The Heaven Makers

The Heaven Makers Page 16

16

KELEXEL LAY FACE UP ON THE BED, HIS HANDS BEHIND his head, watching Ruth pace the floor. Back and forth, back and forth she went, her green robe hissing against her legs. She did this almost every time he came here now-unless he set the manipulator at a disgustingly high pressure.

His eyes moved to follow the pacing. Her robe was belted at the waist with emeralds chained in silver that glittered under the room's yellow light. Her body gave definite visible hints of her pregnancy --a mounding of the abdomen, a rich glow to her skin. She knew her condition, of course, but aside from one outburst of hysterics (which the manipulator controlled quickly) she made no mention of it.

Only ten rest periods had passed since his interview with Fraffin, yet Kelexel felt the past which had terminated in the director's salon had receded into dimness. The "amusing little story" centered on Ruth's parent had been recorded and terminated. (Kelexel found it less amusing every time he viewed it.) All that remained was to find a suitable outpost planet for his own uses.

Back and forth Ruth paced. She'd be at the pantovive in a moment, he knew. She hadn't used it yet in his presence, but he could see her glancing at it. He could sense the machine drawing her into its orbit.

Kelexel glanced up at the manipulator controlling her emotions. The strength of its setting frightened him. She'd be immune to it one day; no doubt of that. The manipulator was a great metal insect spread over the ceiling.

Kelexel sighed.

Now that he knew Ruth was a wild Chem, her ancestry heavily infused with storyship bloodlines, he found his feelings about her disturbed. She had become more than a creature, almost a person.

Was it right to manipulate a person? Wrong? Right? Conscience? The attitudes of this world's exotics infused strange doubts into him. Ruth wasn't full Chem --never could be. She hadn't been taken in infancy, transformed and stunted by immortality. She was marked down at no position in Tiggywaugh's web.

What would the Primacy do when they found out? Was Fraffin correct? Would they blot this world? They were capable of it. But the natives were so attractive it didn't seem possible they'd be obliterated. They were Chem --wild Chem. But no matter the Primacy's attentions, this place would be overwhelmed. No one presently partaking of its pleasures would have a part in the new order.

Arguments went back and forth in his mind in a pattern much like Ruth's pacing.

Her movement began to anger him. She did this to annoy him, deliberately testing the limits of her power. Kelexel reached beneath his cloak, adjusted the manipulator.

Ruth stopped as though drawn up against a wall. She turned, faced him. "Again?" she asked, her voice flat.

"Take off your robe," he said.

She stood unmoving. Kelexel exerted more pressure, repeated his command. The manipulator's setting went up ... up ... up ...

Slowly, woodenly she obeyed. The robe dropped to the silvery piled carpet, leaving her nude. Her flesh appeared suddenly pale. Rippling tremors moved up and down her stomach.

"Turn around," he said.

With the same wooden movement, she obeyed. One of her bare feet caught the emerald belt. Its chain rattled.

"Face me." Kelexel said.

When she'd obeyed, Kelexel released the manipulator's pressure. The tremors stopped moving across her stomach. She took a deep, ragged breath.

How superbly graceful she is, Kelexel thought.

Without taking her gaze from him, Ruth bent, picked up the robe, slipped into it, belted it

There! she thought. I've resisted him. I've asserted myself at last. It'll be easier next time. And she remembered the sodden pressure of the manipulator, the compulsion which had forced her to disrobe. Even in that extremity, she'd felt the sureness that a time would come when she could resist Kelexel's manipulator no matter its pressure. There'd be a limit to the pressure, she knew, but no limit to her growing will to resist. She had only to think of what she'd seen on the pantovive to strengthen that core of resistance.

"You're angry with me," Kelexel said. "Why? I've indulged your every fancy."

For answer, she seated herself at the pantovive's metal webwork, moved its controls. Keys clicked. Instruments hummed.

How deftly she uses her toy, Kelexel thought. She's been at it more than I suspected. Such practiced sureness! But when has she had time to become this sure? She's never used it in front of me before. I've seen her each rest period. Perhaps time moves at a different rate for mortals. How long to her has she been with me? A quarter of her sun's circuit or maybe a bit more.

