by John Boyd
“We psychologists take the broad view, so we’re the executive vice-presidents in charge of conditioning. Sociologists are merely administrators. There’ll always be a need for the conditioners. When the process is completed, there’ll be no need for administrators. The sociologists shall wither away.”
Haldane was no longer sure that his favorable first impression of Glandis was correct. He didn’t like the glitter in the young man’s eyes.
“You’d be in control, Glandis, but in control of what?”
“A perfectly unified social order.”
Since they were discussing a society a thousand years hence, Haldane felt free to rebut Glandis. “Say you achieve this perfect social order wherein the sheep graze under the shepherding eyes of the psychologists. There’s only one slight error. Absolute unity means the shepherds are the sheep. There’ll be no sociologists or psychologists. As a psychologist, your function is to explore the individual, not to erect a social order.”
Haldane pounded his palm slowly as he tried to reduce his ideas to a level Glandis could understand. “If unity is the aim of your conditioning, and that aim was established by the sociologists, then you are being tricked. You will wither away into the mass, while the administrators will ever remain above your conditioning.”
He could see doubts flicker in the eyes of Glandis, and he pressed on. “Your province is the man, not all men. Your duty is to help the expansion of the individual. In a state where all perfectly conform to each other, there’s no need for the Kraft-Stanford Index or the men who created it. There is no scale unless there are differences to measure.
“Glandis, you are destroying yourself at the will of manipulators more skilled than you, the sociologists.”
Glandis had listened intently. Now, with a troubled expression, he got up and laid a hand on Haldane’s shoulder. “Forgive me for deriding your category. I did it to make you angry, because I knew you’d never speak freely to me in a juror-defendant relationship.
“You see,” he took his hand away and walked back a few paces, “I know your intelligence rating is high, and I needed your help.”
He turned back to the chair, and when he sat, this time, his hands clenched the back of the chair. “You see, our problem is the sociologists.
“Take for instance their practice of diverting men’s energies in those houses of prostitution. A brazen use of the pleasure principle, an opiate for the masses. If we could close down those houses, what wonderful aberrations of behavior would occur, what neuroses would flower!
“Think of the guilt feelings that self-stimulation alone would produce. We would have a harvest of case histories. In my five years as a practicing psychologist, Haldane, I’ve found one lousy case of skin rash diagnosable as psychosomatic. No ulcers. No alcoholics. Only suicides. Lots of them, but never any with individuality. They jump out of windows. Always, they jump!”
Glandis folded his hands across the back of the chair and lowered his head to his hands. He stared glumly at nothing, saying nothing. Haldane felt guilty.
Finally, Glandis aroused himself. “Once I interviewed an old economist, a deviationist on his way to Hell, and he cowered before the overpowering fear that the state was reaching the final synthesis of the ultimate thesis and ultimate antithesis. He was a blithering neurotic, and we had a lovely, lovely interview.”
He sighed aloud. “There aren’t any nuts anymore.”
Glandis clung to the memory of his one neurotic as the tide of his blood pressure swept back to normalcy. Then he looked at his watch.
“I’ve got to run along, Haldane, but there are a few routine questions I’m supposed to ask. You ready?”
“Ready.”
“Which baseball league do you root for in the World Series?”
“Neither.”
“Do you have a favorite team?”
“Conceivably the Orioles, or the New York Mets, or the Kansas City Braves.”
“Who do you think will win the Cal-Stanford game in December?”
“I couldn’t even guess.”
“Do you have a favorite sport?”
“Judo.”
“Would you rather read a book or go bowling with the boys?”
Haldane idly slapped his fist in his palm. “Now you have me. There are two variables, the book and the boys. It would depend on them.”
“Did you love your father more than your mother?”
“Yes.”
Glandis raised an eyebrow. “You seem definite there.”
“I didn’t know my mother. Remember?”
