[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 perse, itself had ceased to exist. The lower emotions had already beenbred out of the people. Envy, hate, avarice and kindred responses werevirtually non-existent. Every citizen had a crude type of emotiographattached to his person, which was examined periodically by the Eye. Ifany deviation from the norm was observed, the accused was called up forquestioning.
"In the absence of actual crime, any emotion which might haveprecipitated crime was considered unlawful, and men were tried fortoo much anger, or too little pity. The only purpose of a trial wasto ascertain whether sufficient provocation could be established towarrant a given reaction. If the cause, or the incident, justified theemotional response, the defendant was exculpated.
"Trial procedure was extremely simple. The use of the witness wasobsolete. Above the defendant's box was a concentric screen upon whichhis thoughts could be projected. The Questioner would channel thethoughts of the accused into whatever date periods were pertinent, andin 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 thesky. 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. Youwill 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 theblistering dome over the city, up through the shafts of the grittySubstructure. They came and stood in lines, wiping the August sweatfrom their eyes, littering the levels with orange peels as they ate.Women, with babies strapped to their shoulders, and suppers leftunradiated on the cooker. Men, with lead-shielded faces, and toolslaid aside in the middle of a movement. But they came, and stood andjostled 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 wordscould come easy and undammed, for it was John Hastings who was ontrial. They could look at him all they wanted to, and talk.
And then, suddenly, they could look at me too. Because I was called asthe thirteenth juror on the John Hastings trial.
I walked into it after a night that held no sleep. And looked atit. The yawning amphitheatre where humanity poured. And saw it. Thethirteen chairs raised high in the center. And heard it. The crowd'ssusurrus gentling under insistent reminders from a bodiless Questioner.
I glanced at the faces in the other twelve boxes, recognizing someof them. Angus Vortler, the psychosurgeon. William Bax, head ofIntergalactic, a bleak, wintery man who doodled constantly. Dollarsigns, probably. Fred Kitson, of the horny palms, chief mechanic on theDarkness. All men who, because they had once reached out and touchedhands with John