He wondered then how she really felt about the offspring within her body. Primitives felt many things about their bodies, knew many things without recourse to instruments. Some wild sense they had which spoke to them from within. Could the potential offspring be why she was angered?

"Look," Ruth said.

Kelexel sat upright, focused on the pantovive's image stage, the glowing oval where Fraffin's almost-people performed. Figures moved there, the gross wild Chem. Kelexel was suddenly reminded of a comment he'd heard about Fraffin's productions --"Their reverse dollhouse quality." Yes, his creatures always managed to seem emotionally as well as physically larger than life.

"These are relatives of mine," Ruth said. "My father's brother and sister. They came out for the trial. This is their motel room."

"Motel?" Kelexel slipped off the bed, crossed to stand beside Ruth.

"Temporary housing," she said. She sat down at the controls.

Kelexel studied the stage. Its bubble of light contained a room of faded maroon. A thin, straw-haired female sat on the edge of a bed at the right. She wore a pink dressing gown. One heavily veined hand dabbed a damp handkerchief at her eyes. Like the furniture, she appeared faded-dull eyes, sagging cheeks. In the general shape of her head and body, she resembled Ruth's father. Kelexel wondered then if Ruth would come to this one day. Surely not. The strange female's eyes peered from deep sockets beneath thin brows.

A man stood facing her, his back to the viewers.

"Now, Claudie," the man said, "there's no sense ... "

"I just can't help remembering," she said. A sob in her voice.

Kelexel swallowed. His body drank emotional identification with the creatures in the pantovive. It was uncanny --repellant and at once magnetic. The pantovive's sensimesh web projected a cloying sweet emotion from the woman. It was stifling.

"I remember one time on the farm near Marion," she said. "Joey was about three that night we was sitting on the porch after the preacher'd been there to dinner. Paw was wondering out loud how he could get that twelve acres down by the creek."

"He was always wondering that."

"And Joey said he had to go toi-toi."

"That danged outhouse," Grant said.

"Remember them narrow boards across the mud? Joey was still wearing that white suit Ma'd made for him."

"Claudie, what's the use remembering all ... "

"You remember that night?"

"Claudie, that was a long time ago."

"I remember it. Joey asked all around for someone to go out with him across them boards, but Paw said for him to git along. What's he scared of?"

"Doggone, Claudie, you sound like Paw sometimes."

"I remember Joey going out there all by hisself --a little white blot like in the dark. Then Paw yipped: 'Joey! Look out for that buck nigger ahint you!' "

"And Joey ran!" Grant said. "I remember."

"And he slipped off into the mud."

"He come back all dirty," Grant said, "I remember." He chuckled.

"And when Paw found out he'd wet hisself, too, he went and got the razor strop." Her voice softened. "Joey was such a little feller."

"Paw was a strict one, all right."

"Funny the things you remember sometimes," she said.

Grant moved across to a window, picked at the maroon drapery. Turning, he revealed his face-the same fine bone structure as Ruth, but with heavy flesh over it A sharp line crossed his forehead where a hat had been worn, the face dark beneath it, light above. His eyes appeared hidden in shadowed holes. The hand at the drapery was darkly veined.

"This is real dry country," he said. "Nothing ever looks green out here."

"I wonder why he done it?" Claudie asked.

Grant shrugged. "He was a strange one, that Joey."

"Listen to you," she said. "Was a strange one. Already talking like he was dead."

"I guess he is, Claudie. Just as good as." He shook his head. "Either dead or committed to an insane asylum. Same thing really when they stick you away like that"

"I heard you talk plenty about what happened when we was kids," she said. "You figure that had anything to do with him going ... like this?"

"What had anything to do with it?"

"The way Paw treated him."

Grant found a loose thread in the drapery. He pulled it out, rolled it between his fingers. The sensimesh web projected a feeling of long-repressed anger from him.