“Ah, yes… Well, that about wraps it up for the Department of Psychology.” He stood up and shook Haldane’s hand. “I’ve enjoyed our little bull session, Haldane. You’ve given me food for thought… By the way, I suppose your lawyer told you that your job assignment depends on the degree of clemency granted. This is off the record, because it’s none of my business, but have you thought about what you would like to do?”
“Hell, I don’t know, Glandis. I’m pretty shook up, seriously. I feel that for my own peace of mind I should do something difficult, not necessarily pleasant. Maybe I could sign on as a mech with one of the starships.”
“Brother, are you sticking your neck out!… Well, if you’re completely off your rocker, I’ll remember what you want when I make my recommendations to the court… Good luck, Haldane. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Flaxon listened intently to Haldane’s report later in the afternoon, and he was not surprised when Haldane told him of the bribe offer from Brandt.
“They work like that,” he said. “There’s a lot of rivalry between the departments.
“He offered you a business proposition. He didn’t threaten you if you didn’t take it. Probably you had a chance to get off the hook, but if you didn’t care to take it, that was your decision.
“He could have been testing you to see if you’d sell out your own department. If that’s true, your answer was the right one, because loyalty to your department is evidence that your conditioning is bona fide.
“Glandis worries me most. Psychologists are alert to criminal tendencies, and the fact that you established rapport with him means nothing. If he acted hostile, you’d stand mute, and he’d never be able to evaluate your personality. Maybe you talked too much when you mentioned the Hell ships. I don’t know.
“Anyway, it’s over. If you handled them, I can handle the judge.
“Try to get a good night’s rest,” Flaxon finished. “I’ll see you in the morning at court. I’m working up a humdinger of an opening plea for clemency. If you want to, you can testify in your own defense, but only to rebut points made by the prosecutor. Meanwhile, try to minimize your natural anxiety. You won’t be able to do it completely, but I’ve got a good feeling about this hearing.”
Strangely, Haldane did sleep well, long into the early hours of morning, until he was awakened by a memory that floated up from his subconsciousness.
He remembered the name of Gurlick. It had not been listed on a catalogue at the University of California. It had been in the bibliography of a book he had read on Fairweather Mechanics. He was credited with being one of the fifteen men on earth who possessed a full understanding of the Simultaneity Theorem.
The man he had patronized as a senile old pedagogue was a mathematical genius.
Chapter Nine
It was misting rain when the car taking Haldane to the courtroom wheeled into the traffic pattern circling Civic Square. He saw loiterers huddling like wet chickens on the benches, and he envied all people who had sense enough not to come in from the rain.
From Civic Square the courthouse presented an airy, soaring façade, with its attenuated Doric columns of pink plastimarble. From the alley into which the car was shunted, it resembled a mausoleum with a single narrow slot in the center, the prisoners’ entrance.
Flaxon, waiting in the anteroom, fell in beside his client. “In preparing my speech for clemency, I took a leaf from your book and dug int
o the literature of the primitives. I’ve got the defense of Leopold and Loeb interlarded with the trial of Warren Hastings and shored up by Lincoln’s Johannesburg Address. If you’ve got the jury, I’ve got the judge.”
Flaxon’s enthusiasm was not shared by Haldane, who was still troubled by his delayed recognition of Gurlick. Images could be projected two ways, and if Gurlick was not the bumbling, forgetful person he portrayed, then he was a much more accomplished actor than Haldane.
In the courtroom, most of the spectators wore communicator designations. Henrick was there, and he stuck out a bony hand as Haldane walked down the aisle to wish Haldane luck.
“Friend of yours?”
“Not exactly. More of a wellwisher. He’s on the Observer.”
“It printed three articles, all favorable. Sob-brother stuff.”
“He’s trying to soften my fall.”
The courtroom sloped to a level area before the bench, above which was carved in the wood panels the slogan, “God Is Justice.” From the walls, right and left, projected the slender tubes of television cameras which were used in trials of public interest.
