I said sharply, "Are your decisions made unanimously?" I thought I saw a loophole-I never had much luck mixing up Dad and Mother but there had been times as a kid when I had managed to confuse issues by getting one to answer one way and the other to answer another.
The voice added evenly, "Decisions are always unanimous. It may help you to think of me as one person." It addressed everyone: "Standard sampling has been followed. The contemporary sample is the double one; the intermediate sample for curve check is the clothed single sample and was taken by standard random at a spacing of approximately one half-death of Radium-226-" The voice supplemented: "-call it sixteen hundred of your years. The remote curve-check sample, by standard procedure, was taken at two dozen times that distance."
The voice asked itself: "Why is curve-check spacing so short? Why not at least a dozen times that?"
"Because this organism's generations are very short. It mutates rapidly."
The explanation appeared to satisfy for it went on, "The youngest sample will witness first."
I thought he meant Peewee and so did she; she cringed. But the voice barked and the cave man jerked. He did not answer; he simply crouched more deeply into himself.
The voice barked again.
It then said to itself, "I observe something."
"Speak."
"This creature is not ancestor to those others."
The voice of the machine almost seemed to betray emotion, as if my dour grocer had found salt in his sugar bin. "The sample was properly taken."
"Nevertheless," it answered, "it is not a correct sample. You must review all pertinent data."
For a long five seconds was silence. Then the voice spoke: "This poor creature is not ancestor to these others; he is cousin only. He has no future of his own. Let him be returned at once to the space-time whence he came."
The Neanderthal was dragged rapidly away. I watched him out of sight with a feeling of loss. I had been afraid of him at first. Then I had despised him and was ashamed of him. He was a coward, be was filthy, he stank. A dog was more civilized. But in the past five minutes I had decided that I had better love him, see his good points-for, unsavory as he was, he was human. Maybe he wasn't my remote grandfather, but I was in no mood to disown even my sorriest relation.
The voice argued with itself, deciding whether the trial could proceed. Finally it stated: "Examination will continue. If enough facts are not developed, another remote sample of correct lineage will be summoned. Iunio."
The Roman raised his javelin higher. "Who calls Iunio?"
"Stand forth and bear witness."
Just as I feared, lunio told the voice where to go and what to do. There was no protecting Peewee from his language; it echoed back in English-not that it mattered now whether Peewee was protected from "unladylike" influences.
The flat voice went on imperturbably: "Is this your voice? Is this your witnessing?" Immediately another voice started up which I recognized as that of the Roman, answering questions, giving accounts of battle, speaking of treatment of prisoners. This we got only in English but the translation held the arrogant timbre of Iunio's voice.
Iunio shouted "Witchcraft!" and made horns at them.
The recording cut off. "The voice matches," the machine said dryly. "The recording will be integrated."
But it continued to peck at lunio, asking him details about who he was, why he was in Britain, what he had done there, and why it was necessary to serve Caesar. lunio gave short answers, then blew his top and gave none. He let out a rebel yell that bounced around that mammoth room, drew back and let fly his javelin.
It fell short. But I think he broke the Olympic record.
I found myself cheering.
Iunio drew his sword while the javelin was still rising. He flung it up in a gladiatorial challenge, shouting, "Hail, Caesar!" and dropped into guard.
He reviled them. He told them what he thought of vermin who were not citizens, not even barbarians!
I said to myself, "Oh, oh! There goes the game. Human race, you've had it."
Iunio went on and on, calling on his gods to help him, each way worse than the last, threatening them with Caesar's vengeance in gruesome detail. I hoped that, even though it was translated, Peewee would not understand much of it. But she probably did; she understood entirely too much.
I began to grow proud of him. That wormface, in diatribe, was evil; Iunio was not. Under bad grammar, worse language, and rough manner, that tough old sergeant had courage, human dignity, and a basic gallantry. He might be an old scoundrel-but he was my kind of scoundrel.
He finished by demanding that they come at him, one at a time-or let them form a turtle and he would take them all on at once. "I'll make a funeral pyre of you! I'll temper my blade in your guts! I, who am about to die, will show you a Roman's grave-piled high with Caesar's enemies!"
He had to catch his breath. I cheered again and Peewee joined in. He looked over his shoulder and grinned. "Slit their throats as I bring them down, boy! There's work to do!"
The cold voice said: "Let him now be returned to the space-time whence he came."
Iunio looked startled as invisible hands pulled him along. He called on Mars and Jove and laid about him. The sword clattered to the floor-picked itself up and returned itself to his scabbard. lunio was moving rapidly away; I cupped my hands and yelled, "Good-bye, lunio!"
"Farewell, boy! They're cowards!" He shook himself. "Nothing but filthy witchcraft!" Then he was gone.
"Clifford Russell-"
"Huh? I'm here." Peewee squeezed my hand.
"Is this your voice?"
I said, "Wait a minute-"
"Yes? Speak."
I took a breath. Peewee pushed closer and whispered, "Make it good, Kip. They mean it."
"I'll try, kid," I whispered, then went on, "What is this? I was told you intend to judge the human race."
"That is correct."
"But you can't. You haven't enough to go on. No better than witchcraft, just as lunio said. You brought in a cave man-then decided he was a mistake. That isn't your only mistake. You had lunio here. Whatever he was-and I'm not ashamed of him; I'm proud of him-he's got nothing to do with now. He's been dead two thousand years, pretty near-if you've sent him back, I mean-and all that he was is dead with him. Good or bad, he's not what the human race is now."
"I know that. You two are the test sample of your race now."
"Yes-but you can't judge from us. Peewee and I are about as far from average as any specimens can be. We don't claim to be angels, either one of us. If you condemn our race on what we have done, you do a great injustice. Judge us-or judge me, at least-"
"Me, too!"
"-on whatever I've done. But don't hold my people responsible. That's not scientific. That's not valid mathematics."
"It is valid."
"It is not. Human beings aren't molecules; they're all different." I decided not to argue about jurisdiction; the wormfaces had ruined that approach.
"Agreed, human beings are not molecules. But they are not individuals, either."
"Yes, they are!"
"They are not independent individuals; they are parts of a single organism. Each cell in your body contains your whole pattern. From three samples of the organism you call the human race I can predict the future potentialities and limits of that race."
"We have no limits! There's no telling what our future will be."