Innocent Until Scanned Guilty

Illustration by Janet Aulisio Dannheiser

Washington: a somber winter day in March of 2076. An icy wind whistled around the Capitol and the corner offices of the senior senator from New Mexico, Samuel Garraty Ferron. Sam had turned sixty-eight the month before and was asking himself with increasing frequency how many more Washington winters he could stand away from Marianna and the kids. The answer seemed to be coming with more and more finality: this one, and one after. But in the election of ’78, he had all but made up his mind, the good people of the great state of New Mexico would just have to find some other sucker to peddle their goods for them.

In the meantime, though, there was one item in particular of unfinished business to attend to. Sam wrenched his attention back to the tall, angular woman who was the minority leader of the House of Representatives. “The genie is out of the bottle,” he repeated, “well and truly, and it can never be stuffed in again. That’s why it’s up to us to deal with it.”

“You’re the one who let it out,” murmured Congresswoman Kutnick accusingly from behind her cup of steaming tea.

“Wrong guy: it was my son-in-law—my ex-son-in-law—and his pals at Seticorp and the University of Hawaii who rubbed the bottle the wrong way.”

“Your son-in-law—that’s the celebrated Roderick Bantry, future Nobel laureate, et cetera, et cetera?”

“Yes. He’s a damn sight more celebrated than is good for his health.”

“So I hear. Wasn’t he shot and almost killed the other day out there where you live?”

“Yes. And his wife, his second wife, was killed.”

“And even with PE they still haven’t caught anyone?”

“They’re small-town cops whose only experience is handing out parking tickets. And PE only works if you have a suspect to use it on. They never got their hands on anyone even remotely resembling a suspect.”

“You think the Federation did it?”

Sam stared into space for a long moment before replying. “A friend of mine at the Federation who’s in a position to know—he’s very, very senior in the OPS, though he won’t admit to it—swears that it wasn’t them.” Sam shrugged. “But who can you believe, even among old friends? In any case, Roderick’s almost fully recovered.”

“A dangerous life that scientists seem to lead.” Jasmine Kutnick’s large brown eyes suddenly flashed. “And if I had my way, it’d be a helluva lot more dangerous for all of them! Scientists! All they can think about is the Nobel prize and what they can do to grab it—they’re always rubbing the bottle the wrong way! And we’re the ones who are left to pick up the pieces and try to put them back together.”

“So far we’re not going a very good job of it,” said Sam pointedly.

The congresswoman shrugged. “We’re representatives of the people, aren’t we? And the people are confused and frightened by the scanner. Why should their representatives be any different? Suppose you’d asked the Congress of two hundred years ago, back in 1876, to draw up legislation regulating every conceivable consequence and nuance of the invention of the telephone for the next two centuries? What sort of result do you think you’d have gotten—especially if you also insisted that they had to do it right now, instantly, toot sweet!”

Sam grinned in spite of himself. Even when they were on opposite sides of an issue he’d always like Jasmine Kutnick, a raw-boned, self-assured Afro-Korean from the Detroit ghetto who had muscled her way to national prominence by dint of sheer effort and steely determination. “Touché, to continue our conversation in French. But from what I recall—I’m not quite old enough to actually have been there, but I’ve read all about it—the invention of the telephone didn’t really seem all that earthshaking at the time. In fact it was more than a hundred years before it finally merged with computers and all the other information and entertainment systems to become what it is today.” He nodded his hairless skull at the office CommCent on the far side of the room. “But the time scanner is a completely different kettle of fish: everybody knows it’s important.”

“And they’ve either got to have it for themselves, instantly—or it’s got to be suppressed, also instantly.” The congresswoman sighed and put down her teacup. “Sam, I really am of two minds about this damn thing, no, make it half a dozen minds. Some days I wake up thinking that it’s the greatest thing that’s ever happened for humanity; the next day I wake up thinking that it’s obviously the most catastrophic.”

Sam nodded. “I know just how you feel. But that doesn’t relieve us of our obligation to do something about it. It’s been a year and a half since Roderick unveiled it in London, and the only thing the combined wisdom of the United States Congress has been able to come up with is to clamp a moratorium on its use until a legal structure can be erected to deal with it.” He snorted disgustedly. “Some action, some leadership!”

“Look, Sam, what can we do? On the one hand we’ve got every policeman, prosecutor, historian, genealogist, and voyeur in the country demanding they be given a full-color, working model; on the other hand we’ve got every fundamentalist bible-thumper, trial lawyer, Federationist bureaucrat, crook, semi-crook, would-be crook, cheating husband, unfaithful wife, and hand-in-your-pocket politician anywhere in the world demanding that it be thrown into the ocean, along with everyone responsible for it.” Jasmine Kutnick glared at her tea cup. “And on the third hand, we’ve got ten million jurists, lawyers, sociologists, scientists, television commentators, and every other possible kind of so-called expert loudly telling us here in Washington just exactly how they’d handle things. And you’re upset because we’ve only spent a year and a half trying to figure out how to deal with it!”

Sam nodded in tacit agreement. His own initial experiences with the time scanner had come at his daughter’s clinic and—had he ever dared reveal the details of his original covert involvement with it—could have provided ample grist for either side of the bitter on-going argument. On the one hand: a grotesque and shocking glimpse of his son-in-law, the discoverer of the scanner, making love to a woman who was manifestly not his wife; on the other hand: the utilization of its ability to scan the recent past in order to locate his ten-year-old son who lay lost in the woods with a broken ankle.

Unvarnished good or unvarnished evil: that was what most of the millions of Americans who bombarded Congress with their own views on the scanner thought would come of it. So pity the poor politician who had to find some middle ground. No wonder even someone as normally incisive as Jasmine Kutnick couldn’t make up her mind.

“Well,” said Sam, after their companionable silence had drifted on for another minute, “at least you can’t deny this: twenty thousand detailed copies of the plans for making a scanner were distributed by bonny Prince Richard and all the other astrophysicists at that meeting in London. Not even the Federation was able to bottle it up. So now we know that anyone in the world with an O-CLIP computer and a graviton reader can build himself a fully functioning time scanner.”

“O-CLIP computers have been federally regulated for some years now,” said Congresswoman Kutnick with an edge of defensiveness to her voice.

“And now that the Federation’s so kindly taken over most of the private affairs of the U.S. of A., they’ve made it even harder to get hold of one. So that gives us time to—”

“True. But according to my son, the computer guru, there are all sorts of other computers nearly as powerful as O-CLIPs just waiting to be introduced. So it’s not impossible that some day soon scanners will be able to work without O-CLIPs—and anyone in the world with a home computer will be able to peep into your bedroom with his own little time scanner.”

The congresswoman’s lips tightened. “But I thought it had to have an O-CLIP! If—”

Sam leaned forward, his face intense. “Listen, Jasmine, this is what I’ve been trying to get through to my knucklehead colleagues on my side of the Hill, without, I admit, any success whatsoever: not even Roderick Bantry knows how the scanner works. He discovered it purely by happenstance when he input some data from a graviton reader from his observatory in Hawaii into an O-CLIP computer. Since then, he and the best scientific minds in the world know exactly as much today as he did then: that it takes a graviton reader and an O-CLIP computer working in conjunction to make a time scanner.”

“But that’s what I just sa—”

“Wait! Gravitons are still an almost entirely unknown quantity. We know that just as there’s no light without photons, there’s no gravity without gravitons. We know that gravitons have indefinitely long lifetimes, zero electric charge, and zero rest mass. And that’s all we know although I believe they’re now postulating that gravitons might have a polarity in addition to their other qualities. As they sweep through space and encounter objects and events, the polarity of each graviton is changed in accordance with the last bit of mass in that particular place. The scanner, therefore, is just something that detects the polarity of each of the incoming gravitons.”

“Just? Sounds like quite a bit to me.”

Sam shrugged. “I’m only parroting what Roderick’s told me. But it’s nothing but pure speculation trying to explain how a scanner could possibly detect an event that not only occurred ten years ago but in a place that’s now physically a couple of billion miles away.”

Jasmine Kutnick shook her head. “I’m sorry I asked.”

“The point is: We can detect them with graviton readers—that’s what my son-in-law specialized in when he discovered the scanner, building new and better readers—and that’s all we can do. We can’t do anything to alter them, or to change their behavior in any way. What we can do, though, is to build new and better computers—which historically has meant building them faster, smaller, cheaper, and more accessible to Josephine Everyguy. So—”

“So what you’re getting at,” said the congresswoman, with a rueful expression twisting her face, “is that if we can’t change gravitons, at least we can change the other crucial element. And that there’s nothing to say that some other kind of computer manipulating the data from a graviton reader might not work just as well.”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying. And why I’m trying to make everyone on the Hill see the urgency of dealing with this matter before it becomes a full-scale crisis.”