As they entered the courtroom, Haldane’s escort, two deputies, dropped behind, and Flaxon steered him to counsel’s table before the bench. “The prosecutor,” Flaxon said, “is that man at the table to the left who resembles a buzzard. He’s Franz III. He might try to blister you a little to offset the Observer stories, but it’s a cut-and-dried case as far as he’s concerned.”
“He’ll present the evidence: Malcolm’s deposition, the tape recording, the medical report, and, probably last for dramatic effect, the damaged microphone.
“I’ll enter a plea of guilty to throw the trial into a clemency hearing. Then I’ll make my plea, and you can sit back and listen.
“Jurors don’t testify in crimes against humanity. They submit their reports to the prosecution and the judge. The prosecutor can rebut my plea or stand mute. If he rebuts, then you have the privilege of rebutting him, vive voce, through me, or in writing. Written rebuttals aren’t generally used except in cases involving technical decisions, because their length might adversely influence the judge.
“Malak is judge,” Flaxon was saying, “and he’s apt to doze. If I can keep him awake, half our battle’s won,” when Haldane noticed the thin-necked Franz get up and sidle toward them.
Grinning, he walked up to Flaxon. “Counselor, try to keep your clemency plea to less than three minutes. I’ve got an important meeting I want to attend this afternoon.”
“Don’t worry, prosecutor,” Flaxon assured him. “I’ll see that you don’t miss the first race.”
As the two attorneys engaged in a learned debate over a horse in the third race at Bay Meadows, Brandt entered the jury box. Gurlick was already present, dozing in a corner seat, with Father Kelly beside him. Only Glandis was absent.
As Franz returned to his table, Haldane said, half-peeved, “You lawyers don’t seem to take court very seriously.”
“Why should we?” Flaxon grinned. “It’s not our tails being hung out to dry.” Then, noticing the nettled look on his client’s face, he added, “Don’t worry. We appreciate the gravity. But there’s a certain amount of give-and-take in courtroom procedure, and we’re begging for a little give right now.
“Ah, here’s a wrinkle.” Concern broke into Flaxon’s voice as Glandis emerged from a door behind the bench, nodding to his fellow jurors.
“What’s wrong.”
“Psych’s been in the judge’s chambers. I hope he went in to wake him up.”
“Is that bad?”
“Not necessarily, but it’s unusual. He could have gone in to get a clarification on a point of law.”
“That’s understandable,” Haldane said. “This is the first time he’s ever had jury duty.”
“Did he tell you that?”
“Yes.”
“He was lying,” Flaxon said bluntly. “He’s especially assigned to jury duty because he’s a specialist on the criminal mentality.”
Feeling a cold apprehension, Haldane turned to his lawyer. “Point of honor, department members never lie.”
“All truth is relative. A lie told to advance the cause of the state is the truth in the eyes of the state.”
“Do they teach you that in law school?”
“Not in those words, but we learn fast. You and I used a similar ploy on the jury.”
True, Haldane thought, but there had been integrity in the image he and the lawyer had created. They had highlighted areas of truth and diminished other areas but nowhere had they perverted the facts. Glandis had bed outright, and Gurlick had lied obliquely.
His train of thought was broken by the entrance of the bailiff, wearing the shoulder patch of a court officer. He entered from the judge’s chambers, picked up a gavel, and rapped three times on the bench.
The audience arose.
“Hear ye, hear ye, hear ye, the court will come to order. Ye are here gathered in the fifteenth district court, prefecture of California, Union of North America, World State, to hear pleadings in the case of Haldane IV, M-5, 138270, 3/10/46, versus the people of the Planet Earth. It is charged that he did willfully and without sanction commit miscegenation. Presiding Justice is Malak III. Court is now in session. Remain standing.”
Malak emerged from his chambers, black-robed and white-haired, and his eyes, sweeping the courtroom, were alert and commanding. For a moment, they considered Haldane with alert curiosity. Haldane felt that this man would not sleep on the bench.
When he sat down, the spectators sat.
Malak directed the prosecution to present the evidence.
