“Objection, Your Honor. The prosecution has presented no evidence — ”
The pages were gold-gilded.
“Sustained. Rephrase, Counselor.”
“Attacked, Your Honor.”
It was all about gold.
THERE WASN’T MUCH to the prosecution side of the case. Four witnesses took the stand to describe how Beemer had been standing with a stack of books, about to check out, when he’d abruptly turned around and walked into the back of the store. One witness testified that he had clearly been following the Reverend Pullman. Two of them saw him come up behind the preacher, still carrying his books, and demand to know whether Pullman knew who he was. When Pullman demurred and tried to edge away, Beemer kept after him. “In a threatening manner.” Finally, the defendant had laid the books on the floor — one witness insisted he’d simply dropped them — seized the biggest book in the pile, and tried to hit the preacher in the head with it. The Reverend Pullman had warded off the blows with his hands, begging the defendant to stop. And had finally gone down. Several bystanders had dragged a still volatile Beemer away.
Glock made no serious effort to cross-examine the witnesses. He told the judge that the defense did not dispute that the attack had happened as described.
They broke for lunch. In the afternoon, Pullman took the stand. The prosecutor asked if he understood why he’d been attacked.
Pullman said no. “Mr. Beemer claimed to have been a student of mine years ago at the church school and said I’d ruined his life. He kept screaming at me.”
“Were you injured during the attack?”
“I was severely bruised. When the police came, they wanted to take me to the hospital.”
“But you didn’t go.”
“I don’t like hospitals. Anyway, I didn’t feel I’d been injured seriously. Although that was no fault of his. Not that I haven’t forgiven him.”
Glock stepped forward to cross-examine. “Reverend, you say that, at the time of the incident, you did not know what provoked the attack.”
“That’s correct.”
“Are you now aware why Mr. Beemer was upset?”
“I’ve been informed of what he said. And I should add that hundreds of children have attended our school, and this is the first incident of this kind.”
“No one has ever complained before, Reverend?”
“No. What is there to complain of? We teach the word of the Lord.”
“May I ask how old the students are who attend the school?”
“They are grades one through six.” He considered the question. “About seven to thirteen.”
“Reverend, what is the word of the Lord regarding hellfire?”
“That it is eternal. That it is reserved for those who do not accept the Lord and His teaching.”
The prosecutor objected, on the grounds that none of this had anything to do with the charges.
“We are trying to establish a rationale, Your Honor. The Reverend Pullman doesn’t understand why Mr. Beemer was upset with him. It’s essential that we all know what provoked a man with no history of lawbreaking, no history of violence, to attack a former teacher.”
“Very well, Mr. Glock,” said the judge. “I’ll allow it. But let’s get to the point.”
“Specifically, Reverend Pullman, hellfire sounds like a dire punishment, does it not?”
“It certainly does. Yes.”
“How hot is it, would you say?”
“The Bible does not say.”
“What would you say?”
“I don’t know.”
“Enough to scorch your hand?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Enough to sear the flesh?”
“I would think so.”
“And it goes on for a thousand years?”
“It goes on forever.”
“Without stopping.”
“There is no lunch break.” Pullman turned a broad smile to the onlookers.
“Very good, Reverend. Now, if I am, say, twelve years old, what might I do that would incur this sort of punishment?”
“You mean hell?”
“Yes.”
“There are various sins.”
“Could you give us some examples?”
“Murder. Adultery.”
“A twelve-year-old, Reverend. Let me put it to you this way. Is it possible for a twelve-year-old boy to warrant hell?”
“Yes.”
MacAllister found himself again fixating on Connecticut Yankee.
“What can he do that would deserve that kind of punishment? Aside, perhaps, from murder?”
“He might miss Sunday service.”
He saw the Yankee in the courtyard while the light drained from the day.
“That in itself would be sufficient?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“What else?”
“Dancing.”
And he thought of the Galactic.
“Dancing?”
“Yes. It is strictly forbidden. I know that, for godless people in a godless society, the reasoning can be difficult to grasp.”
MacAllister lost the drift of the proceedings. The courtyard at Camelot floated before his eyes, and gradually dissolved into the skeletal gridwork of the Galactic. He saw it as he had from the Salvator, turning slowly, reflecting light from nearby Capella.
He watched the asteroid, growing larger on one of the screens. Recalled how difficult it had been to gauge its size until it got close to the hotel, which, at the end, had been only a brief glimmer of light going out.
And he knew how it had been done.
But as he thought about it, and realized the implications, his heart sank.
GLOCK BROUGHT IN a psychiatrist who had examined Beemer. “No, not clinically insane,” the psychiatrist said, “but disturbed. Mr. Beemer suffers from a radical strain of paranoia, induced by the religious environment imposed on him when he was a child. At the heart of that environment were the teachings of the church and its school regarding divine punishment.”
When the session ended, MacAllister spoke briefly with Glock. “The truth is,” said the lawyer, “the wrong man’s on trial.”
Outside, some in the crowd recognized MacAllister. “Try going to church once in a while,” someone called. And: “You’re damned, MacAllister. Repent while you can.” Sun-flower seeds were thrown toward him. The seeds represented the argument that one should look toward the light and eschew the darkness. Some of the believers had bought into the notion there was a conspiracy to override the First Amendment and shut down the churches. That idea had gotten around, and though there was no chance of its happening, and in fact no likelihood MacAllister could see of Beemer’s not being found guilty, there were nevertheless some who were stoking precisely those fears.
The organ, which had been silenced by police during the trial, was operating again. It was playing an inspirational tune while the crowd sang “Going to Meet My Lord.” They picked up the volume as MacAllister strode past.
Beemer and Glock exited by a side door and were whisked away by police.
It was like traveling in time, like watching the 2216 super-nova explode again. This must have been what it was like in Tennessee three centuries earlier during the Scopes trial. He retreated to his hotel and listened to the crowd thumping and banging in the streets. The counterdemonstrators, unfortunately, were just as fanatical. They probably would have closed the churches, had they been able. They were at the moment trying to shout down the organist and his choir. MacAllister looked around hopelessly. His supporters were every bit as deranged as those arrayed on the other side.
The real enemy, he thought, was fanaticism.
THE MEDIA REPORTED that state police were coming in to bolster the local force. And the hellfire trial was for them the story du jour. Even the moonriders were crowded out.