“In any case, Mr. Smerll,” the new groom observed mildly, “you’re really in no position to complain. Several of your allegations are based on the proposition that we are not married.”
Smerll clenched his teeth. “If the circus is over, can we return to the legitimate business of this Hearing?”
“Good idea,” said az-Zahra. She and Beckwith went back to their chairs. She called over to the Ethics Director, “We demand dismissal of questions 1, 2, and 3, all dealing with Mr. Beckwith’s alleged improper treatment of me as a minor. In view of our marriage, these questions must be considered moot.”
“Oh, all right.” He added grimly, “But be it noted, this stipulation has nothing to do with questions of illegal entry and deportation.”
“You’re quite wrong,” said Beckwith. “Since she is now married to a U.S. citizen, illegal entry is no longer grounds for deportation.”
“Marriage be damned!” cried Smerll. “She’s crazy, Beckwith, and you know it. She claims she sailed on a magic carpet from Spain a thousand years ago and landed in Virginia last year. Lunacy is still grounds for deportation.”
“Wrong again,” replied Beckwith amiably. “In view of her marriage, her mental condition is no longer the concern of the Immigration Service. We should move on, Mr. Smerll.”
“Okay, let it go for now. But how about Question 6, jewel smuggling?” He leered over the table toward az-Zahra. “Do you want to tell us how you got those things into the country?”
“I’ll take that one,” said Beckwith. “She has explained how they were sewn into the fabric of her traveling rug. She did not register them at a port of entry because she did not know there was even a country called the United States, or for that matter, a continent named North America. In 1236 such things were not known in Spain. Furthermore, the jewels are her personal property, in her lawful possession when she entered the country, and they all qualify as duty-free antiques under the two-hundred year rule. As I’m sure you’re aware, if the artifact is at least two hundred years old, it’s presumptively an antique, and duty-free. Not one was smuggled. Try something else, Mr. Smerll.”
Smerll hesitated a moment, then laughed in harsh short bursts. “We always come back to that flight from Spain in 1236, don’t we? The jewels weren’t smuggled because they date back to 1236. The lady didn’t enter illegally because the United States didn’t exist when she left Spain. Well, if we believe that, we should be able to believe in flying carpets and movement in time. I for one am not so gullible.” He picked up a document from the table in front of him. “This is a patent application, filed by Mrs. Beckwith in collusion with you, Mr. Beckwith. It describes a flying carpet, and firmly asserts, under penalty of perjury, that this carpet can carry a person backward or forward in time, and over great distances. A more flagrant example of fraud on the Patent Office is difficult to imagine.” He smiled down at the newlyweds. “This is a crime, and it requires punishment.”
Beckwith now stood up. He laid his hands on the canvas bag. “Mr. Smerll, since there seems to be considerable doubt as to the working of the rug, I should mention that we brought a sample. We can demonstrate operability right here.”
“No sir, no indeed,” said Smerll coldly. “You can fool the Patent Office, Beckwith, but you can’t fool me.”
“Of course not, Mr. Smerll,” said az-Zahra. “We would never even try.” She unzipped the bag and took the rug out. “This is the invention. It is a standard size Muslim prayer rug. It differs from an ordinary prayer rug only in that certain metal filaments and gemstones are woven into the fabric in a special pattern.” She lifted the rug with both hands, carried it around to the head of the table, and spread it out on the floor near Smerll’s chair. “Excellency, every one of your remaining queries turns on a question of fact: does the rug work? So let us make a deal. I will prepare the rug, and you will stand on it. I think you will disappear. If you disappear, all remaining questions are answered. If you do not disappear, Mr. Beckwith will resign from the bar forthwith, I will forfeit all my jewels to the Customs Service, and I will return to Spain.”
She waited. The only sound in the room was Smerll’s noisy breathing. His eyes darted, to her, to the rug, to Beckwith. And back to the rug.
Beckwith watched him. He knew what the man was thinking: She’s bluffing… trying to get me to back off.
Finally Smerll nodded.
“Just a moment,” said az-Zahra. “I have to turn with it seven times. And would you hold this, please, while I make the turnings.” She handed Smerll a wooden stick wrapped in multicolored fabric. He looked at it dubiously. “A flag?”
Beckwith’s lips formed the same words. Then he whispered, “Wha—?” He started to rise, but she looked at him, and he sat down again, mesmerized.
She picked the rug up, wrapped it around her body, turned seven times, then laid it on the floor once more. “Now, your eminence, it is ready. You may stand on it, if you like. Hold the flag up, please. That’s fine.”
Beckwith noted that the two great rubies were blinking up at them from the fabric. Could he really let Smerll do this? He leaped to his feet. “Irwin! No?”
But it was too late.
Smerll stepped on the rug. And faded. And vanished.
For a long moment Beckwith stared at the empty rug. Then back at az-Zahra. She lifted her eyebrows slightly. “He was determined to do it,” she said. She didn’t sound at all defensive.
Homicide? suicide? Beckwith wondered. He groaned softly. “Where?” he whispered.
“Call it,” she replied cheerfully, “a glorious journey. Is the hearing over?”
“I guess. But—”
She took a step closer. “In your culture, aren’t you supposed to kiss the bride?”
He did. A good long one. “But—Smerll? What—?”
She interrupted him. “Hadn’t you better be getting back to the office? And I have to get home and start organizing our wedding reception.”
“Yeah.” He was totally bemused. “Yeah.” (Smerll? Where are you!)
14. A Historic Moment
They retraced their steps toward the reception room and the elevators without incident. The cluster around the holo set had tripled during the hour. Beckwith started to pull her around toward the exit.
“Wait,” she whispered. “Listen!”
The voice came over the heads of the little audience: “Cass Jones, International News. What we see here is a file shot of the northern lip of Gorbachev Crater. That little area here—indicated by an ‘X’ on your holo screen, an area we call ‘Flag Corners’—is where the Gagarin shuttle will land. One moment, please, Captain Petrov is coming on. We hear the captain’s voice from the Gagarin landing shuttle. He’s obviously delighted. He has just given the order for retrofire. Going down, now. We sense the physical descent of the little craft. Ah! He’s down. The captain is speaking again. We translate. ‘Russia has landed. A historic moment for Russia and for the world. Our flag is ready and waiting. While I suit up, we will run the nose visi up a few meters and make a panoramic sweep of the flag area.’
“And so, ladies and gentlemen, while the good captain suits up, we’ll take a moment to check on the other ships in the race. We note that the John F. Kennedy is coming up fast, but it is at least ten hours out from Ganymede.” (And there, thought the lawyer, goes the Space Agency account and D. Beckwith, P.C.) “Farther back,” continued the voice, “number three in this great contest is the German ship, Deutschland, followed by the Spanish Toreador, and the French Napoleon.”