THE HIGH COURT
AT a high point of the seacoast there lay a great amphitheater, the period
of whose construction was known to none living; it had stood there for
more than a thousand Saturnian generations; and there was a general belief
that it was substantially a natural phenomenon, shaped out by unknown
forces before the dawn of man, and added to or modified by human
architects to adapt it more completely for its function. It possessed a
mountainous grandeur and dignity, such as mortal hands might enhance, but
not create.
The land sloped sharply toward the sea, and the amphitheater was delved
out of the eastern face of the declivity. Its form was a complete oval;
the benches, rank after rank, following the curve, only the eastward or
seaward end of the vast sweep being left open. At the focus of the ellipse
at this end was the raised level space used for a stage. The longer
diameter of the structure may have been a thousand yards, and there was
ample accommodation for a million persons. Dimensions so vast would have
rendered the place useless for practical purposes on our planet, but
offered no hindrance to the sight or hearing of a people endowed with the
superior senses of the Saturnians.
It was the meeting-place of the people, who were summoned thither on
occasions both of affairs of state and of entertainment or instruction. No
one was barred from these sessions; but, as a rule, the population was
present by deputies from each society. High courts of judgment were held
here, but these had become rare, because social order was spontaneous and
almost invariable in a community which had solved the problem of combining
universal cooperation with gradations of rank.
At noon of the day following Lamara’s interview with Jack, the
amphitheater stood apparently empty. Row after row of vacant benches
mounted skyward, the light and shadow making them look like finely etched
lines in an innumerable series, divided by radiating divisions at right
angles to the curve, defining to each society its appointed section. On
the stage, facing the auditorium, were placed twelve chairs or thrones,
one of which stood somewhat behind and above the others, which formed a
semicircle. At the sides of the stage were several seats, to be occupied
by persons having some subordinate share in the proceedings. Directly
opposite the thrones was a single chair assigned to the individual to be
tried; for this was to be a day of judgment. Between this chair and the
judges stood an altar of black marble on which rested a piece of crystal
fashioned into the shape of a heart.
A few minutes before noon Argon entered the theater at the stage end,
accompanied by Jack. The young Saturnian led his friend to the chairs on
the right, and they sat down. Jack cast a marveling look over the enormous
interior, silent and tenantless; above bent the heavens, crossed by the
arch of the ring, and with the moons set like gleaming jewels in the
expanse. To the left, through the wide aperture of the entrance, lay the
sea. The sun was near the zenith.
“Won’t it take a long time to fill this space?” asked Jack. “We are the
first here, and I saw no one in the neighborhood as we were on our way.”
Argon, who was wearing a very grave look, roused himself and smiled.
“Our people are usually punctual, especially on such an occasion as this,”
he said. “You will see that we won’t be kept waiting. I never thought,” he
added with a sigh, “to have come here on this errand! I’ve seen only
joyful spectacles until now.”
“You haven’t told me what is to be done here,” Jack observed. “Is it a
criminal case? What penalties does your law inflict?”
“No Saturnian can inflict punishment on another!” answered Argon in
surprise. “Our high courts do not convene for that purpose.”
Jack was equally astonished. “What is their purpose, then?”
“To hear the charge and the answer of the accused.”
“And is nothing done to the accused if found guilty?”
“Isn’t it enough that the guilt should be fixed?”
“But what is to deter him from committing other crimes?”
“Such a thing never has been known,” said Argon. “Could anything deter him
more than to have his crime proved before the assembly of the people—to
sit there with all eyes upon him and to go forth burdened by that shame?
Those whom I have seen arraigned—and there have been very few in my
lifetime—have become afterward more diligent and devoted than others in
serving the common good. They have given no thought to their own comfort
and welfare, but have made every sacrifice and effort to win back the
approval of the community. Yes,” he continued, “I remember learning that
it is different with you. But with you there are sickness and struggle,
and some, I’ve been told, are actually without means to live—though how
that can be, when many of you have more than they need, I couldn’t
understand—and perhaps the statement was untrue. But, at any rate, you
have temptations which we know nothing of here. All of us have more than
all we need; there is no envy or hatred; each is content in the degree to
which he belongs; each works at what he loves best to do, and does best,
and he knows that the state needs him in his place, and that in any other
he would be useless. So the temptation to do evil seldom is felt. Perhaps,
if we had your troubles, we should have your crimes—and your punishments!”
There was a sound of trumpets; and Jack saw, in the center of the arena,
three men who raised long, slender instruments to their lips and blew. As
the sound died away, an amazing sight was revealed.
