The Sky Was Full of Ships by Theodore Sturgeon

Sykes died, and after two years they tracked Gordon Kemp down and brought him back, because he was the only man who knew anything about the death. Kemp had to face a coroner’s jury in Switchpath, Arizona, a crossroads just at the edge of the desert, and he wasn’t too happy about it, being city-bred and not quite understanding the difference between “hicks” and “folks.”

The atmosphere in the courtroom was tense. Had there been great wainscoted walls and a statue of blind Justice, it would have been more impersonal and, for Kemp, easier to take. But this courtroom was a crossroads granger’s hall in Switchpath, Arizona.

The presiding coroner was Bert Whelson, who held a corncob pipe instead of a gavel. At their ease around the room were other men, dirt-farmers and prospectors like Whelson. It was like a movie short. It needed only a comedy dance number and somebody playing a jug.

But there was nothing comic about it. These hicks were in a position to pile trouble on Kemp, trouble that might very easily wind up in the gas chamber.

The coroner leaned forward. “You got nothin’ to be afeard of, son, if your conscience is clear.”

“I still ain’t talking. I brought the guy in, didn’t I? Would I of done that if I’d killed him?”

The coroner stroked his stubble, a soft rasping sound like a rope being pulled over a wooden beam.

“We don’t know about that, Kemp. Hmm. Why can’t you get it through your head that nobody’s accusing you of anything? You’re jest a feller knows something about the death of this here Alessandro Sykes. This court’d like to know exactly what happened.”

He hesitated, shuffled.

“Sit down, son,” said the coroner.

That did it. He slumped into the straight chair that one of the men pushed up for him, and told this story.