Samuels filled the breach smoothly. “If the Court pleases; Mr. Lefko has made some startling statements. Startling, but certainly sincere, and certainly either provable or disprovable. And proof it shall be!”
He strode to the door of the conference room that had been allotted us. As the hundreds of eyes followed him it was easy for me to slip down from the witness stand and wait, ready. From the conference room Samuels rolled the machine, and Mike rose. The whispers that curdled the air seemed disappointed, unimpressed. Right in front of the bench he trundled it.
He moved unobtrusively to one side as the television men trained their long-snouted cameras. “Mr. Laviada and Mr. Lefko will show you…. I trust there will be no objection from the prosecution?” He was daring them.
One of the prosecution was already on his feet. He opened his mouth hesitantly, but thought better, and sat down. Heads went together in conference as he did. Samuels was watching the Court with one eye and the courtroom with the other.
“If the Court pleases, we will need a cleared space. If the bailiff will… thank you, sir.” The long tables were moved back, with a raw scraping. He stood there, with every eye in the courtroom glued on him. For two long breaths he stood there, then he spun and went to his table. “Mr. Lefko,” and be bowed formally. He sat.
The eyes swung to me, to Mike, as he moved to his machine and stood there silently. I cleared my throat and spoke to the Court as though I did not see the directional microphones trained at my lips.
“Judge Bronson.”
He looked steadily at me and then glanced at Mike. “Yes. Mr. Lefko?”
“Your freedom from bias is well known.” The corners of his mouth went down as he frowned. “Are you willing to be used as proof that there can be no trickery?” He thought that over, then nodded slowly. The prosecution objected but were waved down. “Will you tell me exactly where you were at any given time? Any place where you are absolutely certain and can verify that there were no concealed cameras or observers?”
He thought. Seconds. Minutes. The tension twanged, and I swallowed dust. He spoke quietly. “1918. November 11th.”
Mike whispered to me. I said, “Any particular time?”
Judge Bronson looked at Mike. “Exactly eleven. Armistice time.” He paused, then went on. “Niagara Falls. Niagara Falls, New York.”
I heard the dials tick in the stillness, and Mike whispered again. I said, “The lights should be off.” The bailiff rose. “Will you please watch the left wall, or in that direction? I think that if Judge Kassel will turn a little… we are ready.”
Bronson looked at me, and at the left wall. “Ready.”
The lights flicked out overhead and I heard the television crews mutter. I touched Mike on the shoulder. “Show them, Mike!”
We’re all showmen at heart, and Mike is no exception. Suddenly out of nowhere and into the depths poured a frozen torrent. Niagara Falls. I’ve mentioned. I think, that I’ve never got over a fear of heights. Few people ever do. I heard long, shuddery gasps as we started straight down. Down, until we stopped at the brink of the silent cataract, weird in its frozen majesty. Mike had stopped time at exactly eleven, I knew. He shifted to the American bank. Slowly he moved along. There a few tourists stood in almost comic attitudes. There was snow on the ground, flakes in the air. Time stood still, and hearts slowed in sympathy.
Bronson snapped, “Stop!”
A couple, young. Long skirts, high-buttoned army collar, dragging army overcoat, facing, arms about each other. Mike’s sleeve rustled in the darkness and they moved. She was sobbing and the soldier was smiling. She turned away her head, and he turned it back. Another couple seized them gayly, and they twirled breathlessly.
Branson’s voice was harsh. “That’s enough!” The view blurred for seconds.
Washington. The White House. The President. Someone coughed like a small explosion. The President was watching a television screen. Suddenly he jerked erect, startled. Mike spoke for the first time in court.
“That is the President of the United States. He is watching the trial that is being broadcast and televised from this courtroom. He is listening to what I am saying right now, and he is watching, on his television screen, as I use my machine to show him what he was doing one second ago.”
The President heard those fateful words. Stiffly he threw an unconscious glance around his room at nothing and looked back at his screen in time to see himself do what he had just done, one second ago. Slowly, as if against his will, his hand started toward the switch of his set.
“Mr. President, don’t turn off that set.” Mike’s voice was curt, almost rude. “You must hear this, you, of all people in the world. You must understand!
“This is not what we wanted to do, but we have no recourse left but to appeal to you, and to the people of this twisted world.” The President might have been cast in iron. “You must see, you must understand that you have in your hands the power to make it impossible for greed-born war to be bred in secrecy and rob man of his youth or his old age or whatever he prizes.” His voice softened, pleaded. “That is all we have to say. That is all we want. This is all anyone could want, ever.” The President, unmoving, faded into blackness. “The lights, please.” And almost immediately the Court adjourned.
That was over a month ago.
Mike’s machine has been taken from us, and we are under military guard. Probably it’s just as well we’re guarded. We understand there have been lynching parties broken up as near as a block or two away. Last week we watched a white-haired fanatic scream about us, on the street below. We couldn’t catch what he was shrieking, but we did catch a few air-borne epithets.
“Devils! Anti-Christs! Violation of the Bible!” Violations of this and that. Some, right here in the city, I suppose, would be glad to build a bonfire to cook us right back to the flames from which we’ve sprung. I wonder what the various groups are going to do now that the truth can be seen. Who can read lips in Aramaic, or Latin, or Coptic? And is a mechanical miracle a miracle?
This changes everything. We’ve been moved. Where, I don’t know, except that the weather is warm, and we’re on some military reservation, judging from the lack of civilians. Now we know what we’re up against. What started out to be just a time-killing occupation, Joe, has turned out to be a necessary preface to what I’m going to ask you to do. Finish this, and then move fast! We won’t be able to get this to you for a while yet, so I’ll go on for a bit the way I started, to kill time. Like our clippings:
Tabloid: “…Such a weapon cannot, must not be loosed in unscrupulous hands. The last professional production of the infamous pair proves what distortions can be wrested from isolated and misunderstood events. In the hands of perpetrators of heretical isms, no property, no business deal, no personal life could be sacrosanct, no foreign policy could be…”
Times: “…colonies stand with us firmly… liquidation of the Empire… white man’s burden…”
Le Matin: “…rightful place… restore proud France…”
Pravda: “…democratic imperialist plot… our glorious scientists ready to announce…”
Nichi-Nichi: “…incontrovertibly prove divine descent…”
La Prensa: “…oil concessions… dollar diplomacy…”