“Crisis? Isn’t that a little overdram—”

“Let’s just say that tomorrow morning Apple-IBM hits the market with a million palmtop models that cost a hundred bucks apiece and have all the power of an O-CLIP—and that they just happen to work in conjunction with graviton readers. Are you, Congresswoman Jasmine Kutnick, going to ask the Federation and Office of Planetary Security to pretty please step in and do the job that you can’t do: to keep the guy upstairs from peeking into last night’s activities in your bedroom with his own little time scanner?”

“Call in the Federation? I think if I did that I’d be lynched in the streets by my loyal constituents.” Jasmine Kutnick frowned thoughtfully as she rose to her feet. “That’s a good argument you make, Sam. I’ll carry it back to my side of the Hill and see what we can do with it.”

Sam watched the congresswoman depart, then pushed himself slowly to his own feet. Why did the winters here in Washington make him feel so much creakier than those in New Mexico? It was far colder up at the elevation of Eagle Nest Lake than—

His wristphone simultaneously beeped and pulsed against his wrist. Startled, Sam pushed the accept stud. The face of his sixteen-year-old son by his second wife looked out of the tiny screen. “Dad!”

“Bruce. What’s—”

“You’re not going to believe this! They’ve arrested Emily!”

“Arrested Emily? Your sister?”

“Well, not really arrested her, I guess, but they came and got her with a court order and—”

“Wait a second! Who came and—”

“Someone from the district attorney’s office in Taos, but he had a policeman with him. They had a court order to take her off for PE and—”

“PE? Perceptualization enhancement?” Sam’s bewilderment deepened. “But even with a court order, interrogation under PE is only ordered for criminals!”

“But that’s what they think she is! They’ve arrested Roderick, and now they think she helped him murder Linda Rawlings!”

As his plane droned west, Ferron’s thoughts were on the man who had once been his son-in-law. For the thousandth time in the last six years he cursed the very existence of Roderick Bantry, both for the trouble he was about to cause the world at large by his inadvertent discovery of the time scanner, and, more personally, for the seemingly endless string of related troubles that his discovery had brought down upon Sam’s family. The first, and most ironic, of course, was the bitter memory of Emily’s broken marriage. The scanner’s monitor had revealed her husband making love to another woman on one of the desks of her own clinic. The outcome had been a divorce and Roderick’s embittered marriage to a woman he had never loved.

A woman that now, it seemed, Emily was accused of murdering.

Sam shook his head. He had known bizarre and improbable events in his years of hunting painlusters, but nothing more outlandish and inconceivable than this.

That Linda Rawlings should be murdered, even in this day and age in which crime had almost been wiped out, was far from bizarre. For if anyone Sam had met in a long and eventful life had ever had a personality to inspire murder, it was Linda Rawlings.

And that it was her husband, Roderick, who had killed her was—given his widely known hatred for her—also far from being inconceivable.

But that his daughter, Emily, should be involved, was inconceivable—and perceptualization enhancement would prove it.

Roberto Martinez, district attorney of Taos, the nearest town to Sam’s home on Eagle Nest Lake, had been a highly successful college boxer, so much so that in his election campaigns he liked to run as “The Fighting Bobcat.” In spite of a well deserved reputation for grandstanding in the courtroom he had never lost a case or an election—and he clearly had an eye on more important offices.

And he was also, Sam noted dourly, a member of the opposition party. If Martinez was embarrassed by the necessity of interrogating the daughter of the most powerful politician in the state he hid it well. “I’m certain she has nothing to worry about, Senator, but I’d be remiss in my duties if I didn’t do this.”

Ferron eyed him coldly, much as decades before, just before their deaths, he had dispassionately studied the painlusters he had helped to bring to the execution sheds across the country. If you strike at a king, buddy, then you’d better make sure you kill him, he reflected grimly as he allowed the silence to build. At last, just as Martinez was beginning to fidget under the unsettling intensity of his glacial blue eyes, Sam smiled bleakly. “Of course you’d be remiss, Mr. Martinez,” he said mildly. “Just as whoever it was who interrogated Roderick Bantry under PE at the time of the killing was remiss in neglecting to discover the minor fact that he’d killed his wife. Or have I missed something?”

Martinez flushed angrily. He glanced at the two attorneys that flanked Sam, one from Santa Fe, the other from Albuquerque, and seemed to be keeping himself from an indignant retort only with difficulty. Finally he nodded curtly. “It may be there were some mistakes that were made in the initial investigation. That’s why I’ve obtained this order—this court order, Senator Ferron—to ask a few questions of your daughter.” Once again his eyes flicked across Sam’s attorneys. “I hope you appreciate that my permitting you to sit in at the interrogation is highly irregular. If it weren’t for—”

“I do appreciate your kindness in permitting that, Mr. District Attorney, I surely do, and I promise you I shall be nothing but a silent and most interested spectator.” Sam’s smile was noticeably warmer—and just as transparently insincere.

“And,” murmured the attorney from Albuquerque to Martinez, “you will, of course, scrupulously observe the limits as stated in the court order regarding your range of questioning. You may interrogate Ms. Ferron about the events involving the death of Ms. Rawlings-Bantry and about her direct knowledge of those events. And absolutely nothing else. This is no fishing expedition, Mr. District Attorney, no fishing expedition at all.”

There, thought Sam with satisfaction as Martinez turned brusquely away, now that we’ve got the Fighting Bobcat up against the ropes, let’s see what we can do to pound on him a little…

Emily Ferron, formerly Emily Ferron-Bantry, had the same fair skin and clear blue eyes of her father but was finer-boned and half a head taller. Her hair was a deep golden brown, and in spite of her forty-five years her face was nearly as unlined and lovely as it had been two decades before. As she was led into the interrogation room her eyes found Sam and—perhaps because of the tranquilizers she had already been given—she smiled radiantly. Then, with a faint shrug of indifference, she let herself be seated beneath the large silver helmet that had always seemed to Sam unsettlingly like the mysterious apparatuses occasionally glimpsed in beauty salons.

It was ironic, he reflected as he watched the sensors and flow tubes being attached to his daughter, that all this was so akin to what Emily herself used in the O-CLIP room of her clinic. But, of course, many of the experimental techniques that Emily had successfully developed to help victims of otherwise hopeless traumas had originated in the battle to eradicate both the common criminals and the fiendish cults of painlusters that had spread so appallingly across the world in the twenties and thirties.

Perceptualization enhancement, backed by a Constitutional amendment revoking the ancient prohibition against self-incrimination, had worked just as its backers promised it would: professional organized crime had been wiped out, while the last known member of an American pain cult had been executed nearly twenty years before. The only criminal acts these days were impulsive and unpremeditated, uncontrollable crimes of passion or of sudden rage. The statistics showed that 98 percent of the hapless perpetrators were arrested within twenty-four hours—and most of the remaining 2 percent within the week.

Once they were taken to court, the conviction rate for prosecutors was 100 percent.

And now perceptualization enhancement was to be used on Emily.

Sam’s lips tightened as he watched the insertion of the thin tubes that would carry computer-dispensed psychoactives to Emily’s brain. Who would have thought when he had helped to lead the fight for the legalization of PE thirty-five years earlier that he would live to see it used upon his own daughter? It had been in everyday use for so many years that he had long since forgotten how it was supposed to work, certainly he had forgotten all the needles involved…

He did recall vaguely that the intimidating silver helmet was nothing more than the receptor by which the computer would determine which brain cells were resisting questions. With the help of minutely dosed quantities of psychoactives a feedback loop would be established between Emily’s brain and the computer. The loop would then automatically regulate the flow of drugs to specific parts of the brain so that eventually all resistance was neutralized and the truth would be revealed.

Infallibly and always. Thousands of people interrogated under PE had quickly proved themselves innocent and had been released. But no one whose crime had been brought to light by perceptualization enhancement had ever walked free. The nation’s prisons had quickly filled with criminals who were undeniably and indisputably guilty. And crime had vanished as a national concern.

The glaring drawback with perceptualization enhancement, of course, was that first you had to have a subject to interrogate. And in the case of Linda Rawling’s murder there had been none—until now, apparently, a full two months later.

Now there were two.

And one of them was Emily Ferron.

How on earth, Sam wondered, had this dolt Martinez ever been able to talk some even more doltish judge into issuing an order for PE on the basis of what could only be the wildest speculation? There was no conceivable way Emily could be connected with such a crime. All of this almost certainly had to be part of some dark game of politics aimed at him. Sam grinned wolfishly. As soon as this grotesque farce involving his daughter was over, it was a game he would take a profound pleasure in looking into. And then Fighting Bob Martinez had better look for ways to cover his ass…

Three hours later the farce was over. Emily lay slumped, still half-groggy from tranquilizers and psychoactives, in a deep, upholstered chair in the recovery room. A male nurse hovered over her, monitoring her reactions to the drug neutralizes he had given her. District Attorney Martinez stood in a doorway of the interrogation room speaking in soft but strident tones to a fellow prosecutor who had just arrived from Santa Fe.

