to his feet, a folder in his hand, and walked slowly to the front of the courtroom, where Quence indicated he should hand the folder to the bailiff. Judge Quence then reached for it, flipped it open, and began to read.
    â€œWhat’s going on?” Tycho asked his mother in a whisper, but she put her finger to her lips.
    â€œYour Honor,” the man in the fancy suit tried again.
    â€œYou seem determined to speak, sir,” Judge Quence said. “Very well. Who are you, exactly, and what are you doing in my courtroom?”
    â€œMy name, Your Honor, is Threece Suud,” he said in that smooth voice. “Allow me