"HEY, CHANDLER," said Lan-y Grantz, the jailer, "I can get fifty to one for a conviction. What d'you think?" "Go to hell," said Chandler. "Come on. Let me in on it. You got any surprises for the judge?" Chandler didn't answer. He didn't even look at the jailer. A man who was on his way to hell didn't have to worry about what people thought of him. "Now, look," said the jailer, "you could maybe use a friend or two before long. What do you say? Listen, I can get five for one if you're going to plead guilty. Are you?" "Why should I? I'm innocent." "Oh, yeah, all right, but if you plead guilty and throw yourself on the mercy of the court No? The hell with you, then." The jailer stood in the doorway, picking his nose and looking at Chandler with dislike. That was all right. Chandler was getting used to it. It was hard to believe that this was the late 20th century. . . the third decade of the Atomic Age, the era of spaceffight. Of course, there hadn't been much of that lately. Chandler wondered what the Mars expedition must be thinking these days, waiting for the relief-and-rotation ship that must be a year or two overdue by now. Assum- ing they were still alive, of course. . . . "You're gonna go in there in a minute. Chandler," said Grantz, "and then it's too late. Why don't you be a sport and let me know what's up?" Chandler said, "I've got nothing to tell you. I'm inno- cent." "You gonna plead that way?" pressed the jailer. 7 "I'm going to plead that way." "Ah, cripes, they'll shoot you sure." Chandler shook his head. Meaning: that's not up to me. Grantz stared at him irresolutely. Chandler changed position gently, since he still hurt pretty badly. He wished he had a watch, although there was no particular reason for him to worry about the time any more. Five years before, back in the old days before the demons came, when he was helping design telemetry equipment for the Ganymede probe. Chandler would not have believed his life would be at stake in a witchcraft trial. Not even that. He wasn't accused of being involved in witchcraft. He was about to go on trial for his life for the far more serious crime of not being involved in witch- craft. It was hard to believe-but believe it or not, it was happening. It was happening to him. It was happening right now. Grantz cocked an ear to a voice from outside the door, nodded, ground out his cigarette under a heel and said, "All right, fink. Just remember when they're pulling the trigger on you, you could have had a friend on the firing squad." And he opened the door and marched Chandler out. Because of the crowd that was attracted by the sensa- tional nature of the charges against him, they held Chan- dler's trial in the all-purpose room of the high school. It smelled of leather and stale sweat. There was a mob. There must have been three or four hundred people present. They all looked at him exactly as the jailer had. Chandler walked up the three steps to the stage, with the jailer's hand on his elbow, and took his place at the defendant's table. His lawyer was there already. The lawyer, who had been appointed by the court over his vigorous protests, looked at him without emotion. He was willing to do his job, but his job didn't require him to like his client. All he said was, "Stand up. The judge is coming in." Chandler got to his feet and leaned on the table while the bailiff chanted his call and the chaplain read some verses from John. He did not listen. The Bible verses came too late to help him, and besides he ached. When the police arrested him they had not been gentle. There were four of them. They were from the plant's own security force and carried no guns. They didn't need any; Chandler had put up no resistance after the first few momentsfliat is, he stopped fighting as soon as he could stopbut the police hadn't stopped. He remembered that very clearly. He remembered the nightstick across the side of his head that left his ear squashed and puffy, he remembered the kick in the gut that still made walking painful. He even remembered the pounding on his skull that had knocked him out. The bruises along his rib cage and left arm, though, he did not remember getting. Obviously the police had been mad enough to keep right on subduing him after he was already unconscious. Chandler did not blame themexactly. He supposed he would have done the same thing. The judge was having a long mumble with the court stenographer, apparently about something which had hap- pened in the Union House the night before. Chandler knew Judge Ellithorp slightly. He did not expect to get a fair trial. The previous December the judge himself, while possessed, had smashed the transmitter of the town's radio station, which he owned, and set fire to the building it occupied. His son-in-law had been killed in the