His back turned as he pretended to consult with his own attorneys, Sam eavesdropped shamelessly.

“Nothing,” muttered Martinez bitterly, “absolutely nothing!”

“There was no connection at all with the crime?”

“Nothing that we could find. But because of that damn court order I couldn’t look very far.”

“I’m not surprised you didn’t get anything. And frankly, Bob, I just can’t believe that you went out on a limb the way you have with this Ferron woman. You’re just asking to get your head handed to you by the old man.”

“Maybe, maybe not. Particularly not if I can tie his daughter to this murder.”

“I don’t believe this! You mean you still haven’t given up? Not even after she’s been cleared by PE? Are you nuts?”

“Look, Alice, none of you people seem to understand what I’ve been trying to tell you, none of you have even bothered to look at the stuff I’ve sent you.” Martinez’s voice grew even more intense. “If any of you would just read this article the Ferron woman has just published in The Journal of Electroneurological Medicine you’d see what I’m talking about! And you’d wake up sweating at night!”

Alice sighed. “Give it to me in fifty words or less, Bob, I’ve gotta be in court in five minutes. And make them simple words.”

The district attorney dropped his voice and Sam strained to hear. “Look, the Ferron woman has run a clinic for head cases for twenty years now, out on Eagle Nest Lake, her and some other big-time doctors. They’ve got all the latest equipment, including an O-CLIP computer which her old man somehow wrangled for her when practically no one else in the world had one. They specialize in treating people who are in comas or blind or just plain crazy because of traumatic injuries they’ve suffered, like victims of painlusters.”

“Painluster victims? There haven’t been any pain—”

“They still get some of ’em from other parts of the world, like Brazil. What Ferron has done, and what she’s writing about in the Journal, is this: she says she’s nearly perfected a technique by which memories lost because of brain damage or psychological trauma can now be automatically treated by a computer program running itself rather than having to be manually reconstructed by a whole team of trained experts such as herself.”

“Well?” said Alice into the pause that followed. “That’s it? That’s the big deal?”

Martinez sighed heavily. “Can’t you see? Isn’t it possible that Ferron designed a program to wipe her own memories clear of incriminating evidence—and then used the same computer-driven program to fill in the gaps with completely innocuous memories?”

“Wow! When you go off the deep end, you do it completely, don’t you, Bob? You’re saying that she’s found a way to beat perceptualization enhancement?”

“Exactly! You don’t think that’s worth looking into a little bit?”

“Sure—if we want to have a legal system left. So let me take it under advisement, counselor. But to revert to specifics, just what incriminating evidence do you think Ferron might have wiped away and then replaced?”

“Isn’t it clear? The memory she had of using her clinic’s trauma room to suppress the memories that her ex-husband, Roderick Bantry, had of killing his second wife. It’s simple, Alice. Bantry kills Rawlings. He comes sniveling back to his first wife, the one so-called great love of his life. She takes pity on him. She wipes out Bantry’s memories of the crime, so that when we question him under PE we get absolutely nothing out of him. Then Ferron wipes out her own memories of her own involvement. And the murder remains unsolved forever.”

“Wow and double wow!” Surprisingly, Sam heard the tinkle of gay laughter. “Unsolved by everyone except the Fighting ol’ Bobcat, is that it, Bob?”

“That’s it, Alice, and you’ll be laughing out of the other side of your mouth when I pin a conviction for murder on Mr. Know-It-All Roderick Bantry, and after that on his ex-, ever-loving wife!”

Sam returned with Emily to her home beside the clinic. “It’s like a nightmare,” she murmured drowsily as she snuggled against him with her head on his shoulder. “Everything Roderick has ever touched since the moment he first got involved with that goddamn O-CLIP computer seems to lead to nothing but disaster, even when he doesn’t intend it to. Sometimes I wish it had never been invented!”

Sam nodded in silent agreement as their car drifted along on autodrive. Even the certainty of a eventual Nobel prize didn’t seem to have lifted the curse that appeared to hang over Roderick Bantry.

It was now a year and five months since the public unveiling of the time scanner by Bantry and the University of Hawaii. And somewhere during that time, Sam reflected, Roderick Bantry had evidently finally had his fill of his present wife, Linda Rawlings. Ever since the separation and divorce, he had sworn that Emily was the only woman he had ever loved. Whether or not that was actually true was anybody’s guess; for in spite of his many superficial charms Bantry was a man driven by relentless ambition, and his ambitions centered around successfully introducing the time scanner to the world—and reaping the rewards that would go with it—no matter who stood in his way. Unfortunately for Bantry, however, Linda Rawlings was an equally hard case. Not only that, she had providentially found herself in a position from which she could easily thwart his grandiose dreams. Bantry’s hand in a reluctant marriage had been the price he had forced to pay to buy her cooperation.

But now, it seemed, with the scanner successfully revealed to a startled world, Bantry had finally decided that he might break free from Linda. Over the years he had written a number of contrite letters to Emily, begging for her forgiveness. Finally, two months before, he had appeared unannounced at the Sunny and Harmony Hallowell Trauma Center on Eagle Nest Lake to say that he intended to divorce Linda without regard for the consequences. According to Emily, he had once again pleaded with her to give him a second chance. The sharp edge of Emily’s bitterness had almost imperceptibly worn off over the years; she agreed to at least meet him for further discussion.

Jubilant, Bantry returned to his motel in nearby Taos. The next day Emily was notified that Roderick had been shot and was in serious condition in the Santa Fe hospital. He had been found in a motel room lying in a pool of blood. The blood was his own and that of his wife. Linda Rawlings, aged thirty-one, had been bludgeoned to death with a crystal statuette of a stylized owl.

Bantry was by now a world-renowned figure; his ex-father-in-law, with whom he was still on amicable terms, was a United States senator and local icon; the police were far from insistent in their questioning, especially after the doctors confirmed that he appeared to be suffering from genuine memory loss.

Emily was touched by her former husband’s plight. As soon as possible, he was moved from the Santa Fe hospital to her own clinic, which was, after all, the country’s foremost center in treating memory loss. Here he spent the next six weeks recuperating.

At the end of that time no other suspects in the killing had surfaced; Bantry was finally interrogated under perceptualization enhancement. It confirmed what he had previously admitted to the investigators: that he had hated his dead wife since the day they were married.

It also confirmed what he had steadfastly maintained: that he remembered a totally unexpected visit to his motel room by his wife, Linda, and a bitter argument between them. Linda appeared to be half-crazed by drugs or by virtual-reality fantasies. For the thousandth time she screamed that half the Nobel prize money was hers and that she would keep him in court for years unless he agreed to a settlement. Roderick was equally adamant that he would divorce her and that he would fight to the bitter end in order to keep her from getting a nickel. Eventually he was able to get rid of her. Unable to sleep, the last thing he remembered was the unexpected buzz of his wrist-phone and his decision to push the accept stud. After that his memory was blank until his awakening in the hospital.

Three days after his discharge from the clinic, Bantry was sipping coffee with Emily in the house they had once shared; it was here that he was formally arrested for the murder of his wife. Whether or not he could actually remember committing the crime, said the district attorney, was legally immaterial; the physical evidence was far too great to ignore. Roderick Bantry would be tried for murder just the way suspects had been tried before the advent of perceptualization enhancement; Roberto Martinez would present the evidence; the jury would find him guilty; he would go to prison for the rest of his life.

Emily pushed herself away from Sam’s shoulder and gripped his arm. “Sam, you’ve got to keep him from being convicted! I don’t know why, but I know he didn’t kill her!”

As Sam grew older he found, somewhat disconcertingly, that more and more of his friends and acquaintances were what he considered to be old. Where were all the young people he used to know? Intellectually he knew that he too was growing old—at least he did when he saw that bald-headed stranger staring back at him from the morning mirror—but except for occasional twinges during the winter months in Washington, DC, he still felt young.

Now he was talking with the oldest person he had ever encountered outside of those grinning centenarians he was compelled to occasionally pose with during political campaigns. Dolores de la Quinta was a long-re-tired former justice of the United States Supreme Court, who, the week before, had celebrated her ninety-fourth birthday by swimming ten vigorous laps in her indoor pool. The two of them sat in her book-lined study high in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains just to the north of Santa Fe.

“I think,” said the former justice, “that our only hope is to turn the prosecution’s arguments back against them. They’re going to argue that because of the existence of Emily’s clinic, and of others like it, extremely serious doubt can now be cast upon the legitimacy and even the very concept of interrogation by perceptualization enhancement. They’ll shout over and over again until it runs out the jury’s ears that Roderick Bantry is guilty because he was found lying in Linda Rawlings’s blood with the murder weapon in his hand and can’t explain how either he or the weapon got there.”

