Cain's Curse

by Jack Nimersheim

_(First published in "Whatdunits" - DAW Books)_

_Justin Tyme, C.I._ That's what the sign on the door says. Blame the name on my old man's flair for irony. The profession, Chronal Investigator, I chose -- although I have a feeling Dear Old Dad's perverted sense of humor may have influenced my career path somewhat.

When I first broke into the biz, I had cards printed up that read: "_Tyme's the name; time's my game._" The banality of this phrase quickly wore thin, however, and I changed it to the equally insipid: "_You can't lose with Tyme on your side._" Such foolishness lasted a couple of years, during which I had ample opportunity -- plenty of time, as it were -- to amuse myself playing word games with my moniker. Clients didn't exactly line up outside my door in those early days.

The Quayle Case changed everything. But that's another tale, for another day. Let's just say that, with my reputation finally established, I discovered I no longer needed trite slogans to bring in the rubes.

Which brings me to Tanya Lodell.

To be honest, calling Tanya Lodell a "rube" is an affront to womanhood. Rub_y_ would be more like it. The lady glittered like a fine gem -- cut and polished and ready for display. She looked like a million bucks. My amateur's appraisal placed the value of the jewelry she wore to our first meeting at a comparable figure.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. The best way to unravel the unusual story of Tanya Lodell is to begin at the beginning. That requires a chronal jaunt of five centuries, a stroll in the park for a seasoned pro like me.

I arrived in Chicago at 8:30 a.m. on November 14, 2153. Morris phased me in precisely where, and when, I needed to be. I have to admit, the kid's a wizard at tweaking the tachyon stream; given his rates, he'd better be. Luckily, the cost of a time shift qualifies as a travel expense. As such, it's charged back against whatever client happens to be bankrolling my current excursion -- in this case, Tanya Lodell.

Sandburg's City of Big Shoulders was almost exactly like I expected it to be. Brisk winds blew in from Lake Michigan. A slight dusting of snow covered the few patches of urban real estate not entombed by stone or concrete. A quick check of a passing indigene revealed that the lapel size I had stipulated to the replicator for my overcoat was about a half-inch too wide. An inaccuracy, to be sure, but one that wasn't noticeable enough to arouse suspicion. Other than this minor discrepancy, my appearance reflected contemporary standards flawlessly -- all the way down to the close-cropped haircut with a short pony tail my research indicated was popular among professionals of the mid-22nd century.

Such attention to detail is critical. The bureaucrats on the Chronal Commission keep close tabs on us working stiffs. Extensive and explicit regulations govern all sanctioned time shifts. The boys in Washington are ready and willing to slap a heavy fine on anyone who, either by accident or as the result of some careless oversight, introduces even minor anomalies into the historical record. A single, reckless moment has purchased more than one sloppy C.I. a one-way ticket to the poorhouse.

Confident that I passed muster, I relaxed my grip on the emergency override unit Morris had stashed inside my coat pocket. It didn't look like he'd have to jerk me back right after inter-phase, a realization that pleased me no end. I'd been down that road once before, and had the receipts from four months of physical therapy to prove it.

With these immediate concerns taken care of, it was time to get down to business. After all, Tanya Lodell wasn't shelling out $750 a day, plus expenses, for me to stand around gawking like some wide-eyed tourist on a cut-rate vacation junket.

A crisp, new copy of _The Chicago Tribune_, purchased from a quaint corner newsstand on Lower Wacker Drive, supplied all the information I needed to begin my investigation. According to its lead story, Peter Atkinson's trial was scheduled to begin in the Federal courthouse at 9:00 that morning, relative time and date. Consulting a Chicago city map, _circa_ 2150, I located this building on Jackson Drive, a mere two blocks East of my current position. Morris had surpassed his own high standards. As I struck out toward the rising sun, I decided such accuracy deserved a small bonus -- courtesy of Tanya Lodell's rather substantial bank account, of course.

When is a courthouse not a courthouse?

That's easy: When it's a zoo.

This morning, the Richard Daley Federal Courthouse was a zoo. The mandatory mob of TV, radio, and newspaper reporters was there, a pack of ravenous wolves caught up in a feeding frenzy. Their carrion? A haggard looking Peter Atkinson who, as I arrived, was climbing out of a taxi that had just pulled up to the curb in front of the courthouse steps.

"Do you have anything to say to our viewers, Mr. Atkinson?" said one, thrusting a mini-cam into Peter Atkinson's face.