(Kelexel wondered then why Ruth showed him this scene. He understood in a way the pain she must feel at seeing this, but how could she blame him or be angry at him for this? What had happened to her parents ... that'd been Fraffin's doing.)

"That time we went to the county fair to hear the darky singers," Grant said. "In the mule wagon, remember? Joey didn't want to come along. He was mad at Paw for something, but Paw said he was too young to leave at home alone."

"He must've been all of nine then," she said.

Grant went on as though he hadn't heard. "Then when Joey refused to leave the wagon, remember? Paw says: 'Come along, boy. Don't you want to hear them niggers?' And Joey says: 'I guess I'll stay with the mules and wagon.'"

Claudie nodded.

Another thread came out of the drapery into Grant's hand. He said: "I heard you plenty of times when you didn't want to go someplace say: 'Guess I'll stay with the mules and wagon.' We had half the county saying it."

"Joey was like that," she said. "Always wanting to be alone."

Grant's lips formed a harsh smile. "Everything seemed to happen to Joey."

"Was you there when he ran away?"

"Yep. That was after you was married, wasn't it? Paw sold Joey's horse that he'd worked all summer cutting wood to buy from old Poor-John Weeks, Ned Tolliver's brother-in-law."

"Did you see the ruckus?"

"I was right there. Joey called Paw a liar and a cheat and a thief. Paw went to reach for the white oak club, but Joey was quicker. He must've been seventeen then, and strong. He brung that club down on Paw's head like he wanted to kill him. Paw went down like a pole- axed steer. Joey ripped the money Paw'd got for the horse outen his pocket, ran upstairs, packed the gladstone and left."

"That was a terrible thing," she said.

Grant nodded. "Long as I live I'll remember, that boy standing there on the porch, that bag in his hand and holding that screen door. Maw was sobbing over Paw, dabbing at his head with a wet towel. Joey spoke so low we'd never've heard if we hadn't all been so scared and quiet. We thought Paw was dead for sure."

" 'I hope I never see any of you ever again,' Joey says. And he run off."

"He had Paw's temper and that's for sure," Claudie said.

Ruth slapped the pantovive cutoff. The images faded. She turned, her face composed and blank from the pressures of the manipulator, but there were tear stains down her cheeks.

"I must know something," she said. "Did you Chem do that to my father? Did you ... make him that way?"

Kelexel recalled Fraffin boasting how the killer had been prepared ... boasting and explaining how an Investigator from the Primacy stood no chance to escape the traps of this world. But why waste concern over a few suborders demeaned and shaped to Chem needs? Precisely because they were not suborders. They were wild Chem.

"You did, I see," Ruth said. "I suspected it from what you've told me."

Am I so transparent to her? Kelexel asked himself. How did she know that? What strange powers do these natives have?

He covered his confusion with a shrug.

"I wish you could die," Ruth said. "I want you to die."

Despite the manipulator's pressure on her, Ruth could feel rage deep inside her, remote but distinct, a burning and smoldering anger that made her want to reach out and waste her fingernails clawing at this Chem's impervious skin.

Ruth's voice had come out so level and flat that Kelexel found he'd heard the words and almost passed over them before he absorbed their meaning. Die! She wished him dead! He recoiled. What a boorish, outrageous thing for her to say!

"I am a Chem," he said. "How dare you say such a thing to a Chem?"

"You really don't know, do you?" she asked.

"I've smiled upon you, brought you into my society," he said. "Is this your gratitude?" Kelexel slipped off the bed, crossed the room.

She glanced around her prison room, focused on his face --the silvery skin dull and metallic, the features drawn into a sharp frown of disdain. Kelexel's position standing beside her chair put him only slightly above her and she could see the dark hairs quivering in his nostrils as he breathed.

"I almost pity you," she said.

Kelexel swallowed. Pity? Her reaction was unnerving. He looked down at his hands, was surprised to find them clasped tightly together. Pity? Slowly, he separated his fingers, noting how the nails were getting that foggy warning look, the reaction from breeding. Reproducing itself, his body had set the clock of flesh ticking. Rejuvenation was needed, and that soon. Was this why she pitied him, because he'd delayed his rejuvenation? No; she couldn't know of the Chem subservience to the Rejuvenators.