“Yes,” agreed Sam, “that’s exactly what the Fighting Bobcat will do. And unfortunately for Roderick, it’s a pretty damn good argument. I asked my office to do a little research: in the last fifteen years there have been at least seven instances of cases going to court in which PE has played no role at all because of circumstances similar to Roderick’s. The defendant swore he couldn’t remember what happened; interrogation by PE confirmed it; and the trial was conducted solely on the basis of the physical evidence.”

“Seven—as many as that.” Shiny black eyes blinked at Sam from a face as dark and wrinkled as a prune. Snow-white hair was pulled into a tight bun on the top of Dolores de la Quinta’s head. “What was the outcome?”

“Of the seven cases? Four guiltys, two innocents, and one mistrial, later dismissed.”

“Hrmph. Not quite the same batting average as the hanging judges have with PE.” The old jurist shook her head. “Nasty stuff, that PE, never did like it. Liked it even less when they overturned the Fifth Amendment in order to legalize it.” Her eyes glinted. “You were responsible for that, weren’t you, young man? You have much to answer for.”

“The painlusters were responsible, Madam Justice. People were fed up with them, the country was coming apart. I was just a tool.”

“And as a tool you did your part to bring it back together?”

Sam spread his hands. “There are no more painlusters.”

“Nor lots of other people who got their heads lopped off legally one way or another over the last thirty years.”

“At least they were all guilty! We know they were. And now there’s no more death penalty.”

Dolores de la Quinta snorted in a distinctly unladylike fashion. “And is that thanks to your daughter and people like her—or merely to the fact that you’d managed to kill off everyone in the country with an ounce of gumption to them?”

Sam grinned bleakly to hide his discomfort. This prickly old dragon was definitely not a pushover. No wonder she had been the most universally reviled Supreme Court Justice of the last century. “I prefer to think that the voice of the people was raised—and listened to in Washington.”

“Hrmph! Spoken like a true politician, never want to take responsibility for anything, not if they can weasel their way out of it.” The thin line of her incredibly wrinkled mouth tightened even further. “Be that as it may, however, Senator Ferron, I do thank you for getting past all my tedious guardians to bring this case to my attention. At least you’re one politician who seems to have enough sense to occasionally think about bolting the barn door before all the horses have fled.”

“So you do agree with me about the scanner? How—”

“Of course I do. If I didn’t, you wouldn’t be sitting here right now, would you? Of course we’ve got to do something about this wretched invention. And if you’d listen for a moment instead of talking all the time, that’s just what I was trying to tell you: how we’ll have to deal with this Fighting Gamecock of yours or whatever he calls himself.

“What we will say to the court, Senator Ferron, sounding, of course, as polite and reasonable as we can possibly be, is that it’s finally time that the citizens of this great country of ours took matters into their own hands and settled this whole scanner business once and for all without waiting for the big domes in Washington up there to tell them what to do, that it’s just too damned important an issue to be left to all those politicians in Congress. Here’s your golden chance, Your Honor, we’ll say to the presiding judge, whoever she may be, to prove whether Roderick Bantry is guilty or not—and in so doing, set a precedent that will go down in history with Marbury vs. Madison, Brown vs. the Board of Education, and Miranda vs. Arizona—if you have the gumption to do it, Your Honor!”

Sam exhaled a tiny sigh of relief. This ancient and legendary jurist apparently saw things exactly the way he did. “Yes,” he murmured, “yes. With any luck at all, that’s an argument that ought to resonate powerfully with a small-town New Mexico judge who wouldn’t mind seeing their name immortalized in the history books.”

“I surely hope so, young man. Because I think that’s about the only chance your son-in-law has for walking out of that courtroom a free man.”

“Yes. And except for the fact that this damn Martinez has now got his entire reputation invested in this one case, I think we could have gotten him to go along with us in trying to establish a precedent. As it is, there’s going to be an enormous amount of pressure on him from every law enforcement agency in the state to allow the scanner’s use. It’s going to be awfully hard for poor old Martinez to argue against utilizing a tool that will wipe out crime overnight.”

“Hmmm. Didn’t I once hear that identical argument being made thirty years or so ago for perceptualization enhancement?”

Sam grimaced. “I should be more precise. There’ll always be the occasional spur-of-the-moment criminal act. What the scanner will do is to keep any perpetrator from ever going undetected.”

The old woman pursed her lips dubiously. “Possibly, possibly. The one thing I’ve learned in my ninety-four years is to be very, very leery whenever I hear the words never or ever—that’s almost an iron-clad guarantee that old Mother Nature or Someone Up There has something up her sleeve that you hadn’t thought about—and that it’s going to happen just exactly the way you didn’t want it to.”

“Yes, I think that’s been the experience of my own life, too—particularly, I’d say, ever since this wretched scanner was first invented.”

“This wretched scanner,” Dolores de la Quinta muttered as she rose slowly to her feet, “this wretched scanner indeed. I certainly hope with all my being that we can get this Roderick Bantry of yours freed—primarily so that I personally can give him the horsewhipping he deserves for burdening us with such a monstrous perversity.”

“You really think it’s monstrous?”

“What I think is of no importance, young man. What I know is that it’s going to cause a monstrous amount of commotion—and that this commotion must be as regulated and as constrained as possible. I am, I hope, above all things a realist. Just because you don’t like the genie that’s come out of a particular lamp doesn’t mean that you can turn your back on him and hope he’ll go away. That’s simply a guarantee that he won’t go away.”

“If only the United States Senate were composed of people like you I’d sleep a lot sounder at night.” Sam took her dry, withered hand in his. “I’ll be forever in your debt for your help, Madam Justice. If you permit, just as soon as we’ve decided who will represent Roderick in—”

“—In court, young man?” Dolores de la Quinta drew herself up to her full five feet and fixed Sam with a basilisk’s stare. “Did you think there was any question of that? I shall represent him—and damn well, too, if I say so myself.” She marched across the room to pull open the door. “I may even sit in that damned chair that my damned family wants me to use to keep from breaking my neck—maybe it’ll make ’em feel sorry for me.”

Thirty-six years of perceptualization enhancement had not, as Dolores de la Quinta had pointed out, entirely eradicated crime. It had, however, eliminated enough of it so that the American legal system once again functioned the way it it had originally been intended to: to dispense impartial and speedy justice. The thousands of backlogged cases that had once clogged every court in the country had long since disappeared. Now it was common for cases to be disposed of in weeks instead of years. Roderick Bantry had been arrested in the middle of March; it was only because Taos’s only sitting superior court criminal judge had been in the hospital for three and a half weeks as the result of a skiing accident that Bantry’s trial started as late as the last week in May.

Roderick Bantry was, Sam knew, seven or eight years younger than Emily. He had always been darkly handsome, with a hard, muscular build and masses of curly black hair, flashing white teeth, and an unstudied arrogance that could be as appealing as it could be infuriating.

The last few years, however, had not been kind to Bantry. His once glossy hair was now a dirty salt and pepper and had receded enough to reveal a high, wrinkled forehead. His face was even more gaunt than Sam remembered in the days just before Roderick had vanished into the hands of a still unnamed department of the Federation’s security forces. Perhaps it was that exceedingly unpleasant experience, Sam reflected as he sat in the sunny Taos courtroom, and Roderick’s sudden horrible realization that even he was not, for all his godlike uniqueness, immortal after all, that had aged him. Or perhaps it was merely the fact that he had been shot three times through the chest and somehow survived that now gave his eyes a puzzled uncertainty Sam had never before seen. That, and going on trial for the murder of his wife. There were reasons Roderick might look a little ragged.

Sam squeezed his daughter’s hand. “We’ll get him off,” he whispered, “don’t you worry.”

Emily stared glumly at the back of the bench in front of her. “I guess what I’m really afraid of is that if you do manage to get the scanner introduced, we’ll… we’ll see Roderick… doing it. He easily could have, Sam, sometimes he has a terrible temper, you know he does.”

“And then really did forget killing her?”

“Yes. The trauma of being shot could easily have caused a permanent amnesia for the events leading up to it.”

“I suppose so,” said Sam dubiously. “Myself, I wonder if Martinez honestly thinks he can convince a jury that a man with three bullets in him still had the strength to grab a crystal statue and bludgeon someone to death with it—or is he just going through the motions?”

Emily shuddered. “I don’t care what his motives are. If he does prove it, then he’s going to come after me.” She buried her face in her hands. “It’s a nightmare, Sam, a nightmare! Why can’t I wake up?”

The person upon whom Roderick Bantry’s fate now depended, Superior Court Judge Harold Johansson, banged his gavel and ran a surprisingly benign blue eye across the crowded courtroom. He scratched his thicket of bristly white hair, tugged briefly at an oversized ear, and rearranged his stocky body more comfortably in his padded chair. “The court will come to order,” he said mildly. “This is the case of the People of the State of New Mexico against Roderick Bantry. Mr. Martinez, would you care to begin?”

