Court acknowledged the deduction. Josephson continued.
“Moses was born with the bud of a fifth toe—a gene for Immunoglobulin A. He over-reacted to the nest factor producing antibodies that interfered with his brain serotonin metabolism.”
Flow diagrams showed a five-toed human living in ectodermal debris—loose dust of skin scales, hair and skin oils. The house dust mite, Dermatophagoides farinae, ate the skin debris—slightly altering its antigenic qualities. Subsequent dust contained the mite and sensitized the human. The antibodies tied up the serotonin buttons on neurones causing personality changes—Inappropriate Activity. The mass murderer was considered very inappropriate.
“Society is to blame. Crowding caused the crime. Moses had no free will once his IA took over,” concluded Josephson.
Court waited until the defense plea ended and spoke didactically: “Moses had a negative skin test for house dust. His Immunoglobulin A level is five-toed, but he shows no increase in antibodies against the nest factor. Do you have an alternate defense?”
Josephson was perplexed.
“Do you?” repeated the viewscreen.
It took Moses a moment to realize that Court was speaking directly to him. The truth. Bad gases would fill the room if his autonomies established his guilt. He tried to sort through his story for a version that would be the safest.
“I’ve never killed anyone.”
Tee zone. So far so good.
“I’ve been Outside for over three years. I admit to being a crop crusher and a defector from the Big ES.”
Still Tee zone. Josephson and Court seemed satisfied.
“I traveled with an old man and a dog who are now deceased. I also traveled with a two-thousand-year-old class six cyber named—”
“A renegade meck?” asked Court, reviewing the records.
“I’m not sure he was a renegade. He told me his chains of command had been broken. He was a lost meck, perhaps.”
Tee zone. Court told him to continue.
“Toothpick—my cyber—did kill sometimes, but I’m sure he had a good reason for—”
“There is no record of a class six cyber in your travels,” said Court. “Where is your Toothpick now?”
“He remained behind in the tidal caves. I left him in a socket of the Life Support control. He isn’t mobile. Your Security people have him, I’d guess.”
There was a long delay while Court rechecked the new details of Moses’ story. The viewscreen switched to a workshop. Josephson stood up and squinted at the scene—a group of tecks bent over a segment of tubing which had been opened lengthwise. Three homogeneous cylinders were exposed—as peas lie in a pod—one quartz, one black and one white. A teck glanced up.
Court asked: “The device found in the LS unit at the Dundas murder scene—have you analyzed it?”
The teck pointed to the dismantled tube. Moses’ stomach sagged.
“From its function we’ve concluded that it is a frequency converter—changing thermister readings from warm to cold. There are many ways it could be done, but so far we’ve been unable to make any sense out of this device. It must be a very primitive design, one not covered in our training exercises.”
“Is this your class six cyber?” asked Court.
Moses nodded.
“My sensors tell me that you are telling the truth,” said Court. “But your concept of truth does not conform to reality. Your Toothpick is not a high-order cyber. It is just a simple device that alters temperature readings. Science knows that the smallest portable cyber is a class ten. A class six brain case alone weighs over a ton. That doesn’t include a power source and appendages. Obviously this delusion is real to you. I will accept your plea of innocence by reason of insanity. We will delay your suspension until your particular type of madness can be classified for proper placement in the Suspension Clinics.”
Josephson relaxed. Another case won. Moses sputtered. The screen mumbled something about the final disposition at a public hearing on the following day—and signed off. The cell brightened.
There was pleasant background music. Josephson stretched, yawned and helped himself to Moses’ last supper.
“A close call,” smiled Josephson. “All we have to do now is get through tomorrow’s hearing and you’re home free—ironically, you’ll probably be a psych patient at Dundas.”
“Suspension?” bristled Moses. “But I don’t want to be suspended.”
“Better than an execution,” shrugged Josephson. He left.
About an hour later he returned with an oblong bundle under his arm. He seemed excited. He set it among the jumble of dishes and unwrapped—Toothpick.
“Court wants you to have what is left of your—device,” said Josephson. “Trying to classify your delusion, I guess.”
Toothpick’s long open case was empty. The three cylinders rattled around loosely in the soft white cloth wrappings. Moses’ face registered pain at the sight of his cyber’s innards. After Josephson left again, he picked up Toothpick’s skin and held it to his ear. Nothing. The cylinders! The lights played on the quartz cylinder weirdly—giving pinpoints of rainbow colors. He picked it up and set it inside Toothpick’s skin near the optic. This was the point where the visible light beam and electric spark had appeared too. Logical. The white cylinder felt like wood. He set it in the middle. The black one seemed stuck to the table. He pulled hard. It didn’t budge. When he pulled lightly it moved slowly, stubbornly off the table. It seemed to have very little weight, but massive inertia. He glanced casually at the many sensors in his cell.
“Poor Toothpick,” he said overemotionally. “Did they hurt you?”
Ripping long strips from the cloth wrappings, he bandaged Toothpick. Pulling tight on the knots, he closed the longitudinal gap in his skin. The gap slowly opened again, stretching the friable cloth. Moses moaned and changed the positions of the black and white cylinders, putting the black one in the middle. The skin continued to gape.
“Speak to me, Toothpick,” he shouted.
Moses collapsed on his bunk. His mind raced through his meager alternatives—simpering self-pity or a violent raving attack against the cyberjail. Tomorrow might well be his last day as a warm organism on this planet.
Suddenly his thought processes were frozen by what he saw. Toothpick was closing the gap in his shell. The bandages loosened. Had the spirit returned to the little cyber? He cautiously sat up and reached for the cyber, mindful of the sensors spying on him.
In a distant control room Josephson sat watching Court’s multiple screens—optic, lingual and graphic readouts. All were focused on Moses—his body and his physiology.
“Anything incriminating?”
“No,” answered the cyberjurist. “He has just bandaged his imaginary friend. Now he is taking him into bed with him. I think he is kissing the bandages now—an obvious delusion.”
“And the other suspects?”
“William Overstreet has biolectrical guilt unsupported by facts…” said Court. “The Dundas Attendant has not been accused or cleared, yet. Perhaps at tomorrow’s hearing—”
Josephson studied the sensitive indicators.
“What is wrong with Moses? Look at that adrenal surge.”
“He is still hugging and kissing his device,” said Court. “Illogical. I do detect a faint electrical field around his cot. Perhaps the device has a battery of some sort.”
Josephson shrugged. “Our tecks found no evidence of circuitry. I can’t imagine their missing a battery. I suppose it is possible.”
Moses relaxed on his cot with Toothpick on the pillow beside him. He faced the blank wall and tried to control his excitement. As he touched his teeth to Toothpick’s skin, he heard a sound—bone conduction carried the sonic whisper to his eighth cranial nerve. Toothpick was alive.