Franz seemed bored as he read aloud the deposition of Malcolm testifying that the student believed an illicit liaison was occurring in his parents’ apartment, giving the address, entered it as Exhibit A, admitting it was hearsay but in the light of subsequent findings would stand.
The medical report on Helix was entered as Exhibit B.
Haldane listened with detachment until Exhibit C was introduced, the tape recording of Helix’ and his voices that the microphone had picked up and transmitted.
Perhaps it was a deliberate act on Franz’s part, or perhaps it was a mechanical flaw, but the playback was slowed to give his and Helix’ voices a deliberate tempo which replaced their nervous tension with a tone of calculation. His own voice weighed proposals to thwart foreseen contingencies.
Anger flooding his mind was dispelled by the whisper of Flaxon in relief and disbelief. “You conned Glandis, boy. He isn’t even presenting the wrecked microphone as evidence.”
Then he heard the judge intoning, “Evidence is admissible. How pleads the defendant?”
Flaxon, rising: “Guilty as charged, your honor.”
“Does defense wish to enter a plea for clemency?”
“Defense so wishes, your honor.”
“Proceed.”
As first pleader, Flaxon walked forward into the arena, partly facing the judge and partly facing the jury. “Your honor, gentlemen of the jury…”
In the beginning his words were halting, groping, as if he were unsure of himself. He told of the first meeting at Point Sur, an accident turned coincident by the introduction of Helix into the Haldane home by the father, honored department member. His voice rose higher, increased in tempo, and Flaxon was a one-man Greek chorus weaving the skeins of the lives of Haldane and Helix together with the inexorability of fate.
As he continued, his voice gained in poise and intensity, and his emphasis subtly shifted to a boy, naive and innocent, slowly drawn into a maelstrom by the swirls of mortality until, going under, he reached out, and the deed was done. “Premeditated?” Flaxon’s voice rolled with the thunder of indignation, then dropped to the whisper of falling rain. “No more premeditated, honored sirs, than the bursting of a morning sunbeam in a dew-drop on the petals of a rose.”
Some of the speech was overdone, Haldane felt, but Flaxon was playing to the groundlings, and he
was playing well. Random clicks from steno machines began to pick up volume and merged into a subdued murmur.
Flaxon heard the sound, and it propelled him to more sincere heights of rehearsed rhetoric, and he carried his audience with him. Flaxon was doing more to create a favorable impression for Haldane than all the Henricks of the world.
Haldane, mentally apart, admired the lawyer although he would have wished for a deeper, less artistic argument. But there were no more Clarence Darrows on this planet, and so he applauded the first generation Flaxon. Whatever might come of the Flaxon dynasty, its founder was acquitting himself well.
Only one person in the courtroom was unmoved by the argument—Franz. He was reading a document on his table, and not until the sudden applause, quickly rapped into silence by the judge, marked the end of Flaxon’s speech did he look up.
Haldane knew applause was out of order, but if the reaction of the spectators reflected the feelings of the judge, he felt that first-degree clemency was assured.
“What says the prosecution?”
Franz stood up. “Your honor, on grounds of evidence in the jurors’ report, I move that the charges of miscegenation brought against Haldane IV by the people be dismissed.”
Haldane’s exhilaration as he turned to Flaxon was squelched by the consternation on the counselor’s face as he looked at the prosecutor. “Isn’t that good?”
“What says the defense?” Malak asked.
At the moment, defense was occupied. “It can be good, of course. But it’s highly unusual, particularly for Franz.
“He’s a wily bird. It could be something in the medical report.”
“But he said the jurors’ report,” Haldane pointed out.
“True. But Glandis interviewed the girl. He could have added an addenda to the medical report relative to the girl’s compulsive libido, which he’d be qualified to do as a psychologist, and the addenda would be in the jurors’ report.”
“Wake up, defense!” Malak was losing his judicial balance.
Haldane’s mind was nettled by the implication in Flaxon’s words, and his uneasiness was supplemented by Glandis’ remark that Helix was a prime member of the Berkeley Hunt. Had the boy department member been theorizing, or had he spoken from experience?