Delay ... delay ... why am I delaying? Kelexel wondered.

Suddenly, he marveled at himself --his own bravery and daring. He'd let himself go far beyond the point where other Chem went racing for the Rejuvenators. He'd done this thing almost deliberately, he knew, toying with sensations of mortality. What other Chem would've dared. They were cowards all! He was almost like Ruth in this. Almost mortal! And here she railed at him! She didn't understand. How could she, poor creature?

A wave of self-pity washed through him. How could anyone understand this? Who even knew? His fellow Chem would all assume he'd availed himself of a Rejuvenator when he'd needed it. No one understood.

Kelexel hesitated on the verge of telling Ruth this daring thing he'd done, but he remembered her words. She wished him dead.

"How can I show you?" Ruth asked. Again, she turned to the pantovive, adjusted its controls. This disgusting machine, product of the disgusting Chem, was suddenly very important to her. It was the most vital thing in her life at this moment to show Kelexel why she nurtured such a seed of violent hate toward him. "Look," she said.

Within the pantovive's bubble of light there appeared a long room with a high desk at one end, rows of benches below it set off behind a rail, tables, another railed-off section on the right with twelve natives seated in it in various poses of boredom. The side walls held spaced Grecian columns separated by dark wood paneling and tall windows. Morning sunlight poured in the windows. Behind the high desk sat a round ball of a man in black robes, bald pod of head bent forward into the light.

Kelexel found he recognized some of the natives seated at the tables below the high desk. There was the squat figure of Joe Murphey, Ruth's parent, and there was Bondelli, the legal expert he'd seen in Fraffin's story rushes-narrow face, black hair combed back in beetle wings. In chairs immediately behind the railing there were the witch doctors, Whelye and Thurlow.

Thurlow interested Kelexel. Why had she chosen a scene containing that native male? Was it true that she'd have mated with this creature?

"That's Judge Grimm," Ruth said, indicating the man in the black robes. "I ... I went to school with his daughter. Do you know that? I've ... been in his home."

Kelexel heard the sounds of distress in her voice, considered a higher setting on the manipulator, decided against it. That might introduce too much inhibition for her to continue. He found himself intensely curious now as to what Ruth was doing. What could her motives be?

"The man with the cane there at the left, at that table, that's Paret, the District Attorney," Ruth said. "His wife and my mother were in the same garden club."

Kelexel looked at the native she'd indicated. There was a look of solidness and integrity about him. Iron gray hair topped a squarish head. The hair made a straight line across his forehead and was trimmed closely above prominent ears. The chin had a forward thrust. The mouth was a prim, neat modulation on the way to a solid nose. The brows were bushy brown ovals above blue eyes. At their outer edges, the eyes made a slight downward slant accented by deep creases.

The cane leaned against the table beside his chair. Now and again, Paret touched its knobbed top.

Something important appeared to be happening in this room now. Ruth turned up the sound and there came a noise of coughing from the ranked spectators, a hissing sound as papers were shuffled.

Kelexel leaned forward, a hand on the back of Ruth's chair, staring as Thurlow arose and went to a chair beside the high desk. There was a brief religious rite involving truthfulness and Thurlow was seated, the legal expert, Bondelli, standing below him.

Kelexel studied Thurlow --the wide forehead, the dark hair. Without the manipulator, would Ruth prefer this creature? Thurlow gave the impression of crouching behind his dark glasses. There was an aura of shifting uneasiness about him. He was refusing to look in a particular place. It came over Kelexel that Thurlow was avoiding Fraffin's shooting crew in this scene. He was aware of the Chem! Of course! He was immune.

