When Moses Eppendorff awoke he saw images moving across a viewscreen. He was in a small cell. He gazed absently at the viewscreen for several minutes before he noticed the food—the table in his cell was piled high with generous portions of a seven-course dinner. A chill went down his spine as he realized that the images on the screen were Moon, Dan and himself. The court computer was simulating his crimes.
He jumped up and searched for gas jets. Nothing. The walls were semipermeable membranes—the toxic ions and radicals would enter through microscopic pores. The walls would sweat their poisons.
He slumped into his chair and stared at the large unappetizing meal. The viewscreen moved on to views of mountains, canals and fields covered with Agrifoam. He noticed little errors of detail—and some errors that were more than details. Toothpick’s importance was obviously missed. In some scenes Moon or Moses carried a staff—in others, a spear. Often, they carried nothing. The confrontation with the hunters in the orchard was badly messed up. Only the results were accurate—beheaded hunters around the craft. Other hunter bodies scattered among the trees. Old Moon and Dan had their wounds recorded, probably by the Huntercraft—and were left for dead.
The cyberjurist continued with Moses’ lonely trek to Dundas. Maps showed his straight route—obvious premeditation. Most of the optic records must have been taken at great distances. Old Moon and his dog always had white teeth. In many areas the information was very spotty—months were sometimes covered by moving an impersonal dot across a map.
The final scenes taken in the tidal caves were quite sketchy. Evidently Toothpick had been successful in blocking most of the sensor readings. Data seemed to have been gleaned from such dull-witted sources as boat-displacement readings and calories missing from dispensers. The role of the female Attendant was left open—victim or accomplice—there was no accusation, yet. However, with Toothpick’s abilities missing from the record, the Attendant had some explaining to do. Court had found nothing in Moses’ background as a Pipe that would equip him to do alone what had been done.
He relaxed a little. Even his own biased eye could see many defects in the case against him. Where was his defense? Court ended its simulation with the death statistics—a quarter of a million had died. A similar number had survived and were now safely resuspended. But an additional quarter of a million were still in doubt. Hundreds of Resuscitators and white teams of Mediteck/mecks were on the scene. The final count would be days in coming in. Big ES was pushing for a public execution for this crime—preferably a multiple execution. Everyone who had ever known Moses Eppendorff was under suspicion.
Simple Willie sat fondling his cube. Scars had further distorted his left eyelid, giving him an asymmetrical gaze like an 18-trisomy. Five security agents had crowded into his quarters to make the arrest. Now they stood nervously along the wall watching the ramblings of an obviously demented citizen. The agent with the Tee scanner watched the indicator wander about randomly. Willie had no concept of the truth. They were about to leave when the interrogator stimulated Willie with a question about Moses. The Tee scale stabilized. The asymmetrical eyes focused.
“Moses?” mumbled Willie. His memory macromolecules stirred. A tear welled up in his left eye and clung to a lash. “I knew him. We used to talk a lot. He was my friend. Henry lives there now. Henry isn’t nobody’s friend.”
“Reading in the Tee zone,” said the agent with the scanner. “Some psychogenic overlay and confusion, but solidly in the Tee zone. Willie! Did Moses ever discuss the Outside with you?”
Willie froze. Little warning reflexes were activated deep in his basal ganglia—thoracolumbar autonomies flared.
“And you didn’t report the conversations to the Watcher?” continued the agent.
Willie’s shoulders slumped. He had run afoul the Big ES again.
“Bring him along.”
The Dundas Harbor Attendant sat stiffly in her cell, heaping curses on Moses and denying vehemently that she helped him. Josephson, agent of the court, enjoyed watching her squirm under the repeated grilling. Fear kept her in her seat. She knew the scanners were on her. Any question might be her last if her answer—or nonanswer—satisfied Court’s criteria for guilt. Her biolectricals filtered through the cyberjurist’s Psychokinetoscope as Josephson asked his questions.
“Did you assist the Assassin of Dundas?”
“No.”
“Did you offer to help?”
She hesitated… remembering her offer to finger one political victim if they spared the rest of the patients. She tried to explain. Her biolectricals were inconsistent. Josephson leered at her skin resistance tracing.
“Did Moses ever touch you?”
“Only to hurt me,” she spat.
Skin resistance dropped, but the needle stayed in the Tee zone. Josephson and Court were puzzled by the readings.
Moses sat nervously in his cell. Hours had passed since the Mediteck had taken the blood sample. Josephson knocked.
“May I come in, Moses? I’ve been appointed your defense Attendant—if you want one. Court has the crime simulated to a probability factor of .6—high enough to execute on physical evidence alone. However, a .6 leaves room for acquittal on several grounds. Do you want to talk?”
Moses eyed the heavy door. His muscles bunched. Adrenalin flow registered on sensors in the cell.
“Now, now. Relax,” cautioned Josephson. “Your brain stem status is being closely monitored by Court. Your only chance is the legal one—through me.”
Moses tried to relax.
“Come in,” he grumbled.
A door closed behind Josephson before the cell door opened. Moses saw no guards. Court apparently controlled the cyberjail. Moses stepped back in an obvious gesture of retreat.
“No need to be formally submissive,” said Josephson. “I’m not afraid of you. I’m sure you are innocent. We can sit down right here in front of the viewscreen and give your defense together. All we want—Court and I—is the truth. And the truth will set you free.”
Josephson pushed some of the dishes aside and put several standard forms on the table. Court focused a ceiling optic on him. Moses sat down dumbly on the cot. Josephson took the chair.
“As a mass murderer your obvious defense is the Mass Murder Syndrome—a recognized psychosis resulting from crowding. Now, you were a citizen. Less than four years ago you lived in a standard shaft city—50,000 population. Right?”
Moses nodded.
“You were sent on a Climb by this man?”
J. D. Birk’s square face appeared on the screen. It was a live communication, not a record. Birk smiled sheepishly at Moses.
“I thought you were dead,” muttered Birk.
“Why did you send Moses Outside?” asked Court.
Birk began to whine his answer.
“He was showing early signs of category nine deviation—tactless achievement, anti-ES pride, self-seeking enthusiasm—”
Court reviewed its own memories on Moses’ work record.
“He even tried to claim the Amorphus truffle, tried to attach his own name to it, even though it was discovered on routine patrol,” added Birk.
“Moses’ Melon—” said Court. “Certainly self-seeking. No evidence that he shares the collective soul.”
Moses glared at the exchange between his boss and the cyberjurist… adding his own biolectricals to confirm the truth of the statements.
Josephson watched playbacks of the first Moses’ Melon being unloaded from the Sewer Service sub. He smiled. Truth was what he was after.
“That is a big help,” said Josephson. “It establishes that your trip Outside was related to category nine—a common category among our over-achievers. Certainly nothing to hint of the subsequent Dundas affair.”