[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Startling Stories Summer 1955.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Excerpt taken from "THE HISTORY OF TRIAL PROCEDURE, 2175 TO 2543, A.D."
written by Prof. A. I. Schule, S.E.D.:
"Even then, in the beginning of the twenty-third century, crime per
se, itself had ceased to exist. The lower emotions had already been
bred out of the people. Envy, hate, avarice and kindred responses were
virtually non-existent. Every citizen had a crude type of emotiograph
attached to his person, which was examined periodically by the Eye. If
any deviation from the norm was observed, the accused was called up for
questioning.
"In the absence of actual crime, any emotion which might have
precipitated crime was considered unlawful, and men were tried for
too much anger, or too little pity. The only purpose of a trial was
to ascertain whether sufficient provocation could be established to
warrant a given reaction. If the cause, or the incident, justified the
emotional response, the defendant was exculpated.
"Trial procedure was extremely simple. The use of the witness was
obsolete. Above the defendant's box was a concentric screen upon which
his thoughts could be projected. The Questioner would channel the
thoughts of the accused into whatever date periods were pertinent, and
in that way, the defendant reviewed his own case.
"It is into this category that the celebrated, and very controversial,
John Hastings case falls. You all remember that, of course, as the
'cause cêlêbre' of the year 2375 A.D."
No. Amer. Sec., Book Two, p. 675.
* * * * *
One night they watched a column of flame lift a silver speck into the
sky. And one night, much later, they heard a voice call into space,
saying, "Come back, John Hastings, come back.
"Our inspection has shown serious deviations in your emotiograph. You
will turn your rocket and rechart for Earth, John Hastings. For trial,
John Hastings."
And they came to the trial. Out of the ripe, wet hills, down from the
blistering dome over the city, up through the shafts of the gritty
Substructure. They came and stood in lines, wiping the August sweat
from their eyes, littering the levels with orange peels as they ate.
Women, with babies strapped to their shoulders, and suppers left
unradiated on the cooker. Men, with lead-shielded faces, and tools
laid aside in the middle of a movement. But they came, and stood and
jostled one another, milling and gossiping:
"Gonna be some trial!"
"... might even resort to electrocution...."
"Naw, that's dark time methods."
"Oh yeah?"
Oh yeah, oh yeah, oh yeah....
But they felt good, the people, for it wasn't their trial. The words
could come easy and undammed, for it was John Hastings who was on
trial. They could look at him all they wanted to, and talk.
And then, suddenly, they could look at me too. Because I was called as
the thirteenth juror on the John Hastings trial.
* * * * *
I walked into it after a night that held no sleep. And looked at
it. The yawning amphitheatre where humanity poured. And saw it. The
thirteen chairs raised high in the center. And heard it. The crowd's
susurrus gentling under insistent reminders from a bodiless Questioner.
I glanced at the faces in the other twelve boxes, recognizing some
of them. Angus Vortler, the psychosurgeon. William Bax, head of
Intergalactic, a bleak, wintery man who doodled constantly. Dollar
signs, probably. Fred Kitson, of the horny palms, chief mechanic on the
_Darkness_. All men who, because they had once reached out and touched
hands with John Hastings, were now called to judge him. Several of them
nodded to me as I took my place.
Wait.
They brought him in. I remembered the first time I had ever seen
him, in the classroom. Eager and tall ... tall and eager. Lord, what
changed him? Something had taken the straightness from his shoulders,
the sureness from his stride. There were furrows on his face where the
tears had already been.
He stood silently in the box where they had put him. A box just big
enough for his bulky body, and maybe a little of the misery he carried
with him.
A voice spoke.
"This, John Hastings, is your trial. You stand before this Court of
Truth-Probity, accused of registering the emotion of hate. A hatred
so violent, that had we permitted you to carry out your anticipated
actions, it would have resulted in the murder of one Mary Hastings,
your wife. Do you understand the charge?"
"I do." He didn't know what to do with his hands.
"How do you plead?"
"I plead not guilty."
"On what ground?" asked the voice.
The defendant raised his head. "On the ground that I had good and
sufficient reason to justify my emotion."
"The reactographs on your wife, Mary Hastings, have been thoroughly
examined, and it has been determined that she performed no act which in
any way deviated from the norm. Had any disturbances taken place within
Mary Hastings during the week of last March ninth to sixteenth, it
would have shown up plainly in a flux on the charts. Your contention is
impossible."
The man in the box bit his lip. "Nevertheless, I contend it. My wife
gave me sufficient reason. She--she was unfaithful to me."
Only silence for a full minute.
"It is impossible."
"_But_ true!" Hastings shouted.
The multitude leaned forward, a misted inquiry rustling its skirts.
"Very well," the voice almost sighed. "Will you submit, Captain
Hastings, to the use of the concentric screen? We wish to know more of
the circumstances surrounding several pertinent dates."