Over the next two days the Fighting Bobcat presented his evidence deftly but methodically. Holographic pictures of Linda Rawlings lying in a pool of blood were shown. Two policemen and two ambulance interns testified to finding Roderick Bantry lying next to his wife, the bloody statuette of a stylized owl clutched in his hand. Expert witnesses conclusively proved that the figurine had been used to batter Rawlings to death. A salesclerk and the boutique’s manager testified that Linda Rawlings had indeed bought the heavy statuette earlier on the day of her murder. Holographic depositions by twelve witnesses from four states and three countries recounted vivid examples of Roderick’s openly expressed hatred for his wife.

Dolores de la Quinta sat hunched over in her ground effect chair during all this, as silent and wrinkled and motionless as a desert tortoise. Finally it was her turn to speak. A soft murmur ran through the courtroom as heads craned to see the legendary jurist. Ignoring the jury, she guided her chair directly in front of the bench and cast an unblinking gaze up at Judge Johansson.

“Your Honor,” she said in a thin but firm voice, “there is but one issue involved in this trial: the truth. Did the defendant, Roderick Bantry, kill his wife, Linda Rawlings, or didn’t he? The prosecution says he did, the defense will argue that he didn’t. There are no means to conclusively prove it one way or another. All the evidence that the prosecution has presented merely indicates that Mr. Bantry was indeed present in the room at the time that the body of Ms. Rawlings was found, nothing more. He had a bloody statuette in his hand—and three bullets in his body. The defense will not contest those facts. Nor the fact that Linda Rawlings had a gun in her hand—and no powder traces on her hand or clothes. Remarkable, wouldn’t you say? Isn’t it more likely that whoever really shot Roderick Bantry and bludgeoned Linda Rawlings to death simply placed those two objects in their hands after doing his work and then left them both for dead?”

District Attorney Martinez shook his head pityingly.

Dolores de la Quinta cleared her throat, then raised her voice. “Thirty-six years ago, Your Honor, the American people, in their collective wisdom, passed the Thirty-first Amendment, thereby permitting the use of interrogation by perceptualization enhancement. The reason they did this, to strip all the hoohah down to its bare essentials, was to enable our courtroom to establish the truth. The truth of whether an accused person is guilty or innocent. Not all of us supported the passage of that amendment, nor the subsequent use of perceptualization enhancement. But now, at this later date, none of us can honestly deny that, by and large, justice has been served. For the quest for justice, Your Honor, is a constantly evolving organism. It is hard for us to believe today, but once upon a time fingerprints were first unknown in the courtroom, and then were not admissible as evidence. The same with DNA typing. Retinal indexing. Blood classification. Not to mention the fact that women were not allowed to serve on juries. Or black men or black women. In England, the fountainhead of our own common law, even well into the end of the nineteenth century, a defendant was not permitted to testify on his own behalf. Can you believe that, Your Honor: a defendant was not permitted to testify on his own behalf!”

The judge smiled indulgently. “I do indeed believe it if you assure me that is so, Madam Justice. But the relevance to our own—”

“You will see,” snapped Dolores de la Quinta. “The point I am trying to make, Your Honor, is that the evolution of justice has followed the evolution of both technology and of our own ever-broadening perception of what constitutes justice. And justice, let me remind you, is nothing more than—” she lowered her voice dramatically “—the search for truth.”

Dolores de la Quinta swung her chair around and directed it back to the table where Roderick Bantry sat wearing the fluorescent orange overalls of a prisoner of Taos County. Every eye in the courtroom followed her movement. She laid a gnarled hand on Bantry’s arm and cocked her head defiantly. “And now it’s time, Your Honor, for us to take the next step up in this constantly evolving quest for truth, the step that will irrefutably tell us exactly what happened in room 128 of the Casa Grande Motel on the night of January 16th. There is only one way to discover the truth, Your Honor, and that is by the use of what is commonly referred to as the time scanner. If it please the court, I therefore ask you to direct that a time scanner be brought into this room and that it be used to show us the true events of the night in question.”

Pandemonium in the courtroom.

Judge Johansson blinked owlishly and eventually gaveled the room to silence. “A curious suggestion,” he said softly, his shaggy eyebrows drawn into a frown.

“And one totally without precedent!” cried District Attorney Martinez. “With all due respect to the… the aged and distinguished counselor, I have never heard such a nonsensical—”

“He’s been caught completely off guard,” whispered Sam happily. “I can’t believe it! Here he’s prosecuting the inventor of a time scanner and it’s never occurred to him that he might want to use a scanner to defend himself!”

“True,” agreed Dolores de la Quinta, “this particular technique is totally without precedent. But the admission of fingerprints as evidence was once totally without precedent. And so were all the other forensic advances that today we take for granted in the courtroom.” Her ground effect chair moved forward until she was once again directly beneath the judge. “I have three other points to make, Your Honor.

“First: a defendant is entitled to present all relevant evidence in his defense. If that evidence can only be gathered by scanner, then the scanner must be used.

“Second: it has long since been settled that the individual states can provide defendants with rights additional to those already guaranteed under the Federal Constitution. This is clearly a case where those additional rights must be granted. Just because the legal ostriches and stick-in-the-muds in Washington are unable to formulate any coherent code governing the operation of the time scanner, does that mean that the People of New Mexico must be forever deprived of its benefits?”

Three spectators in different parts of the courtroom burst into lusty applause. It rattled on for a surprisingly long moment before Judge Johansson raised his gavel to tap for silence.

“And third,” concluded Dolores de la Quinta, her voice gradually rising to a near-shout, “just as today we find it barely imaginable that a defendant in a nineteenth-century English courtroom was legally barred from testifying on his own behalf, so someday future generations will find it equally unbelievable that a defendant in twenty-first-century New Mexico could also be barred from testifying on his own behalf!”

“Ridiculous!” shouted Roberto Martinez. “Absurd! Absolutely pre—”

“Not preposterous at all,” murmured Dolores de la Quinta in little more than a hoarse whisper as she sank back into her chair as if totally exhausted. “If you, Judge Harold Johansson, now deny the right of my client to testify in your courtroom on his own behalf, you shall be remembered forever in the history of this country, just as Justice Taney is still remembered for his role in the Dred Scott decision. If, on the other hand, you permit Roderick Bantry to prove his innocence by using the time scanner to testify on his own behalf, then—” the old woman shrugged helplessly “—who knows how history will remember you? The choice, Your Honor, is yours.”

“But either way, I believe you are saying, my name will go down in history, is that it?” Judge Johansson smiled as sardonically as his normally cherubic features would permit. “Well, well. Roger Taney, eh? Nicely done, Madam Justice. A nicely sprung trap you have—”

‘Your Honor is not possibly consid—” interrupted the district attorney in horrified tones.

“Do be quiet, Mr. Martinez,” said the judge mildly, “and let me make up my own mind.” He returned his attention to Dolores de la Quinta. “As I understand the workings of the time scanner—and there was an excellent article about them in last month’s Scientific American, it takes both a graviton reader and an Optical Cell Lattice Image Processor, commonly known as an O-CLIP computer, to produce the effect.”

“That is correct, Your Honor.”

“And where would you procure a graviton reader?”

“I wouldn’t need to. There are already a number of them in geostationary orbit, placed there by the University of Hawaii. Readings from those instruments can be input into computers anywhere in the world. Time scans have been made as far back as seven years in the—”

“But these graviton readers were placed in orbit surreptitiously, were they not? There is, in fact, no official confirmation by any accredited authority that they do in fact actually exist? There is no evidentiary trail, so to speak?”

“The Federation, Your Honor. The Federation has—”

“The Federation carries no weight whatsoever in this courtroom, Madam Justice. So I see no way for you to prove to my satisfaction that these hypothetical objects in orbit are actually providing authentic data for the functioning of an O-CLIP computer. Therefore you may not count on using them for your proposed time scanner.”

Dolores de la Quinta gestured impatiently as if brushing away a pesky fly. “There is still no problem, Your Honor. The physics department of the University of New Mexico at Santa Fe is one of the leading research centers in the world in the development of graviton readers. If you would be good enough to direct that they bring an up-to-date model to the courtroom, along with their own independent expert to operate it, that would easily fulfill our needs.”

“Hmmm. The court will take that proposal under advisement.” Judge Johansson pursed his lips. “Then what about the O-CLIP computer, Madam Justice? They are, as you know, strictly regulated by Federal law, and there are very few of them in existence.”

“There is one nearby, in the trauma room of the Sunny and Harmony Hallowell Trauma Center at Eagle Nest Lake. It would be a simple matter to patch it into the courtroom. With, of course, sufficient protocols to satisfy you of its authenticity.