A sense of duty returned momentarily to Kelexel then. He felt shame, guilt. And he knew quite suddenly why he hadn't gone to one of the storyship's Rejuvenators. Once he did that, he'd be committed finally to Fraffin's trap. He'd be one of them, owned by Fraffin as certainly as any native of this world. As long as he put it off, Kelexel knew he was just that much free of Fraffin. It was only a matter of time, though. Bondelli was speaking to Thurlow now and it seemed a tired, useless little scene. Kelexel wondered at his reaction.

"Now, Dr. Thurlow," Bondelli said, "you've enumerated the points this defendant has in common with other insane killers. What else leads you to the conclusion that he is in fact insane?"

"I was attracted to the recurrence of the number seven," Thurlow said. "Seven blows with the sword. He told the arresting officers he'd be out in seven minutes."

"Is this important?"

"Seven has religious significance: the Lord made the world in seven days, and so on. It's the kind of tiling you find dominant in the actions of the insane."

"Did you, Dr. Thurlow, examine this defendant some months ago?"

"Yes, sir."

"Under what circumstances?"

Kelexel glanced at Ruth, noted with a sense of shock the tears streaming down her cheeks. He looked at the manipulator's setting and began to understand how profound her emotions must be.

"Mr. Murphey had turned in a false fire alarm," Thurlow said. "He was identified and arrested. I was called in as court psychologist."

"Why?"

"False fire alarms are not a thing to be disregarded, especially when turned in by a man well along in his adult years."

"This is why you were called in?"

"No --that was routine, more or less."

"But what's the significance of the false fire alarm?"

"It's sexual, basically. This incident occurred at about the time this defendant first complained of sexual impotency. These two things, taken together, paint a very disturbing psychological picture."

"How is that?"

"Well, he also displayed an almost complete lack of warmth in his nature. It was a failing in those things we usually refer to as kindly. He produced Rorschach responses at that time which were almost completely lacking in those elements we refer to as alive. In other words, his outlook was centered on death. I took all of those things into consideration: a cold nature centered on death plus sexual disturbance."

Kelexel stared at the figure on the pantovive's stage. Who was he talking about? Cold, centered on death, sexually disturbed. Kelexel glanced at the figure of Murphey. The defendant sat huddled over his table, eyes downcast

Bondelli ran a finger along his mustache, glanced at a note in his hand.

"What was the substance of your report to the Probation Department, doctor?" Bondelli asked. As he spoke, he looked at Judge Grimm.

"I warned them that unless he changed his ways radically, this man was headed for a psychotic break."

Still without looking at Thurlow, Bondelli asked: "And would you define psychotic break, doctor?"

"By example --a sword slaying of a loved one using violence and wild passion is a psychotic break."

Judge Grimm scribbled on a piece of paper in front of him. A woman juror on the far right frowned at Bondelli.

"You predicted this crime?" Bondelli asked.

"In a real sense --yes."

The District Attorney was watching the jury. He shook his head slowly, leaned over to whisper to an aide.

"Was any action taken on your report?" Bondelli asked.

"To my knowledge, none."

"Well, why not?"

"Perhaps many of those who saw the report weren't aware of the dangers involved in the terms."

"Did you attempt to impress the sense of danger upon anyone?"

"I explained my worries to several members of the Probation Department"

"And still no action was taken?"

"They said that surely Mr. Murphey, an important member of the community, couldn't be dangerous, that possibly I was mistaken."

"I see. Did you make any personal effort to help this defendant?"

"I attempted to interest him in religion."

"Without success?"

"That's right."

"Have you examined defendant recently?"

"Last Wednesday-which was my second examination of him since he was arrested."

"And what did you find?"

"He's suffering from a condition I'd define as a paranoid state."

"Could he have known the nature and consequences of his act?"

"No, sir. His mental condition would've been such as to override any considerations of law or morality."

Bondelli turned away, stared for a long moment at the District Attorney, then: "That is all, doctor."

The District Attorney passed a finger across the squared-off hairline of his forehead, studied his notes on the testimony.