fire. Since the judge had had his own taste of hell, he would not be kind to Chandler. Laughing, the judge waved the reporter back to his seat and glanced around the courtroom. His gaze touched Chandler lightly, like the flick of the hanging strands of cord that precede a railroad tunnel. The touch carried the same warning. What lay ahead for Chandler was destruc- tion. "Read the charge," ordered Judge Ellithorp. He spoke very loudly. There were more than six hundred persons in the auditorium; the judge didn't want any of them to miss a word. The bailiff ordered Chandler to stand and informed him that he was accused of having, on the seventeenth day of June last, committed on the person of Margaret Flershem, a minor, an act of rape"Louder!" ordered the judge testily. "Yes, Your Honor," said the bailiff, and inflated his chest. "An Act of Rape under Threat of Bodily Violence," he cried; "and Did Further Commit on the Person of Said Margaret Flershem an Act of Aggravated Assault" Chandler rubbed his aching side, looking at the ceiling. He remembered the look in Peggy Flershem's eyes as he forced himself on her. She was only sixteen years old, and at that time he hadn't even known her last name. The bailiff boomed on: "and Did Further Commit on that Same Seventeenth Day of June Last on the Person of Ingovar Porter an Act of Assault with Intent to Rape, the Foregoing Being a True Bill Handed Down by the Grand Jury of Marecel County in Extraordinary Session Assembled, the Eighteenth Day of June Last." Judge Ellithorp looked satisfied as the bailiff sat down, quite winded. While the judge hunted through the papers on his desk the crowd in the auditorium stirred and murmured. A child began to cry. The judge stood up and pounded his gavel. "What is it? What's the matter with him? You, Dundon!" The court attendant the judge was looking at hurried over and spoke to the child's mother, then reported to the judge. "I dunno. Your Honor. All he says is something scared him." The judge was enraged. "Well, that's just fine! Now we have to take up the time of all these good people, proba- bly for no reason, and hold up the business of this court, just because of a child. Bailiff! I want you to clear this courtroom of all children under" he hesitated, calculat- ing voting blocks in his head"all children under the age of six. Dr. Palmer, are you there? Well, you better go ahead with theprayer." The judge could not make him- self say "the exorcism." "I'm sorry, madam," he added to the mother of the crying two-year-old. "If you have someone to leave the child with, I'll instruct the attendants to save your place for you." She was also a voter. Dr. Palmer rose, very grave, as he was embarrassed. He glared around the all-purpose room, defying anyone to smile, as he chanted: "Domina Pythonis, I command you, leave! Leave, Hel! Leave, Heloym! Leave, Sother and Thetragrammaton, leave, all unclean ones! I command you! In the name of God, in all of His manifestations!" He sat down again, still very grave. He knew that he did not make nearly as fine a showing as Father Lon, with his resonant in nomina lesu Christi et Sancti Ubaldi and his censer, but the post of exorcist was filled in strict rotation, one month to a denomination, ever since the troubles started. Dr. Palmer was a Unitarian. Exorcisms had not been in the curriculum at the seminary and he had been forced to invent his own. Chandler's lawyer tapped him on the shoulder. "Last chance to change your mind," he said. "No. I'm not guilty, and that's the way I want to plead." The lawyer shrugged and stood up, waiting for the judge to notice him. Chandler, for the first time, allowed himself to meet the eyes of the crowd. ~ He studied the jury first. He knew some of them casuallyit was not a big enough town to command a jury of total strangers for any defendant, and Chandler had lived there most of his life. He recognized Pop Mathe- son, old and very stiff, who ran the railroad station cigar stand. Two of the other men were familiar as faces passed in the street. The forewoman, though, was a stranger. Sb sat there very composed and frownmg, and all he knew about her was that she wore funny hats. Yesterday's had been red roses when she was selected from the panel; today's was, of all things, a stuffed bird. He did not think that any of them was possessed. He was not so sure of the audience. He saw girls he had dated in high school, long before he met Margot; men he worked with at the plant. They all glanced at him, but he was not sure who was looking out through some of those familiar eyes. The visitors reliably watched all large gatherings, at least momentarily; it would be surprising if none of them were here. "All right, how do you plead?" said Judge Ellithorp at last. Chandler's lawyer straighten...
margozap