"Do you have anything to say to our listeners, Mr. Atkinson?" said another, thrusting a microphone into Peter Atkinson's face.

"Do you have anything to say to our readers, Mr. Atkinson?" said a third, thrusting a tape recorder into Peter Atkinson's face.

Peter Atkinson said nothing, on advice of counsel, no doubt.

Unfortunately, the counsel responsible for this advice -- a nattily dressed, high-priced Manhattan attorney named Alexander Dewey who suffered no such compunctions -- was more than willing to placate the press with a long and loquacious statement about his latest judicial challenge. In the end, though, he, too, said nothing.

"My client has already proclaimed his innocence. Furthermore, we believe that the jury, twelve honorable citizens of your great city who, through no fault of their own, must suffer the inconvenience of this legal and political travesty, will have no choice but to exonerate him of all charges. And so..." And _blah, blah, blah_.

God, I hate lawyers. I hate lawyers almost as much as I distrust reporters. Or do I distrust lawyers and hate reporters? No matter. Watching members of both of my least favorite professions feed off one another's vanities was something I could only handle in minuscule doses. Besides, if I expected to earn the rather exorbitant fee my client was paying me, I figured I'd better get to the courtroom before it was totally overrun by these selfsame journalistic carnivores.

That first morning, shortly after arriving at my office, Tanya Lodell removed a cracked and yellowing piece of paper from her purse. Unfolding it with great care, like a high priestess performing some sacred ritual, she explained how the fragile document had been passed down by her family, one generation to the next, father to son to daughter to son to whatever progeny existed at the time, for close to five centuries.

"This is the reason I'm here, Mr. Tyme," she said, gently placing the object of her reverence on my desk.

I found myself staring at another front page from another copy of _The Chicago Tribune_. This one was dated December 20, 2153, six weeks after my subsequent arrival in that city. Its headline, printed in 124-point, Helvetica type, proclaimed: "Intergalactic Ghoul Guilty!"

"I'm afraid I don't understand, Ms. Lodell."

"It's _Mrs._ Lodell. I've kept my married name out of respect for my late husband. My maiden name is Atkinson. Does that ring a bell?"

It didn't, a fact which must have been obvious from the bewildered look on my face.

"If you read the story accompanying this headline, Mr. Tyme, you'll discover that the `Intergalactic Ghoul' it refers to, Peter Atkinson, shares my original surname. Need I say more?"

"Only if you expect me to know what you're talking about. Who the heck is Peter Atkinson?"

"Peter Atkinson is...or _was_...a killer, Mr. Tyme, perhaps the most notorious killer in all of human history."

_How odd_, I thought, _that the history books I had read neglected to mention him._

"Is that a fact?" was all I said.

"Indeed, it is, Mr. Tyme. And do you know why his crime was so heinous?" I could tell by the way she posed this question that it was purely rhetorical. "It's because Peter Atkinson did not commit your run-of-the-mill homicide, in either the legal or the literal sense of that word. You see, Peter Atkinson was the first man ever to be convicted of killing an extraterrestrial."

I began to suspect that Tanya Lodell, although quite alluring and obviously affluent, might also be about a dime short of a dollar, if you know what I mean. That history would simply overlook such an important event seemed dubious. Nevertheless, I decided to play along with her little charade a while longer. If nothing else, it promised to enliven what had, up until then, been a pretty slow week.

"Not the most ideal genealogy, I'll admit, but why worry about it now? That paper was printed a long time ago, Mrs. Lodell. An awful lot of water has passed under the bridge since then."

"Maybe for the rest of the world, Mr. Tyme. For my family, however, that water has been building up behind an emotional dam for nearly five centuries. I can assure you, it's grown quite fetid in that time."

"Don't you think you're being just a little melodramatic? I can understand how you might not be too thrilled with your somewhat unusual heritage. But why open the locks on that emotional dam now, to extend your own metaphor, five-hundred years after the fact?"

For several seconds, Tanya Lodell merely stood there, staring down at the decaying newspaper on my desk. Her response, when it did finally come, was delivered in a soft, almost inaudible whisper.

"Tell me, Mr. Tyme, do you come from a large family?"

"I don't know that I've ever really thought about it. I only have one sister, but an awful lot of aunts, uncles, cousins, and other assorted relatives used to show up at family get-togethers. If you count all of them, yeah, I guess I'd have to say that the Tyme clan is pretty sizable."

"The Atkinson family, a least that part of it descended directly from Peter Atkinson, isn't. It never has been.

