The Flag on Gorbachev Crater

13. The Hearing

Mrs. Kuiper was waiting by the breakfast table with great anticipation.

Beckwith entered first. “Morning,” he mumbled. He settled slowly and carefully into his chair.

“Good morning, sir,” she said cheerfully. She checked him out quickly. As promised, he was delivered to the table shaved, showered, and impeccably dressed. The only indications of an eventful night were slight bags under his eyes.

Counselor Beckwith downed the two aspirin with the orange juice, and poured a cup of coffee from the carafe.

The housekeeper said cautiously, “Will the young lady be joining us?”

“Right here, Mrs. Kuiper,” declared az-Zahra. She gave the older woman a sparkling smile. “And a beautiful good morning to you!”

Mrs. Kuiper stared. Her first thought was—this is not az-Zahra, this is somebody else. This radiant woman cannot be yesterday’s child! But of course it was so. Az-Zahra, the Shining One.

The girl had combed her light red-gold hair into long locks that fell about her shoulders. She wore a skirt and jacket in matching pastel greens. Her hps and cheeks were their own natural pink.

Mrs. Kuiper gulped and looked over at Beckwith. Did he see what she saw? Obviously not. The man must be blind.

The newcomer leaned over the table and picked up a muffin. “I don’t want much, and I’ve got some things to do before we go. Mrs. K, were you able to reserve a taxi for eight-thirty?”

“Yes, miss. They swore they’d have one at the entrance.”

“Good. Thank you. Now, can you help me down the hall a moment? We’ll let Sidi finish his breakfast in peace.”

“Of course.”

Out of earshot, az-Zahra spoke softly to the older woman. “He had a bad night, but he’s fine now. After we’re gone, would you mind calling the custodian about the broken glass. And also call the furniture store. Perhaps you can find a nice replacement for the chair?”

“I’ll take care of everything.”

The girl finished the muffin and wiped her fingers on the napkin Mrs. Kuiper handed her. “I have to pick up Sidi’s brief case and a canvas bag in the library. Then we’re ready to go.”

A group was standing around the holo in the reception room as they entered the Ethics Section. Beckwith heard one of the men say quietly, “The Gagarin has now synchronized with Ganymede.” Someone said, “Yeah, they’re decelerating, moving in.”

“Come on,” he mumbled morosely to the girl. They brushed past. Beyond, in the bay, they sensed office doors easing open behind them, and then the quiet scuffling of shoes, especially high heels, all against a barely noticeable wash of muffled whispers.

They entered the Hearing Room at exactly nine. Save for Irwin Smerll, the room was empty. Beckwith was not surprised. Evidently the Ethics Director intended to hold center stage.

As soon as they were seated Smerll began. (Straight out of the Manual, thought Beckwith.) “This Hearing is convened pursuant to lawful Notice, and is for the purpose of considering the matters stated in that Notice. Parties giving testimony are allowed considerable informality. However, in case of specific objections, the Federal Rules of Evidence will be followed.” He looked down the table toward Beckwith. “Are there any questions or comments?”

“Yes.” Beckwith stood up. “For the record I note attendance of az-Zahra, my fiancée and assistant.”

The young woman rose and bowed modestly. As they sat down she whispered, “Fiancée? We’re to be married?”

He whispered back, “Yes. I’m after your money. Now be quiet.”

Under the table she rubbed his leg with a slipperless foot.

Smerll acknowledged the introduction curtly. “May we now begin? Very well. We’ll address the questions in the order stated in the Notice. The first question is, is Mr. Beckwith contributing to the delinquency of a female minor, namely one az-Zahra. How do you answer, Mr. Beckwith?”

“Denied,” said Beckwith calmly.

“Do you live in the same apartment with the aforesaid minor?”, asked Smerll.

“Yes.”

“Have you had sexual intercourse with her?”

“Objection,” said Beckwith firmly, “on the grounds that an answer might tend to incriminate me.”

“You don’t have to do that, Sidi,” said az-Zahra. She rose from the table, walked over to the credenza, and punched a set of numbers into the visi.

By golly, thought Beckwith, she memorized the number!

A weary face appeared on the monitor. “Marriage Bureau, may I help you?”

“We want to be married.”

“I see you, lady, but where is he?”

“Right here,” said Beckwith. He walked up beside her.

Smerll found his voice. “This is absolutely preposterous!”

They ignored him and duly proceeded with the ceremony, which, after the prescribed questions, answers, and payment, was duly registered in the Vital Statistics of the District of Columbia.

“In any case, Mr. Smerll,” the new groom observed mildly, “you’re really in no position to complain. Several of your allegations are based on the proposition that we are not married.”

Smerll clenched his teeth. “If the circus is over, can we return to the legitimate business of this Hearing?”

“Good idea,” said az-Zahra. She and Beckwith went back to their chairs. She called over to the Ethics Director, “We demand dismissal of questions 1, 2, and 3, all dealing with Mr. Beckwith’s alleged improper treatment of me as a minor. In view of our marriage, these questions must be considered moot.”