“Hmmm. To use the O-CLIP would also certainly be a violation of Federal law.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not, Your Honor. The Supreme Court has never actually ruled on the constitutionality of the various restrictions placed on O-CLIP computers. There are four separate cases now working their way toward the Court; I believe that eventually all restrictions will be overthrown.”

“The Congress has also placed severe restrictions on the use of time scanners—they have, in fact, expressly forbidden their use. Are you asking this court to participate in a criminal action, Madam Justice?”

“In light of the very serious issues involved, Your Honor, I honestly believe that in this case the rights of the defendant clearly outweigh the constraints of the government.”

“And do you have something to say, Mr. Martinez?”

“Yes, I do, Your Honor!” The district attorney’s face was grim. “First of all, I want to say that the… the learned counselor is talking about witchcraft! She is trying to bully the courtroom back into the days of the Salem witch trials, in which guilt or innocence was determined by whether or not the witches could float! Furthermore…” The Fighting Bobcat continued at some length.

“I see,” said Judge Johansson at last. “What you actually seem to be saying is that you don’t care to see this time scanner used if it might possibly show the innocence of the defendant instead of his guilt.”

“Not at all. Your Honor! What I am saying is—”

“Say no more, Mr. Martinez.” The judge turned to consider the clock on the wall. “Is it sheer coincidence, Madam Justice, that the defendant’s request for this court to engage in what may well be a violation of Federal statutes should come precisely at the end of a Friday afternoon, well after everything in Washington officialdom is solidly closed for the weekend and the chance of a restraining order being issued is vanishingly small? Yes, it is sheer coincidence?” Judge Johansson smiled skeptically. “Well, then, let us take advantage of what small kindnesses fate occasionally hands us.” He gestured to the uniformed bailiff sitting at the side of the courtroom.

“Horace, you will make the necessary arrangements for court to convene tomorrow morning at eight o’clock.”

“Saturday morning, Your Honor? You’re not going fish—”

“Saturday morning, Horace. Maybe that way we can avoid unnecessary interference from… busybodies. Although I’m afraid that for you yourself this may well mean a full night’s work. You will need to do the following things, Hor—Mr. Bailiff.

“You will procure from the university’s physics department a functioning, up-to-date graviton reader, along with a qualified and credentialed person from the university to operate it.

“You will also arrange for a link to be established between this courtroom and the O-CLIP room at the Hallowell Trauma Center on a restricted access basis. You, and whatever computer expert we have available, will go to the O-CLIP room and monitor the proceedings so that that expert will be able to testify to the integrity of the computer’s operations.

“You will make certain that the data are being transmitted with an RSA encryption algorithm, and you will furthermore make certain that you alone are given the password. You will hand-carry the password to this courtroom and give it to me tomorrow morning. And you will find someone—” his eyes flicked briefly across Emily Ferron “—someone not connected in any way to the Hallo-well Clinic who can operate the O-CLIP from a computer terminal here in the courtroom. Is all this clear?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“And does this meet what you consider the necessary requirements, Madam Justice?”

“Yes, Your Honor. We have, as it happens, a person available who will be able to direct the operators of the two machines in order to make them function as a time scanner.”

Judge Johansson sniffed drily. “I had little doubt of it.” He banged his gavel just as District Attorney Martinez rose to speak. “Court is adjourned until eight tomorrow morning, when we will at least look into the question as to whether any evidence procured by this admittedly unorthodox means may be admitted.”

“He did it,” marveled Emily above the sudden surge of noise in the courtroom as she gripped Sam’s arm tightly, “he did it! And without even arguing.”

“As Mr. Dooley said a long time before even I was born, even the Supreme Court follows the election returns. It looks like Judge Johansson has been following the time scanner debates—and probably knows almost as much about running them as Roderick does. And I’d also say that he definitely has an eye on his own place in history.”

Emily turned to her father with a sudden glint in her own eye. “Dad! The fix is in? You’ve… you’ve gotten to Judge Johansson?”

Sam smiled complacently. “Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies.” He patted his daughter’s knee. “Besides, youngster, your opinion of me would go down if I just out and out denied it.”

If possible, the courtroom was even more jammed Saturday morning than it had been the day before. The overflow extended out through the rest of the courthouse, and a state policeman ushered Sam and Emily into the building through an inconspicuous side entrance. “Looks like Judge Johansson and the governor have got the state cops out in force to prevent the federales and the Federation from getting in and doing anything awkward like arresting the presiding judge,” murmured Sam as they were led through a mob of media people into the courtroom.

“Sam! The fix is in!”

Sam winked. “You’ll never know.”

“Not even if I used a scanner to find out?”

“Damn! I hadn’t thought of that.” Sam shouldered his way through the crowd to where their seats awaited. “Just one more example of why what’s happening here today is so important: we’ve just got to get those guys in Washington off their butts and thinking about how we’re going to handle situations just exactly like that.”

Emily perched on the edge of her seat, her eyes darting about the courtroom as she tried to locate her former husband. “Knowing you, I’m sure you’ve eighteen proposals of your own all ready to roll into place just as soon as—”

“The court will rise!” the bailiff shouted as Judge Johansson entered through a concealed door in the panelled wall and took his place on the bench.

The judge cast his mild eye about the courtroom. “Horace? Is everything—and everybody—here that I asked for?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Then you will seal the courtroom. Place guards at every door. Lock the doors. No one is to be permitted in or out for any reason, any reason! Very well, then, Madam Justice, you may proceed.”

An hour later the preliminaries had been attended to. The jury, to its evident displeasure, had been removed from the courtroom. The suitcasesized graviton reader from the University of New Mexico and its resident expert sat below and to the right of Judge Johansson. A keyboard with its own small monitor sat next to a larger monitor on a table to the judge’s left. Cables ran back and forth across the floor, some of them to a standard comm outlet. Judge Johansson’s clerk, a longtime computer devotee, sat in front of the keyboard. Beside him sat Dolores de la Quinta’s expert on time scanning: a Ph.D. in astrophysics from the University of London. A dozen cameras recorded the courtroom from every conceivable angle.

“Very well,” said Judge Johansson, “I am satisfied that we are now connected to the O-CLIP computer at the Hallowell Clinic and to nowhere else. You would agree, Mr. Martinez?”

“Yes, Your Honor, but—”

“Madam Justice?”

“Yes, Your Honor. Now, if I might—”

“Later, perhaps.” The judge turned to the astrophysicist. “I am informed that a time scanner based on a portable graviton reader such as this one is rather severely limited in its field of operation?”

“Yes. The reader we have here is a slightly different model from what I have previously seen, but I would estimate that its range from this spot in the courtroom would probably be limited to a radius of fifty or sixty meters and to perhaps a year or eighteen months into the past.”

“I see. Today is May 29th. Linda Rawlings was killed on January 16th, approximately four and a half months ago. Disregarding for the moment where the crime was committed, that date would be within the working limits of this time scanner?”

“If it works at all, it certainly should be.”

The judge scratched his cheek for a long moment. “Very well,” he said at last. “You see that clock on the courtroom wall?”

“Yes, Your Honor. It says that it is 9:16 A M. May 29th, 2076.”

“You could now focus your scanner solely upon that clock, and keep it focused there while you… move back in time, I suppose we must say.”

“Yes.”

“All right.” Judge Johansson nodded first to Dolores de la Quinta, then to District Attorney Martinez. “What I am trying to do here is two things: to test the capabilities of this device; and to preserve as much privacy as possible while doing so. If this machine is ever to come into general use, privacy and the freedom from unwanted intrusion will be major concerns. I believe that for the moment, at least, I have found a satisfactory means of achieving the latter. You may correct me at any time if you find a flaw in my procedure.” He turned back to the astrophysicist. “Very well, would you please activate your device and focus it upon that wall clock. Make it as large as possible on the screen.”

The Englishwoman murmured a few words to the computer operator beside her, then walked over to sit down beside the graviton reader and its operator. A few minutes later data from the reader began to flow to the O-CLIP computer in the trauma room of the Sunny and Harmony Hallowell Trauma Center twenty-one miles away.

An image took shapeon the monitor. “Nine twenty-three A.M.,” said Judge Johansson, leaning forward to read the black-and-white characters, “May 29th, 2076. Very well. Now take it slowly back to yesterday, keeping it focused on the clock. All right, 8:43, 7:21,6:14…”

It took nearly a minute before the display on the screen read 9:22 AM, May 28th, 2076. The judge pursed his lips, then nodded slightly. “Very well, speed it up if you can. Take it back to precisely 8:30 A.M. on the morning of January 16th.”

The date appeared on the screen. A soft murmur ran through the courtroom.

“Good. Now, then, I am going to hand to both Mr. Martinez and to Ms. de la Quinta a sealed envelope. Inside those envelopes is a brief description of what my daily log says I was doing in my chambers between 8:30 and 9:00 on the morning of January 16th. I will ask them to open those envelopes at the conclusion of this demonstration.” He turned back to the astrophysicist.

