The Heaven Makers (14 page)

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 thing 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….”