As if created by the musical notes, the entire array of benches lining the
auditorium was filled from floor to parapet with men and women. A million
human beings had suddenly sprung to life where, a moment before, there had
seemed to be stark emptiness. Each of the innumerable societies, in its
place, glittered in its flame-garments, tinted according to its quality
and function in the state; and these were ranged in such a manner that
their several characters, and even the individual variations of the
persons composing them, could be perceived at a glance. The white
societies occupied the benches immediately above the stage on each side;
the gold were next to them; the rose, the azure, and the violet followed
in their order; and whether because of the brightness of the light
everywhere diffused, or the translucency of the atmosphere, or because his
eyes had acquired a power of vision hitherto unknown, Jack found himself
able to discern with entire distinctness the forms and features of even
the most distant members of that immeasurable assemblage. What beauty of
women, what nobility of men, what grace and simplicity of demeanor, what
frank and kindly looks! The true brotherhood of man was revealed in the
splendor of its loveliness.
As he gazed, delighted and yet appalled, a recollection passed through his
mind of the last great popular gathering that he had witnessed in his own
world. How similar, and yet, in comparison, how paltry, confused, and
obscure; and above all, how inferior in the spiritual influence that
proceeded from it! There, there had been a heterogeneous multitude of
individuals, each self-centered and scant in sympathy; here, the
millionfold audience was like one incomparably gifted being—one mind,
heart, and soul incarnated in innumerable male and female forms, various,
inexhaustible, harmonious; mighty, powerful, beneficent. What might not
such an organization, working for good, accomplish! And this audience was
but a deputation from a race many thousand times as numerous and strong,
and not less pledged to unity.
“You are right,” Jack said to Argon, after contemplating the gathering.
“No criminal would dare to face such a court more than once. But when
shall we see the judges themselves and the accused?”
He had already perceived that the apparent simultaneous filling of the
amphitheater had been due to the principle of voluntary invisibility and
visibility which Lamara had explained to him. The spectators had probably
been assembling for hours, but had waited to unveil until the trumpet
sounded.
“We shall not have to wait long,” replied his friend.
“Are you acquainted with the accused?” he asked.
“Yes—and you know her, also,” Argon replied in a burdened voice.
“It’s a woman, then?” exclaimed Jack, startled; but further words were
prevented by the sounding of another signal by the trumpeters.
The silvery cadences filled the great oval cup with stately melody, and
floated lingeringly away in the upper air.
“Look!” whispered Argon.
Beginning at either end of the arc of eleven thrones, the judges were, one
after one, revealed in their places. Composed and serious they were as
graven images of justice; but of a justice in which mercy bore an equal
part. There was neither severity nor indifference in the expression of
their countenances, but a meditative sadness, as if each were searching
his own heart to detect there some trace of mortal frailty which should
admonish him of his brotherhood with the most sinful.
The central figure, immediately below the higher throne, was Aunion. There
was an expectant hush, and, like the slow dawning of a white light, the
gracious form of Lamara appeared in her station above. Immediately the
whole body of the audience rose in its places, and all silently lifted
their right hands. She responded with a gesture of the arm, full of gentle
majesty, which seemed to invoke love upon all.
The high court was open. Aunion was the first to speak.
“We are met,” he said, “to hear the cause of one of us who has been
charged with betraying a trust. The accused is a woman—young, as we
measure age, and therefore to be thought of with the tenderness and
indulgence which the inexperience of youth and the impulsiveness of
girlhood may claim, and yet removed far enough from childhood to have lost
something of the divine innocence and wisdom which children bring with
them from the source of good. Had she been further advanced in the
practise of self-government, we may believe that she would not stand
accountant for this sin. It is likewise to be urged in her behalf that
there flows in her veins blood of another strain than ours, which, even
after the lapse of some ages, may abate her strength when and where it
were most needed.”
“On the other hand,” he went on, “you are to know that the accused has
been brought up in a position of exceptional advantage; she has been loved
by our highest, and been admitted to the inner degrees of illumination.
Moreover, her attempt was leveled not against one of ourselves, but
against one of a race unfamiliar with our customs, and perhaps supplied
with means less adequate than ours to offer resistance. The attempt
failed, and you are to consider whether this fact relieves the accused in
any degree from the odium of her purpose.
“To make an end, I say, that if any here can find nothing in his memory of
his own secret life that would prompt him to show mercy to this girl, let
him withdraw from our assembly, for that person is either more or less
than human, and therefore not qualified to judge.”
He ceased, and Lamara said: “Let the accused appear!” At the word the
chair, hitherto the only one vacant in the amphitheater, was occupied by a
slender figure, crouched forward, whose long golden hair, drawn before her
face by her hands, confirmed the painful anticipation which Jack had
already formed. After a moment the hands fell, and the face of Zarga was
revealed. Jack was about to utter some protest, but Argon restrained him.
“Who accuses this girl?” asked Lamara.
Argon rose and stepped forward.
“I accuse her!” said he.