"What few of us there were, however, tended to be very close to one another. And do you know why, Mr. Tyme? It's because we shared a common bond, one unique to anyone who could trace his or her ancestry back to Peter Atkinson.

"But this common bond also represents a collective curse. Our ancestor, after all, is the man who introduced murder to the universe -- a Cosmic Cain, if you'll permit me the arrogance of a Biblical reference. His legacy, Cain's Curse, has tainted our bloodline ever since."

Collective curses? Cosmic Cain? _Cain's Curse!_ Inflation may just have raised Tanya Lodell's ten-cent deficit to a quarter. It was obvious from the sincerity in her voice, however, that_she_ believed what she was saying.

"Let me see if I can guess where this is heading, Mrs. Lodell. You're about to tell me that you and the rest of your relatives have decided you want to exorcise the family ghost."

"An excellent conjecture, Mr. Tyme, but not entirely correct. You see, until my brother's recent death, he and I shared the dubious honor of being the last living descendants of Peter Atkinson. As I told you, I'm a widow. My late husband left me financially secure enough that I feel no compulsion to alter this status. It's quite unlikely, therefore, that I'll ever have children of my own.

"I have no desire to go to my grave leaving the Atkinson bloodline tainted for all eternity. I need to know whether my ancestor was indeed the `Intergalactic Ghoul' this headline claims he was. That, Mr. Tyme, is where you come in."

I love a good mystery. This case provided a couple of doozies.

First, there was the matter of Atkinson's guilt or innocence. Based on the evidence Tanya Lodell had presented, the outcome of this one was almost preordained. Even more intriguing to me was the larger mystery of Peter Atkinson, himself -- a man I'd never heard of before his great- great-great-great-great-great-great granddaughter (give or take a couple of _greats_) waltzed through my office door.

How could a significant slice of history like the one reported in that ancient edition of _The Chicago Tribune_ simply disappear from the historical record? Tanya Lodell had provided me with the perfect excuse to answer this question -- and pick up a rather substantial fee in the process. Only a fool would walk away from such a golden opportunity.

Whatever else Mama Tyme's favorite son might be, he's no fool. That's how I came to be in a Chicago courthouse, in the closing weeks 2153, observing the murder trial of Peter Atkinson.

Have you ever watched a holovid courtroom drama? If you have, the best advice I can give you is to forget everything you think you know about the inner workings of the criminal justice system, based on this commercial trash. Perry Mason and his fictional peers notwithstanding, a typical trial consists of little more than structured tedium, interrupted only by extended periods of organized redundancy.

Witnesses are called and recalled. Attorneys examine and cross- examine. Self-proclaimed experts proselytize and pontificate. Judges rule and overrule. And all the while, twelve supposed peers of the defendant sit there and listen -- and listen and listen and listen. And, one can only hope, learn. The whole process is extremely monotonous, an experience not unlike watching paint dry.

Given the nature of Peter Atkinson's crime, I started out believing that this trial might deviate from the norm. Unfortunately, as is so often the case, reality fell noticeably short of my expectations.

Atkinson didn't deny that he had killed the T'kai -- a small, monkey- like creature he'd brought back to Earth following a recent tour of duty on Deneva IV. He did, however, dispute the State's allegation that this deed amounted to murder.

In early press interviews, Atkinson claimed he acted in self-defense, only after the T'kai had attacked him first. A more crucial legal argument, however, hinged upon Alexander Dewey's assertion that the victim of his client's alleged crime was nothing more than a primitive animal -- a "pet," to use the term Dewey introduced into the proceedings during his opening remarks.

Prosecuting attorney Bernard Truman, a political appointee with a predilection for ill-fitting gray suits and brown wingtips, offered an extremely terse and uninspired rebuttal. As anyone whose interest in world affairs extended beyond the funny pages and Saturday morning cartoons already knew, the State maintained that Atkinson's victim was much more than a pet. Rather, it proposed, the T'kai had been a sentient being. This fact, according to the prosecutor's office, justified handing down a murder indictment. In a dry, dispassionate voice, Truman merely reiterated the State's position, assuring the jury that he would prove it "beyond a shadow of a doubt" before the current proceedings were concluded.

Four weeks later, whatever legal rabbit Bernard Truman planned to pull out of his prosecutorial hat in order to demonstrate the T'kai's intelligence -- and, by extension, establish Atkinson's culpability -- remained a mystery. Instead, I'd been forced to endure the steady stream of peers, pundits, panderers, and assorted professional witnesses that inevitably rains down upon any trial promising extensive media exposure.

