Дэймон Найт - Orbit 4

She paused and looked around at her guests. Mrs. Pendleton had drawn her chair closer and was sitting on the edge of the cushion. Moore’s pipe had long since gone out. Ben Edmonds watched her with impassive eyes.

“It must have been a terrible experience,” said Pendleton gravely. “But I’m glad you told us about it. It is indeed pertinent to the Tyson issue, especially on the question of psi transmission. But forgive me, Helen, I don’t believe you were finished.”

“I just wanted all of you to understand. For me, as an individual, psi exists. I agree with Mr. Winters that psi is a common human experience, that most people have had a psi experience of some type, and that the members of the Court eminently qualify. On the other hand, a certain stigma seems to attach to psi, and the higher our standing in our society, the more reluctant we are to admit our psi experiences or ability. So we will try this one by secret ballot. Ben, would you pass around pencils and paper? I would like each of you to write ‘yes’ if you have ever had a psi experience, or ‘no’ if you have not. Ben will collect the votes in this vase.”

Godwin grumbled. “Woman, I’m old, but I’m not crazy. It’s a silly game, and I won’t play.”

“No matter. Seven votes should tell us something.” She picked the pieces of paper out of the vase. “Five yesses, two noes. You all know how I voted. So, not counting the judge, four of you have had a psi experience, and two have not. Messrs. Pendleton and Blandford are negative, I would assume. The majority vote seems to indicate that psi is a rather recurrent thread in the fabric of our daily lives. It’s not something weird or strange, unless we make it so.”

“Very dramatic, Helen,” said Moore. “But if you believe in psi so strongly, doesn’t it follow the search and seizure in Tyson was constitutional, and that he was lawfully convicted?”

“Of course not! I’ve already explained that. My intuition, my own psi, if you will, tells me Tyson is innocent. So I’m going to vote for reversal.”

“You tell ’em, Helen,” said Mrs. Pendleton firmly.

Their hostess leaned over and touched Edmonds on the sleeve. She pointed to Godwin, who was slumped in the deep maternal upholstery of the chair. His eyes were closed, and his outsize mustache ends vibrated with slow rhythm.

Edmonds got up softly, picked up the justice with hypnotic gentleness, as though the old man were a child, and with his burden held loosely against his chest, walked quietly toward the stairs.

The guests watched this in fascination. Mrs. Pendleton tried to catch the eye of Helen Nord, but Helen simply put her finger to her lips. Finally the muffled measured sound of steps died away above them.

Moore shook his head in wonder. “If anyone else tried that, the old gentleman would go through the ceiling.”

“What a man,” murmured Mrs. Pendleton. “What are you waiting for, Helen?”

“He’s never asked me,” said Helen Nord shortly. “Millie, will you help me with the coffee?”

The maid had already turned back the bed. Edmonds put a hand under Godwin’s head and laid the old man down on the waiting sheets. Then he eased off the shoes, loosened the belt, and pulled up the coverlet. He then realized that Godwin was awake and watching him.

“Sit down, Ben. When are you going to pop the question to little Nell?”

“I don’t know. Maybe never. She can’t forget—him. And I have a personal problem. Anyhow, maybe we are both too old.”

“Of course she still thinks of him. She ought to. But life goes on. Memories should be a garden, not a prison. Talk to the three boys. Get them on your side. Be firm with her. Oh, you are both so stupid. My last twenty years with Laura were the best of all. April Fool’s Day coming up soon. She loved it. Laura . . . Laura . . He seemed to drift off.

Whenever Godwin spoke of his dead wife in this intimate, carefree way, Edmonds felt, on some deep subsensory level, an emptiness akin to despair in the old man. His chest tightened. Does Helen still feel this way about John Nord? What is this sweet hell called love? Can no end come?

He pulled the blanket up about the old man’s shoulders and tiptoed toward the door.

“Where’s my teddy bear?” mumbled Godwin.

“Go to the devil,” growled Edmonds.

Even as he left the hallway and re-entered the living room, he knew something was wrong.

Everyone was facing away from him, toward the open door of the study across the room. In that doorway stood Helen Nord’s maid, holding the phone, one hand over the mouthpiece.

“What is it, Mary?” said Mrs. Nord quietly.

“It’s your messenger, mum, calling from National Airport He said to tell you Flight Sixty-seven to Miami crashed on takeoff. He could just now get to a telephone.”

“Thank you, Mary. Tell him he can go home now.” Helen Nord turned somberly to Blandford, who was standing, staring rigidly at her.

Mrs. Blandford gasped and sat down. “That plane!” “Yes. I think Bill had a hunch he shouldn’t take it.” “But that . . . that means,” stammered Blandford, “I . . . I’m a . . .”

Helen Nord simply nodded. “Yes, Bill, you are. Join the club.”

Judges are apt to be naif, simple-minded men, and they need something of Mephistopheles.

—Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes

It was late Thursday night, and Shelley Pendleton was alone in his office, and pacing.

Already he knew how the Tyson vote would go at conference tomorrow. Five to reverse, four to affirm. He’d be with the majority. Another five-four; and on a case like this! The newspapers, the editorial writers—the whole country would say that even the Supreme Court didn’t know whether Tyson was innocent or guilty. And it was actually going to be worse than that. Burke, for instance, would vote to reverse, because psi was illogical. Godwin didn’t believe in it, either, but would affirm. And Helen Nord, because she believed in her own psi (but not in Drago’s!) would vote to reverse.

Women. Sui generis. On occasion incomprehensible. Yet indispensable. He could hardly complain: by ancient rumor, Laura Godwin had won his appointment by cheating in a poker game with the President’s judiciary advisors.

There would be no sanity in the Tyson decision. And the public outcry would far dwarf the reaction to the Warren Report of the sixties. For the honor of the Court, he could not let it happen. And just how was he going to prevent it?

He resumed pacing and thinking. Had Tyson really pulled the trigger? Helen Nord seemed so certain he was innocent. Women and their intuition. But suppose she’s right? (And I’ll have to grant the validity of her psi experience with John Nord.) Can this Court intervene, sua sponte, to prove it? Certainly not. But can I? I have hunches, too. I’ve always had hunches. Made my money that way. Does this make me a psi? Maybe. I don’t know. God! What a crew. Nord, Moore and his dowsing, Blandford and that plane to Miami . . . And what about Edmonds and those impossible photos? Is it actually conceivable that a human intellect can reach into the past and put what he sees on a camera film? Serios did it, and that Japanese fellow. It all begins to make sense. Edmonds is probably the worst of them. And if there will be no image on the film until Decision Day, how does it get there? What are the rules? Can one psi have a hunch about another psi? There’s only one way to find out. And to find out, I will have to do a thing which, if done by one of my brother justices, would merit my strongest censure.

He stopped his slow striding and glared at the phone. He knew now that he would have no peace until he acted. In sudden resolution he seized the phone and dialed a number.