Kelexel, absorbed in the intricacies of the scene, nodded to himself. The natives obviously had a rudimentary legal system and sense of justice, but it was all very crude. Still, it reminded him of his own guilt. Could that be why Ruth showed him this? he wondered. Was she saying: "You, too, could be punished"? A paroxysm of shame convulsed him then. He felt that somehow Ruth had put him on trial here, placed him by proxy in that room of judgment which the pantovive reproduced. He suddenly identified with her father, sharing the native's emotion through the pantovive's sensimesh web.

And Murphey was seated in silent rage, the emotion directed with violent intensity against Thurlow who still sat in the witness chair.

That immune must be destroyed! Kelexel thought

The pantovive's image focus shifted slightly, centered on the District Attorney. Paret arose, limped to a position below Thurlow, leaned on the cane. Paret's narrow mouth was held in a thin look of primness, but anger smoldered from the eyes.

"Mr. Thurlow," he said, pointedly withholding the title of doctor. "Am I correct in assuming that, in your opinion, defendant was incapable of determining right from wrong on the night he killed his wife?"

Thurlow removed his glasses. His eyes appeared gray and defenseless without them. He wiped the lenses, replaced them, dropped his hands to his lap. "Yes, sir."

"And the kinds of tests you administered, were they generally the same kinds as were administered to this defendant by Dr. Whelye and those who agreed with him?"

"Essentially the same --inkblot, wool sorting, various other shifting tests."

Paret consulted his notes. "You've heard Dr. Whelye testify that defendant was legally and medically sane at the time of this crime?"

"I heard that testimony, sir."

"You're aware that Dr. Whelye is former police psychiatrist for the city of Los Angeles and served in the Army medical corps at the Nuremberg trials?"

"I'm aware of Dr. Whelye's qualifications." There was a lonely, defensive quality to Thurlow's voice that brought a twinge of sympathy to Kelexel as he watched.

"You see what they're doing to him?" Ruth asked.

"What does it matter?" Kelexel asked. But even as he spoke, Kelexel realized that Thurlow's fate mattered enormously. And this was precisely because Thurlow, even though he was being destroyed and knew it, was sticking to his principles. There was no doubt that Murphey was insane. He'd been driven insane by Fraffin-for a purpose.

I was that purpose, Kelexel thought

"Then you have heard," Paret said, "this expert medical testimony rule out any element of organic brain damage in this case? You've heard these qualified medical men testify that defendant shows no manic tendencies, that he does not now suffer and never has suffered from a condition which could be legally described as insanity?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then you can explain why you've arrived at a conflicting opinion to these qualified medical men?"

Thurlow uncrossed his legs, planted both feet firmly on the floor. He put his hands on the arms of his chair, leaned forward. "That's quite simple, sir. Ability in psychiatry and psychology is usually judged by results. In this case, I stake my claim to a different viewpoint on the fact that I predicted this crime."

Anger darkened Paret's face.

Kelexel heard Ruth whispering: "Andy, oh, Andy ... oh, Andy ... " Her voice sent a sudden pain through Kelexel's breast and he hissed: "Be silent!"

Again, Paret consulted his notes, then: "You're a psychologist, not a psychiatrist, is that correct?"

"I'm a clinical psychologist."

"What's the difference between a psychologist and a psychiatrist?"

"A psychologist is a specialist in human behavior who does not have a medical degree. The ... "

"And you disagree with men who do have medical degrees?"

"As I said previously ... "

"Ah, yes, your so-called prediction. I've read that report, Mr. Thurlow, and I'd like to ask you this: Is it not true that your probation report was couched in language which might be translated several ways --that it was, in a word, ambiguous?"

"It might be considered ambiguous only by someone who was unfamiliar with the term psychotic break,"

"Ahhh, and what is a psychotic break?"

"An extremely dangerous break with reality which can lead to acts of violence such as that being considered here."

"But if there'd been no crime, if this defendant had recovered from the alleged illness which you say he has, could your probation report have been construed as predicting that?"

"Not without an explanation of why he recovered."

"Let me ask this, then: Can violence have no other explanation except psychosis?"

"Certainly it can, but ... "

"Is it not true that psychosis is a disputed term?"

"There are differences of opinion."

