Damon Knight - Orbit 16

The defense moved on. “I would like to introduce a statement from my client’s employer attesting to his reliability and work habits.” The green light went out, and a big red flashing job appeared on the main panel.

“What’s that? What happened?” I said.

“It’s an objection,” muttered the assistant.

The prosecutor stood up. “Objection, File OBJ327, your Honor.”

My side was not to be outdone. “File DEM828,” replied the defense.

There were lights all over the panel, and the tapes got busy for sure. A printer clattered briefly on the judge’s bench. He reached out and tore off a strip.

“Sustained,” he announced. Then he checked the timer on the far wall. “This hearing has now reached the twenty-minute first-period maximum. Court will recess for ten minutes.”

We all rose, and I went along with my defenders to a room next-door. They told me to sit while they analyzed the first session. I couldn’t follow much of it. There was nothing about me, or what I did. Just subroutines, jumps, and things like that. Now and then one of them would go to a small keyboard and punch up something. Then they would both mutter over the resulting printout. Finally one of them kicked back his chair and began to pace the room.

“I see how we might be able to pull this off.”

“How’s that?” I should have kept my mouth shut. They both glared at me, then bent back over the table.

“There used to be an operation in early Fortran called a do loop. The idea was that a subroutine could be set up to repeat until some limit or result was reached. Like testing an equation by substituting all the numbers between one and one hundred for constants. You didn’t have to write one hundred instructions. Just use a do loop with one hundred as the upper limit. The equation would be solved and one hundred solutions printed out. Nobody uses that anymore, but if we could slip one in after the instruction regarding intent, maybe we could give the idea many times the weight it would normally have. That might be enough to swing it.”

The other nodded. “Why not? There’s nothing else going for us.”

Back in the courtlab, we all rose, and we all sat; then the prosecutor got up for his summary. Most of it was about programs, routines, and weighted averages. He did a good job. Minus the buzz words though, one thing came through very clear: I was guilty as hell. Then my team got the green light, and it was more of the same. I think I saw him enter the do loop. There was one time when his hands were awfully busy, while he wasn’t saying much. The prosecutor was frowning about something.

Finally it was all over. The last entry was in. The green lights were gone, and a big yellow one on the main panel came on. The tapes were all going at once, and the indicators were a blur. After about a minute, a printer clattered briefly and was silent. The tape decks all switched to fast rewind. Everyone sat quiet for a moment, then the clerk stood up and headed for the printer, where he tore off a strip of paper. He handed it to the judge without even a peek. I held my breath. My attorney drew more doodles. The judge took the slip, then, with his eyes fixed firmly on the statue of Justice, he announced the verdict.

“The computed verdict finds the defendant innocent of all charges. The electron knows no favorites.”

I let out my breath in a rush and jumped to my feet. The prosecutor was up too, shouting.

“Your Honor, I appeal this verdict as provided for in the master file of court procedures.”

The heavy hand was on my shoulder again, and a voice told me to sit down.

The judge nodded. “Granted,” he said, and bang went the gavel. The clerk did something to his panel, and we had a yellow light again.

“Now what?” I wanted to know.

My attorney looked around. “ There has been an appeal. The appellate court will review your case.” I felt honored. He had actually spoken to me. Might as well keep him talking.

“Where are they? Are they here too?”

“No. They’re probably playing golf right about now.”

“But ...” I nodded toward the yellow light.

“Oh, that. Their Honors have all been on record since they were appointed to the bench. They just stop by in the morning for an emotional index reading, and the appellate computer takes it from there. We’re linking up with it right now.”

As he spoke, one tape spun briskly, then stopped. Another wait. I munched a mangled thumbnail and watched the flashing lights. They stopped, and the printer clattered again. Once more the clerk tore off the paper and handed it to the bench. The judge looked, then nodded. This time, he looked straight at me.

“Decision reversed, by a vote of six to one. Counsel for the defense is commended for a job well done.” My team nodded and smiled. “The prisoner will rise.” This time I was hauled to my feet.

The judge began to punch some buttons on his own private console. Twice he shook his head and made some more entries. Finally he nodded.

“Leonard Verst, in accordance with the laws, programs, and procedures of this state, you have been found guilty of the crime of alteration. You are accordingly sentenced to a term of thirty days, these days to be served consecutively as a member of the jury of this court.”

As the gavel banged for the last time, a flicker of motion at the bench caught my eye. I glanced up at the jury. The left-hand face had been changed. I was staring into my own eyes, and I was not smiling.

She only wanted to be alone with her melancholy i here in the windswept house beside the sea with her troglodytes and her holovision, but alas, her sensitive nature could not ignore the burning need of Craig—and Ricardo, and Ming, and Harry: until, one storm-swept night . . .

I was happy enough in the old house by the sea before Craig returned. Many people would have minded the almost continual mists and the sound of the sea below the house, the grating roar of pebbles which the waves sucked back and flung, at their return, up the high strand. Not to speak of the noises the troglodytes made at night in the basement. But I had lived in the house my whole life, as had my ancestors for half a millennium. I felt comfortable walking on the great stone terrace, wrapped in a warm cloak of grumbler fur, hearing the sea’s slow, tremulous cadence far below.

Of course my heart had been broken that night, two years before, when Craig had stepped into the transmitter and disappeared, forever I had thought. There’d been a thunderstorm, and my troglodytes had been nervous, padding restlessly around the house, their silver-grey fur standing on end. I’d begged Craig not to go. The new settlers and the city dwellers don’t believe the troglodytes are psychic, but we who belong to the old families know they are.

Craig had shaken his head, his dark face set and stern. He had decided to go to Newport that day, and go he would. He believed that a person should give in to circumstances as little as possible. Into the glassite box he stepped, and activated the machine. At that moment, lightning struck the house. The lights went out. I heard a great crack of thunder directly overhead. Then the auxiliary generator came on. The lights glowed, dimmed, brightened, and I saw that Craig was gone. Worried, I called the main transmission station in Newport. Craig had not arrived there.

“Oh, no!” I cried, and fell to the floor in a faint.

When I awoke, a man was bending over me: tall and slender and silver-haired, though his face was unlined. His eyes were an extraordinary bright blue.

“Are you all right?” he asked me.

“Yes,” I said, and he helped me to my feet.