‘Ask me what job I have now,’ said Theophilus.
‘What job—’
‘History rehabilitation. Long hours, low pay, bad smells. ‘Again he reached into his hat, this time coming up with a stack of computer software disks. ‘Now this program here,’ he said, ‘this is Marcus Aurelius. And this one will go into Mahatma Gandhi’s brain. At one time, all of history heartily approved of what this tribunal is trying to do. But then, after George saved my life—’
‘Saved your life?’ said Bonenfant, pouncing on the testimonial. ‘How did he come to save your life?’
‘I’m asking the questions around here! Ask me how George came to save my life.’
‘How did George—’
‘Somebody was going to shoot me. Ask me who.’
‘Who?’
‘Don’t ask! It would not help Tarmac’s case one bit.’
‘I wasn’t really going to shoot him,’ Brat explained to his codefendants. ‘I just wanted to scare him into giving me his shop.’
‘It flies – is that what he said?’ asked Randstable.
‘Twenty-first century know-how,’ said Brat.
‘Love to see the schematics,’ said Randstable.
Theophilus took more software from his hat. ‘After George saved my life, I realized that the framers of the McMurdo Sound Agreement had been overstepping their authority. He’s a fine fellow, old George is. You should see the witnesses I’ve got lined up.’ The Hatter waved a disk around. ‘Look! Socrates will testify in his defense! And Saint Francis of Assisi! Joan of Arc! Jesus Christ Himself is prepared to take the stand on George’s behalf… Yes, the same Jesus Christ who said, “But whosoever shall nuke thy capital city, turn to him thy best seaport also.”’
George noticed that Reverend Sparrow’s face was rapidly shifting toward the purple end of the spectrum.
Aquinas rose and said, ‘I move that all of this witness’s babblings be stricken.’
‘Mr Carter has stated that my client was entrapped,’ said Bonenfant. ‘That is vital testimony.’
While the president of the court deliberated, Theophilus refilled his hat with software and sales contracts.
‘The testimony will stand,’ said Justice Jefferson. ‘However, we do not wish to hear any more of it. The prosecution may cross-examine.’
‘We decline to cross-examine,’ said Aquinas.
‘Oh? Why?’
‘Because life is short, your Honor.’
As when a fever seizes the brain and makes things grotesquely smaller, larger, fatter, or thinner, so did the perspectives afforded by the stand disorient George. The audience, a tame and predictable creature when viewed from within the booth, now looked ferocious. The judges had acquired a terrifying hostility. The court usher was stark and unforgiving.
‘What did you do for a living?’ Bonenfant asked.
‘I inscribed tombstones,’ George answered. ‘And sold them.’
‘Did this work have anything to do with national defense?’
‘No.’ So far, so good, he thought.
Bonenfant retrieved Document 919 from a nearby evidence pile. ‘The prosecution’s entire case against you seems to rest on this sales contract. Is that your signature at the bottom?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Did Theophilus Carter insist that you read these statements carefully before signing?’
‘No.’
‘Did you read them carefully?’
‘Not really.’
‘According to the contract, you believed that scopas suits were encouraging America’s leaders to pursue a policy of nuclear brinksmanship.’
‘I didn’t even know what “nuclear brinksmanship” was. I’m still not sure.’
‘Did you believe, as the contract says, that scopas suits were distracting people from the real issues – STABLE talks, the MARCH Plan, no-first-use?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘This document was putting words in your mouth, wasn’t it?’
Commotion at the prosecution table. ‘And Mr Bonenfant is putting words in his client’s mouth,’ Aquinas asserted.
‘Ask another question,’ said Justice Jefferson.
‘To tell you the truth, your Honors’ – Bonenfant ambled back to the defense table – ‘my client is so palpably innocent that I cannot think of a single additional question to ask him. He’s yours, Mr Aquinas.’
As the chief prosecutor charged forward, the butterflies in George’s stomach began producing larvae.
‘You have told the court that you used to sell tombstones,’ Aquinas began.
God, has he nailed me already? No, I did sell tombstones. ‘That’s right.’
‘Was it your practice to have customers sign sales contracts without reading them?’
‘No.’
‘And yet you are asking the court to believe that you signed a scopas suit contract without reading it?’
‘I did read it, sort of. It confused me.’
‘“I hearby confess to my complicity in the nuclear arms race.” That sounds like plain English to my ears.’
A vulture expert. Everything would be fine as long as a vulture expert showed up. ‘It was the other parts that confused me.’
‘Do you or do you not understand the words, “I hereby confess to my complicity in the nuclear arms race”?’
George knew that his voice was going to sound weak and defeated. ‘I understand them.’ Weak, defeated. ‘I wanted my little girl to have a scopas suit. Is that so terrible?’
The chief prosecutor placed the contract at arm’s length, as if it harbored an infectious disease. ‘Can you point to a single action on your part that would lead the tribunal to doubt your negligence?’
‘Well, not exactly. No. But if you heard Mr Carter’s testimony, then you know that just about everybody else—’
‘Just about everybody else is not on trial here.’
Aquinas took a long, deliberate stroll around the prosecution table. George twitched like a skewered moth.
‘I’m curious, Mr Paxton,’ the chief prosecutor said at last. ‘How do you feel about your co-defendants?’
‘How do I feel about them?’
‘Yes.’
‘They’re my friends.’
‘Good friends?’
‘We play poker. Reverend Sparrow once saved me from some dangerous ensigns. Dr Randstable has been showing me the basic chess openings. General Tarmac helped me find a fertility clinic.’
‘So you like them?’
‘Sure I like them. They certainly aren’t war criminals.’
‘And how do you feel about their ideas?’
‘Their what?’ George asked politely.
‘Their ideas.’
‘If I’d been the one in Washington, I probably couldn’t have done any better.’
Aquinas scowled. ‘Again I put the question to you. How do you feel about your co-defendants’ ideas?’
The high-school students were back in George’s mind, merrily kicking off the abolition regime. Plop! went the Soviet SS-90 intermediate-range missile into the glowing magma of Mount Erebus. He thought: our case is going well, my friends did an excellent job of defending themselves, and now I’m about to blow it. Still, this is a court of law. I touched a Bible and swore to give the truth. ‘I guess I’d have to say…’
His intestines writhed around each other. Overwhite will never speak to me again. Randstable won’t teach me any more openings. Sparrow will stop praying for me. Brat will hate me forever…
‘I guess I’d have to say that my friends’ ideas were pretty bad.’
‘Pretty bad?’
‘Yes. Bad. Bad ideas. Terrible, in fact.’