"Differences such as are being evidenced here?"

"Yes."

"And any given act of violence may be caused by things other than a psychosis?"

"Of course." Thurlow shook his head. "But in a delusionary system ... "

"Delusionary?" Paret snapped at the word. "What is delusion, Mr. Thurlow?"

"Delusion? That's a kind of inner ineptness at dealing with reality."

"Reality," Paret said. And again: "Reality. Tell me, Mr. Thurlow, do you believe the defendant's accusations against his wife?"

"I do not!"

"But if defendant's accusations were real, would that change your opinion, sir, about his delusionary system?"

"My opinion is based on ... "

"Yes or no, Mr. Thurlow! Answer the question!"

"I am answering it!" Thurlow pushed himself back in his chair, took a deep breath. "You're trying to blacken the reputation of a defenseless ... "

"Mr. Thurlow! My questions are aimed at whether defendant's accusations are reasonable in the light of all the evidence. I agree they cannot be proved or disproved with the principal dead, but are the accusations reasonable?"

Thurlow swallowed, then: "Was it reasonable to kill, sir?"

Paret's face darkened. His voice came out low, deadly: "It's time we quit playing with words, Mr. Thurlow. Will you tell the court, please, if you have any other relationship with the defendant's family than that of ... psychologist?"

Thurlow's knuckles went white as he gripped the chair arm. "What do you mean?" he asked.

"Were you not at one time engaged to defendant's daughter?"

Thurlow nodded mutely.

"Speak up," Paret said. "Were you?"

"Yes."

At the defense table, Bondelli stood up, glared at Paret, looked up at the judge. "Your honor, I object. This line of questioning is not relevant."

Slowly, Paret swiveled. He leaned heavily on his cane, said: "Your honor, the jury has the right to know all the factors which have guided this expert witness in arriving at his opinion."

"What is your intention?" Judge Grimm asked. He looked over Paret's head at the jury.

"Defendant's daughter is not available for testimony, your honor. She is missing under mysterious circumstances attendant upon the death of her husband. This expert witness was in the immediate vicinity when the husband ... "

"Your honor, I object!" Bondelli pounded a fist on the table.

Judge Grimm pursed his lips. He glanced down at Thurlow's profile, then at Paret. "What I say now I do not say as approval or as disapproval of Dr. Thurlow's present testimony. But I will state by way of accepting his qualifications that he is psychologist for this court. As such, he may present opinions in disagreement with the opinions of other qualified witnesses. This is the privilege of expert testimony. It is up to the jury to decide which experts it will accept as being the most reliable. The jury may arrive at such decision strictly on the expert qualifications of the witnesses. Objection sustained."

Paret shrugged. He limped a step closer to Thurlow, appeared about to speak, hesitated, then: "Very well. No more questions."

"Witness may stand down," the judge said.

As the scene began to fade under Ruth's manipulation of the pantovive, Kelexel focused on Joe Murphey. The defendant was smiling, a sly, secretive smile.

Kelexel nodded, matched that smile. Nothing was entirely lost when even the victims could share amusement at their predicament.

Ruth turned, saw the smile on Kelexel's face. In her flat, controlled voice, she said: "God damn you for every second of your goddamn' eternity."

Kelexel blinked.

"You're as crazy as my father," she said. "Andy's describing you when he talks about my father." She whirled back to the pantovive. "See yourself!"

Kelexel took a deep, shivering breath. The pantovive screeched as Ruth twisted its controls and rapped keys.

He wanted to jerk her away from the machine, fearful of what she might show him. See myself? he wondered. It was a terrifying thought. A Chem did not see himself in the pantovive!

The bubble of light on the image stage became Bondelli's law office, the big desk, glass- fronted bookcases shielding the mud-red backs of law books with their gold lettering. Bondelli sat behind the desk, a pencil in his right hand. He pushed the pencil point down through his fingers, repeated the action with the eraser against the desk. The eraser left little rubber smudges on the polished surface.

Thurlow sat across from him behind a scattering of papers. He clutched his heavy glasses like a lecturer's pointer in his left hand, waving them as he spoke.