“You see that doorway in the wall just behind me? Behind that door is a short passageway that leads to the door to my chambers. My chambers should be directly behind where I am presently sitting. Can you move your image from where it is on the clock into the center of my chambers?”

“I believe so, Your Honor.” The Englishwoman left her seat by the graviton reader and returned to the computer operator. She whispered instructions. The picture on the screen blurred, then disappeared. It was replaced a few moments later by an incomprehensible swirl of images that suddenly solidified into what was clearly the corner of a desk. The astrophysicist murmured further instructions. The desk receded until the picture on the monitor was that of a book-lined office. Three people were frozen around the desk.

Once again the courtroom stirred. “Can you… track in a little closer?” asked the judge. “Just so that we can see who the people are. Yes, just like that, that’s fine, stop!” Judge Johansson leaned forward, peering at the screen. “Yes, that is clearly me sitting behind the desk; that is my clerk, Mr. Wesson, who seems to be handing me a paper; and the person sitting in front of us is, I would say, Ms. Lucinda Ellacott of the New Mexico Bar Association. You would agree with me, Mr. Martinez? Ms. de la Quinta?”

The district attorney sighed plaintively. “I would, with reservations, agree, Your Honor.” His lips were tight.

“Ms. de la Quinta?”

“I agree, without reservations.”

“Good. Now, if we could activate the scanner so that we can see what actually transpires during the course of the next thirty minutes…”

Very little, actually. By the time the slightly jerky, black-and-white picture of three people chatting around a desk had reached the fifteen-minute mark the courtroom had grown noticeably restless. Watching lips moving and hands gesturing in total silence was not the high drama the spectators had come to see, no matter how miraculous the process behind it might be.

“Shall we move on?” muttered the judge impatiently after another five minutes of the same thing. “Would you care to open your envelopes? Mr. Martinez, might you read aloud what you find there?”

The district attorney scowled down at the paper in his hand, then began to read aloud. “ ‘My log says that on the morning of January 16, 2076, I had a meeting with Lucinda Ellacott of the New Mexico Bar Association between 8:15 and 9:15 A.M. concerning a proposed revision in the pension plan for retired judges. I do remember that meeting, and what was discussed. I have no specific memory of the fact, but I assume that Christopher Wesson, my clerk, was also present, as he generally is whenever I meet with members of the Bar Association.’ ” The Fighting Bobcat’s scowl deepened. “That’s all it says.”

Judge Johansson nodded. “As a fair-minded person, would you say that the demonstration of the time scanner up to this point would seem to indicate that it does indeed function as advertised?”

The district attorney hesitated, bit his lip, and finally nodded reluctantly. “Seems to, Your Honor, seems to. But I would caution—”

“Very well, then. I hearby rule that evidence procured by viewing the time scanner may be entered into evidence with the same degree of credibility or non-credibility attached to it as might be given to any other eyewitness account. Bailiff, you may bring the jury back—we are ready to proceed.”

A short while later the bailiff, the graviton reader, its operator, and the Ph.D., escorted by a phalanx of armed state policemen, were taken from the courtroom through the judge’s private entrance. A two-meter comm screen was hung on the wall facing the jury. Thirty-five minutes after he had departed the courtroom, the bailiffs face appeared on the screen.

“We are now in the parking lot of the Casa Grande Motel,” said the bailiff. The picture changed, to show him standing in front of several cars and the bottom floor of the adobe-walled motel. The others in his group were clustered around the graviton reader, which could be seen on the floor of an open van. “That room there,” said the bailiff, turning to point at a door, “is room 128, where the body of Linda Rawlings was found. It is approximately ten meters from the… so-called time scanner in the van.”

“Very well,” said Judge Johansson, “you may direct them to begin scanning. It has been established that Rawlings left the defendant’s room in the Easy Rest Hotel next door at approximately 10:45 P.M. in the evening of January 16th. You will tell them to focus the machine upon the interior of room 128, beginning at 10:45 P.M. of January 16th, and to leave it there going forward in real time until I tell them otherwise.”

“First we’re going to have to focus it on something that will tell us what day and what time it is,” pointed out the voice of the English astrophysicist. “Otherwise there’s no way to calibrate the operation of a cobbled-together device like this.”

“Hrmph. I hadn’t thought of that. What do you suggest, then? Remember, privacy must be absolutely safeguarded.”

“The motel office is well within our operating radius. Why don’t we focus the scanner on its clock just as we did in the courtroom and then move back in time until we come to the evening of the 16th? Then we could switch the picture over to room 128 without any great problem.”

“You have no objection to that, Mr. Martinez?”

“Your Honor,” said the district attorney wearily, “I have so many objections to this entire proceeding that I can scarcely enumerate them.”

“Well, in that case, I’ll just let you enumerate them all to the appeals court if you should happen to lose this case.” The judge turned his attention to the screen. “Mr. Bailiff, you may proceed as you have suggested.”

The courtroom monitor connected to the Hallowell Clinic’s O-CLIP computer once again showed a clock’s display, this one reading 29 May 2076, 11:04:31. The hands of the clerk sitting next to the monitor moved swiftly over the keyboard in response to instructions from the Englishwoman as she stood in the motel parking lot. The numerals on the clock began to change faster than the eye could follow. Within a minute the display read 16 January 2076, 22:45:47.

“All right,” said the judge. “Now let’s jump into room 128.”

The first thing the monitor showed was a rumpled bed covered with carelessly strewn clothing, then the image expanded to show the rest of what appeared to be an ordinary motel room. “Can you move it around a little to show us the door?” requested Judge Johansson. In a series of jerks the picture moved back and forth until the door became visible. “Fine,” said the judge. “Now let’s just go forward in real time until we see what happens.”

There was absolute silence in the courtroom as two hundred pairs of eyes focused on the monitor and its unchanging picture. Sam could feel his own tension building as he glanced from time to time to where Roderick Bantry sat as if carved from stone, his cheeks gaunt, his eyes smoldering. What could it be like for him, Sam wondered, as he sat there not knowing if the next thing he saw on the screen might be a picture of himself murdering his wife?

The minutes ticked by.

Sixteen minutes later the door opened and a disheveled Linda Rawlings lurched into the room. Even on the small black and white screen she radiated an unmistakable aura of acute agitation. The door behind her had remained open. Now a man came through it and pushed it shut. Sam heard Emily’s sharp intake of breath as they both leaned forward to study the monitor.

Emily let out a half-sob. The man on the screen was clearly not Roderick Bantry. He was shorter, broader, and older, with shaggy, unkempt hair that fell to his shoulders and dark, unshaven jowls. His bulky figure was jammed into an ill-fitting sweater and baggy pants that nearly hid his feet.

Linda Rawlings swung around to confront the man, her face strained and her arms swinging wildly as she appeared to shout at him. The man immediately began to shout back, his own arms working up and down as he punctuated his words with broad gestures. The argument continued for some minutes, until Linda Rawlings leapt at the man and hit him solidly on the ear with her left fist. The man staggered and half-fell against a corner table. Rawlings stood over him, her eyes distended and her mouth working furiously.

As the man climbed awkwardly to his feet, he knocked over a glass statuette that had been sitting on the table in a pile of wrapping paper. He stared at the stylized crystal owl blankly, then reached down to pick it up. He held it in both hands for a long moment, then suddenly jumped forward and swung it at Linda Rawlings. The owl glanced off her shoulder and her face contorted, first in shock, then in agony. Her assailant raised the statuette and began to rain blows upon her head and shoulders. Rawlings fell first to her hands and knees, then sprawled across the floor. Blood began to flow from beneath her.

The courtroom sat in shocked silence as the man looked down at the motionless body, his mouth slack. Slowly he backed away until he subsided bonelessly into a chair, the bloody statuette dangling unnoticed from his left hand.

For the next seven minutes he sat as if in a coma, then slowly began to stir. He dropped the owl to the floor, then fumbled beneath his sweater to bring forth a palmtop computer. He consulted it, then began to speak into his wristphone. Sam wondered what he was saying, although he was fairly certain whom he had called. It suddenly occurred to Sam that someday, if scanners never evolved to the point where they could pick up sounds, court-appointed lip readers would almost certainly become a standard adjunct to their use.

Whatever the man heard on his wristphone, it seemed to satisfy him. He rose to his feet and crossed to the door, carefully bypassing the still spreading pool of blood. He stood fidgeting by the door, one hand jammed deep into a pants pocket. Sam darted a glance at Roderick Bantry, who was staring at the monitor with single-minded attention. It was a pretty easy guess as to what was in the man’s pocket.

Even so, it still came as a shock to see the small automatic pistol being jerked from the pocket in almost the same motion as the man pulled the door open with his other hand. He took two steps backwards and then, as Roderick Bantry stepped into the room, raised the gun and fired it point-blank into Bantry’s chest.