Some of these offered opinions and observations so spurious or obtuse, you were left wondering what possible purpose they served. Consider, for example, Atkinson's ninth-grade teacher, Ms. Thelma Finklemann, who the defense team tracked down in a Gainsville nursing home. Her entire testimony consisted of assuring the jury that, "Little Petey wouldn't harm a flea." Unfortunately, Ms. Finklemann diluted this refreshingly brief statement somewhat when, just before stepping down from the witness stand, she asked Alexander Dewey how soon the promised "consulting fees" would begin picking up the tab for her medical expenses.

Others witnesses were so off the wall that, even if they couldn't enlighten the court, did at least entertain. Topping this list were two brothers, Mike and Ike Quisling, a pair of self-proclaimed evangelical ministers from The First Church of Interstellar Deities. They attempted to bolster the prosecution's position by asserting that the deceased T'kai was actually an intergalactic harbinger who, according to their research, had been sent to Earth to extend Mankind an invitation to join The Universal Brotherhood, an ecumenical federation originally formed by several benevolent life forms from the Crab Nebula.

Alexander Dewey allowed this farce to continue right up to the point where Ike Quisling began reading off a list of planets currently belonging to that august organization. Citing irrelevance, he finally objected when Ike was halfway through the first page.

Bernard Truman responded by explaining how he'd been led to believe that the recondite clergymen possessed critical information regarding the mental capabilities of the T'kai. Had he suspected their true motives, Truman assured the court, they would never have been subpoenaed.

The judge eventually sustained Dewey's objection. Before doing so, however, she spent several minutes admonishing an extremely red-faced Bernard Truman for wasting the court's valuable time with such superficial testimony. (Right. As if every word spoken under oath prior to the Quislings' appearance deserved inclusion in a definitive study of due process.)

Unfortunately, diversions such as these were the exception. As a rule, the proceedings plodded along at a pace just slightly faster than that of an anemic snail.

Let me clarify something. People don't hire a C.I. to modify history.

Tanya Lodell understood this. She knew that, even if it were possible for me to clear her family name -- and there was no guarantee that I could -- the only way to do so was through observation, not intervention.

That's because, when you get right down to it, a Chronal Investigator is little more than a professional voyeur. We get paid (and paid quite handsomely, I might add) to observe things. Like all true voyeurs, we live by the creed: "Look, but don't touch."

This being the case, you may be wondering what my comely client hoped to gain by hiring me?

In a word, perspective.

Truth, you see, is an ephemeral commodity. Contrary to the claims of most philosophers and theologians, it is not immutable. Like the arrow on a weather vane, truth can point in virtually any direction -- its orientation, more often than not, determined by how the social and political winds are blowing at any given time.

Case in point: Crazy Horse was considered an ignorant savage and ruthless killer, until several enlightened historians figured out that ultimate responsibility for the massacre of Custer's troops lay primarily with the General's own insatiable ego and incredible incompetence. In short order, Custer became a fop and Crazy Horse was declared a brilliant tactician.

The facts surrounding Little Big Horn had not changed, only the perspective from which this historic battle was interpreted. Tanya Lodell had enlisted my services to see whether or not similar revisions could be made to the legacy of Peter Atkinson.

A dim light filtered through the end of the tunnel midway through the trial's fifth week. That's when Alexander Dewey called Peter Atkinson to the stand to testify on his own behalf. If nothing else, Atkinson's testimony promised to contain facts bearing at least marginal relevance to the case at hand.

Dewey demonstrated why he was considered one of the country's pre-eminent defense attorneys with the very first question he posed, after his client was sworn in: "Tell me, Mr. Atkinson, just how did the pet you now stand accused of killing come into your possession?"

It was an effective opening gambit. For one thing, Dewey immediately reinforced his argument that the victim in the supposed crime was, indeed, a pet, rather than some sentient being. Second, his deliberate use of the word "possession" suggested ownership. More than anything else, the cagey defense attorney wanted the twelve men and women sitting in the jury box to perceive the T'kai as a piece of property that Atkinson owned, not the self-sufficient, autonomous creature the prosecution had implied it was, up to that point.

Finally, the open-ended nature of Dewey's question allowed Peter Atkinson to launch into a well rehearsed and quite lengthy reply. In it, he expounded on everything from his exemplary service record -- Atkinson was, you'll recall, stationed on Deneva IV when he originally acquired the T'kai -- to the regular contributions he made to a wide range of charities, including a number of prominent animal rights groups.