"The delusional system is like a mask," Thurlow said. Vertical cords smoothed and reappeared in his neck as he gestured. "Behind that mask, Murphey wants to be found sane even though he knows that this condemns him to death."

"It's not logical," Bondelli muttered.

"And if it isn't logical it's the most difficult thing there is to prove," Thurlow said. "This is hard to put into words that can be understood by people who haven't had long familiarity with such things. But if Murphey's delusional system were shattered, if we penetrated it, broke it down, this could be compared to what it would be like for an ordinary person to awaken one morning and find his bed different from the one he thought he went to sleep in, the room different, a different woman saying, 'I'm your wife!', unfamiliar youngsters claiming him as father. He'd be overwhelmed, his whole concept of his life destroyed."

"Total unreality," Bondelli whispered.

"Reality from the standpoint of an objective observer isn't important here," Thurlow said. "As long as Murphey maintains the delusional system he saves himself from the psychological equivalent of annihilation. That, of course, is the fear of death."

"Fear of death?" Bondelli appeared puzzled. "But that's what faces him if ... "

"There're two kinds of death here. Murphey has far less fear for real death in the gas chamber than he has for the kind of death he'd experience in the collapse of his delusional world."

"But can't he see the difference?"

"No."

"That's crazy!"

Thurlow appeared surprised. "Isn't that what we've been saying?"

Bondelli dropped the pencil onto the desk with a sharp click. "And what happens if he's judged sane?"

"He'd be convinced he controlled this one last piece of his misfortune. To him, insanity means loss of control. It means he's not the all great, all powerful person in control of his own destiny. If he controls even his own death, this is grandeur --a delusion of grandeur."

"This isn't something you can prove in a court of law," Bondelli said.

"Especially not in this community and not right now," Thurlow said. "That's what I've been trying to tell you from the beginning. You know Vauntman, my neighbor to the south? My walnut tree had a limb overhanging his yard. I've always let him have the nuts off it. We made a joke about it. Last night he sawed that limb off and threw it in my yard-because I'm testifying for Murphey's defense."

"That's insane!" "Right now insanity is the norm," Thurlow said. He shook his head. "Vauntman's perfectly normal under most circumstances. But this Murphey thing's a sex crime and it's stirred up a rat's nest of unconscious content --guilt, fear, shame --that people aren't equipped to handle. Vauntman's just one isolated symptom. The whole community's undergoing a kind of psychotic break."

Thurlow put on his dark glasses, turned, stared directly out of the pantovive.

"The whole community," he whispered.

Ruth reached out like a blind person, shut off the pantovive. As the stage darkened, Thurlow still stared out at her, Goodbye, Andy, she thought. Dear Andy. Destroyed Andy. I'll never see you again.

Abruptly, Kelexel whirled away, strode across the room. He turned there, stared at Ruth's back, cursing the day he'd first seen her. In the name of Silence! he thought. Why did I succumb to her?

Thurlow's words still rang in his ears --Grandeur! Delusion! Death!

What was it about these natives that locked on the mind and senses, refusing to let go? A rage such as he'd never before experienced flooded through Kelexel then.

How dare she say I am like her father?

How dare she harbor one thought for her puny native lover when she has me?

An odd rasping sound was coming from Ruth. Her shoulders trembled and shook. Kelexel realized she was sobbing despite the manipulator's suppression. The realization fed his rage.

Slowly, she turned in the pantovive's chair, stared at him. Strange lines of grief wavered across her face. "Live forever!" she hissed. "And every day you live, I hope your crime gnaws at you!" The hate was stark in her eyes.

A sense of dismay shook Kelexel. How can she know of my crime? he asked himself.

But rage was there to support him.

She was contaminated by that immune! he thought Let her see what a Chem can do to her lover, then!

With a vicious movement, Kelexel twisted the manipulator's controls beneath his tunic. The pressure, building up abruptly, jerked Ruth backward into her chair, stiffened her body then relaxed it. She slumped into unconsciousness.