Bantry’s face contorted and he fell to the floor. His assailant pushed the door shut and fired two more shots into the body, then vanished into the bathroom and returned with a small towel. He used the towel to wipe both the crystal statuette and the gun. When that was done, he stuffed the now-bloody towel under his sweater and bent over the two bodies. When he had finished, the automatic was in Linda Rawlings’s hand and the statuette in Roderick’s. The man contemplated his work for a moment, then used his foot to nudge Bantry’s arm forward, pushing the statuette into the pool of blood. Satisfied at last, he took a last glance around the room, then moved to the door and stepped out into the night.

An excited babble cascaded across the courtroom. Eventually Judge Johansson succeeded in gaveling the room to silence. Lips pursed, he leaned forward and cocked his head at Dolores de la Quinta. “The court will entertain any motions you may care to make, Madam Justice. Do you have any?”

In her excitement, the ancient jurist jumped to her feet from her ground effect chair and hobbled to the bench with surprising speed. “I do, indeed, Your Honor. I move that the charges against the defendant, Roderick Bantry, be dismissed and that he be freed immediately.”

“Mr. Martinez, you have something to say in response to that?”

“Your Honor, I need time to—”

“Too late, Mr. Martinez, I’m afraid that time is of the essence here, as time and tide and Federal restraining orders wait for no man.” Judge Johansson turned to where Roderick Bantry sat, apparently half-dazed.

“Mr. Bantry, the charges against you are hereby dismissed. You are free to go.” The judge tapped his gavel. “Court is dismissed,” he declared and sat back in his padded chair, a whimsical little smile on his lips. Whatever the depth of the hole he had just dug for himself with the government or the Federation, Judge Harold Johansson had firmly cemented his place in history.

“Sam, you did it, you did it!” An elated Emily threw her arms around her father and squeezed fiercely. “He’s a free man!”

Sam too was elated, but for somewhat different reasons. The scanner logjam had finally been broken; now the Congressional knuckleheads would have to live up to their responsibilities.

And Sam could finally return to his wife and kids in peaceful retirement.

“Linda’s murderer was her lawyer?” Roderick Bantry was listlessly incredulous. “That ambulance chaser Ingersoll she was always threatening me with?”

“Carlos Ingersoll the Third, to give him his complete moniker,” amplified Sam. “You never met him?”

“No. And I refused to take his phone calls. So I never even knew what he looked like.” Bantry shook his head as his thoughts traveled back to the courtroom procedures of two days before. “That’s a pretty eerie sensation, you know, watching someone you don’t even know just standing there pumping bullets into you. And knowing that he really wants to kill you.”

“Well, if you don’t start pumping some food into yourself,” declared Marianna Ferron fervently, “you’re going look like he did kill you, Roderick Bantry! Eat! You look like a corpse! And you could try smiling a bit, too. This is supposed to be a celebration!” Sam’s Brazilian-born wife, twenty years his junior, exploded with laughter. A dark and sultry beauty, she was a cheerful extrovert, totally fearless and almost entirely unmindful of what she said. She reached across the linen-covered table to push Roderick’s scarcely touched lobster tails into a more alluring position, then grimly held the bowl of homemade green mayonnaise under his chin until he served himself another portion.

“Thank you, Marianna,” said Roderick with very little of the robust vitality that up to now had always driven him. “It’s all very good. It’s just…” His voice trailed off.

Marianna grinned disgustedly, then flashed her dark eyes at Emily, who was sitting at Bantry’s right. “Well then, you just keep him here until we fatten him and get some of the old snap back into him.” She snorted. “This isn’t the Roderick Bantry I used to know, always ready to kick me in the ass if I even said boo to him!”

Emily grinned and reached up to tweak Roderick’s gaunt cheek. “Hear that, skinny? We’re going to have to keep you right here until you’re fit for polite society again.”

Roderick forced a wan smile and took a tentative bite of lobster, his eyes downcast.

Bruce Ferron, Sam and Marianna’s sixteen-year-old son, shook his head in disgust at the embarrassing antics of the elders in his family and applied himself with gusto to a third serving of mayonnaise-drenched lobster. “Well, come on, Dad,” he mumbled around a mouthful of food, “don’t just stop there! So it was Linda’s lawyer who shot Uncle Roderick. How did they figure that out?”

Sam took a healthy swig of the Laurent Perrier Grand Siècle he had found in Santa Fe for this so-far not very festive celebration dinner. “Well, after Judge Johansson—long may the learned jurist flourish!—cleared the courtroom, he then unofficially and, I suppose, illegally let Fighting Bob Martinez and the police use the scanner to backtrack the guy who killed Linda. They even found someone in City Hall who could lip-read to see what he was saying when he talked to Roderick.”

“Wow!”

“Wow is right. They followed him back to his own room in the same hotel and watched him check out the next morning as if nothing had happened. That made it a cinch to find out who he was and to trace him back to the Big Island. A little bit of liaison work with the Island police and it became apparent that he and Linda had been having an affair for some time—and apparently plotting to get their hands on as much of Roderick’s eventual Nobel money as possible, as well as any other money he might make from the scanner.”

“Bitch!” muttered Bantry, for the first time that evening showing any real animation.

Sam shrugged. “I guess that as long as you were still married to her, they were going to argue that the money, or your expectation of it, was all part of the community property. So now our Fighting Bobcat is saying that when the two of them decided that you really meant it about divorcing her, no matter what the consequences might be, they became desperate, especially when you then came over here to see Emily. They followed you, taking separate rooms in the same motel. Both of them sound as if they were half-crazy by this time, hardly able to tell reality from what they were getting from their VR implants. We’ll probably never know exactly what their original intentions were, but it’s significant that he brought a gun along.”

Roderick Bantry shook his head wonderingly, no longer making even a pretense of eating. “It never occurred to them that someday someone might use a scanner to look in on whatever they were doing?”

“Remember that it didn’t occur to Fighting Bob Martinez either. And he wasn’t completely looped out on dope or VR like they were.” Sam leaned across the table to tap his finger against the top of Bantry’s hand. “I tell you, Roderick, this scanner of yours is going to change the world in more ways we still don’t know about than any other invention in history. So along with the Nobel, you’re going to have to get used to taking all the brickbats that come with it.”

Bantry snorted sullenly. “You think I haven’t been taking them—ever since this whole damned scanner business started six or seven years ago?” He glanced guiltily at Emily, then turned his gaze back to his lobster.

“Hey, come on!” protested Bruce. “You guys can talk philosophy about changing the world later on; I want to know what happened!”

“And how did this awful… ambulance chaser, you called him? get Roderick to go over to Linda’s room?” demanded Marianna. “Didn’t Roderick just say that he wouldn’t even speak to him?”

Sam shrugged. “This is pretty unofficial, but the lip reader said that it looked as if when Ingersoll called Roderick he said that he was Linda’s new legal counsel, not Carlos Ingersoll, and that he was only in town for a few hours. He said he had prepared a quitclaim document that would get Linda off his back forever. So Roderick—probably not thinking very clearly after being chewed up and down by Linda, agreed to go to his room to look at it. And you at least know the rest.”

Sam raised his glass to Bantry. “You’re a lucky man, Roderick—you must have someone watching over you. Or you’re an awfully stubborn one. Somehow you managed to push the emergency caller on your wrist-phone—if you hadn’t, you’d have bled to death in another half-hour or so.”

“Wow!” repeated Bruce, his eyes gleaming. “So now they’ve arrested Ingersoll and they’re going to put him on trial?”

“Absolutely not!” snorted Sam. “He’s still in Hawaii, as free as a bird. Judge Johansson’s order that he be examined under perceptualization enhancement on the basis of what we saw on the scanner is being appealed. Ingersoll’s lawyer is saying, of course, that it’s inadmissible even as preliminary evidence. So while the appeal grinds along, the Taos police are trying to find enough physical evidence to let them apply again. Once they do question him under PE, of course, he’ll be extradited, tried, and convicted.”

“Wowee,” muttered Bruce incredulously, “that’s absolutely weird! Everyone in the whole world watched him kill her and then no one can arrest him!”

Sam nodded and forked an asparagus tip into his mouth. “When I get back to Washington, maybe I can use this whole mess to pound a little sense into my colleagues’ heads and see if we can finally get something done to change the situation.”

“I sure hope so,” said Bruce with the same vibrant enthusiasm of his mother, “cause I know what I want to do as soon as I can—and that’s to work with scanners and O-CLIPs and put people like Ingersoll away where they belong—” he directed a sly glance at Emily, who had placed her hand on top of Bantry’s “—and to keep people like Uncle Roderick where he belongs.”

EDITOR’S NOTE: This story continues the series, including, “Under the Wings of Owls,” January 1994; “To Change a Memory,” March 1994; “Pandora’s Scanner,” June 1994 and “Mid-Wife,” September 1994.