“Oh, all right.” He added grimly, “But be it noted, this stipulation has nothing to do with questions of illegal entry and deportation.”

“You’re quite wrong,” said Beckwith. “Since she is now married to a U.S. citizen, illegal entry is no longer grounds for deportation.”

“Marriage be damned!” cried Smerll. “She’s crazy, Beckwith, and you know it. She claims she sailed on a magic carpet from Spain a thousand years ago and landed in Virginia last year. Lunacy is still grounds for deportation.”

“Wrong again,” replied Beckwith amiably. “In view of her marriage, her mental condition is no longer the concern of the Immigration Service. We should move on, Mr. Smerll.”

“Okay, let it go for now. But how about Question 6, jewel smuggling?” He leered over the table toward az-Zahra. “Do you want to tell us how you got those things into the country?”

“I’ll take that one,” said Beckwith. “She has explained how they were sewn into the fabric of her traveling rug. She did not register them at a port of entry because she did not know there was even a country called the United States, or for that matter, a continent named North America. In 1236 such things were not known in Spain. Furthermore, the jewels are her personal property, in her lawful possession when she entered the country, and they all qualify as duty-free antiques under the two-hundred year rule. As I’m sure you’re aware, if the artifact is at least two hundred years old, it’s presumptively an antique, and duty-free. Not one was smuggled. Try something else, Mr. Smerll.”

Smerll hesitated a moment, then laughed in harsh short bursts. “We always come back to that flight from Spain in 1236, don’t we? The jewels weren’t smuggled because they date back to 1236. The lady didn’t enter illegally because the United States didn’t exist when she left Spain. Well, if we believe that, we should be able to believe in flying carpets and movement in time. I for one am not so gullible.” He picked up a document from the table in front of him. “This is a patent application, filed by Mrs. Beckwith in collusion with you, Mr. Beckwith. It describes a flying carpet, and firmly asserts, under penalty of perjury, that this carpet can carry a person backward or forward in time, and over great distances. A more flagrant example of fraud on the Patent Office is difficult to imagine.” He smiled down at the newlyweds. “This is a crime, and it requires punishment.”

Beckwith now stood up. He laid his hands on the canvas bag. “Mr. Smerll, since there seems to be considerable doubt as to the working of the rug, I should mention that we brought a sample. We can demonstrate operability right here.”

“No sir, no indeed,” said Smerll coldly. “You can fool the Patent Office, Beckwith, but you can’t fool me.”

“Of course not, Mr. Smerll,” said az-Zahra. “We would never even try.” She unzipped the bag and took the rug out. “This is the invention. It is a standard size Muslim prayer rug. It differs from an ordinary prayer rug only in that certain metal filaments and gemstones are woven into the fabric in a special pattern.” She lifted the rug with both hands, carried it around to the head of the table, and spread it out on the floor near Smerll’s chair. “Excellency, every one of your remaining queries turns on a question of fact: does the rug work? So let us make a deal. I will prepare the rug, and you will stand on it. I think you will disappear. If you disappear, all remaining questions are answered. If you do not disappear, Mr. Beckwith will resign from the bar forthwith, I will forfeit all my jewels to the Customs Service, and I will return to Spain.”

She waited. The only sound in the room was Smerll’s noisy breathing. His eyes darted, to her, to the rug, to Beckwith. And back to the rug.

Beckwith watched him. He knew what the man was thinking: She’s bluffing… trying to get me to back off.

Finally Smerll nodded.

“Just a moment,” said az-Zahra. “I have to turn with it seven times. And would you hold this, please, while I make the turnings.” She handed Smerll a wooden stick wrapped in multicolored fabric. He looked at it dubiously. “A flag?”

Beckwith’s lips formed the same words. Then he whispered, “Wha—?” He started to rise, but she looked at him, and he sat down again, mesmerized.

She picked the rug up, wrapped it around her body, turned seven times, then laid it on the floor once more. “Now, your eminence, it is ready. You may stand on it, if you like. Hold the flag up, please. That’s fine.”

Beckwith noted that the two great rubies were blinking up at them from the fabric. Could he really let Smerll do this? He leaped to his feet. “Irwin! No?”

But it was too late.

Smerll stepped on the rug. And faded. And vanished.

For a long moment Beckwith stared at the empty rug. Then back at az-Zahra. She lifted her eyebrows slightly. “He was determined to do it,” she said. She didn’t sound at all defensive.

Homicide? suicide? Beckwith wondered. He groaned softly. “Where?” he whispered.

“Call it,” she replied cheerfully, “a glorious journey. Is the hearing over?”

“I guess. But—”

She took a step closer. “In your culture, aren’t you supposed to kiss the bride?”

He did. A good long one. “But—Smerll? What—?”

She interrupted him. “Hadn’t you better be getting back to the office? And I have to get home and start organizing our wedding reception.”

“Yeah.” He was totally bemused. “Yeah.” (Smerll? Where are you!)