Peter Atkinson proved to be an ideal witness. He was eloquent, witty, sanguine, intelligent, and handsome -- a fact that was not supposed to influence the four female members of the jury, but Dewey felt probably would. Subsequent questions played off each of these attributes as, little by little, Dewey prompted his client to reveal any and every thing about himself that might impress the twelve strangers fate had entrusted with his destiny.

Dewey's handling of the T'kai's death was nothing short of genius. Except for that one, brief allusion to this event in his opening question, he ignored it completely! Instead, Dewey turned the unpleasant task of chronicling the details of this incident over to Bernard Truman.

Like any successful lawyer, Alexander Dewey understood the human psyche. He knew that, in a case such as this -- although, I had to admit, there had never been another case quite like this -- the jury's sympathies would naturally favor his client. Peter Atkinson was, after all, one of their own. Dewey must have felt he could capitalize on these biases by forcing his opponent to fire the first shot in the battle of "us versus them," so to speak.

And so, after reviewing various highlights of Atkinson's life, right up to but not including the afternoon the T'kai was killed, Alexander Dewey strolled back to the defense table, sat down, and announced in an authoritative voice: "I have no further questions at this time. Your witness."

Truman could not have looked more shocked had Dewey walked over to him and dumped ice water on his head. His surprise was not difficult to understand.

I suspect Truman had spent a good portion of the past few weeks coming up with ways to revise the story he expected Dewey to weave for the court. Instead, he found himself stepping up to a _tabula rasa_. Rather than dissecting and discrediting Atkinson's testimony, Truman now faced the challenge of building his own case virtually from scratch.

In one, brilliant move, Alexander Dewey had forced his opponent into shifting his previous strategy 180-degrees. Such a rapid change of course would have disoriented anyone. It appeared to have totally baffled Bernard Truman, who didn't strike me as being a pillar of composure to begin with.

Given time, Truman might have retrenched and recovered. The judge, however, seemed unwilling to grant him this luxury.

"Well, Mr. Truman, do you plan to question the witness, or are we to interpret your silence as an indication that the State has no wish to cross-examine?"

"Um, what? Oh, yes, Your Honor. I mean, no, Your Honor. What I mean is, yes, I do plan to question the defendant." Truman quickly leafed through several stacks of papers on the table before him. "Of course I do."

"Please proceed, then, Mr. Truman."

The befuddled Prosecutor did -- as best he could, given the curve Dewey had thrown him.

"Now, Mr. Atkinson, as I understand it, you claim to have killed the T'kai in self-defense, is that so?"

Alexander Dewey was out of his seat before Truman even completed this sentence.

"Objection, Your Honor. The Prosecution is leading the witness. I believe a review of the record will indicate that my client has never made such a statement while under oath. Mr. Truman's assertion of this claim, therefore, is based strictly on hearsay."

"Sustained. Please confine your cross-examination to matters before this court, Mr. Truman."

"Very well, Your Honor. I withdraw the question." For the second time in as many minutes, Truman appeared visibly shaken. Dewey's strategy, daring as it may have been, was proving to be extremely effective.

"I assume, Mr. Atkinson, that you recall earlier testimony in which the State's Medical Examiner indicated that your T'kai was killed by a sharp blow to the head. I'd like to know..."

Again, Dewey shot to his feet.

"Point of clarification, Your Honor: In posing his question to my client, Mr. Truman employed the somewhat ambiguous phrase `your T'kai.' Is the jury to presume that he is referring to the creature Mr. Atkinson purchased on Deneva IV?"

Try as she might, the judge could not completely suppress the smile that crossed her face. Neither could anyone else sitting in the courtroom who understood anything about how the law -- as opposed to justice -- operated.

"Would you be so kind as to clear up the Defense Attorney's confusion, Mr. Truman?"

"Why, um, of course, Your Honor, that is indeed the T'kai I was referring to -- a helpless creature, I would remind the court, who was uprooted from Deneva IV by the defendant with little or no concern as to the long-term effects his actions might have on this poor, um, entity." By the pained expression on Bernard Truman's face, it was clear that he recognized how feeble this rejoinder was.

"Thank you, Your Honor," Dewey responded. "I just wanted to make sure the jury understood that the Prosecutor was indeed talking about Mr. Atkinson's pet, when referring to `your T'kai.'"

Dewey was conducting Atkinson's defense like a seasoned impresario, using every tactic in his legal bag of tricks to manipulate Truman into, in essence, arguing his case for him. In addition to rendering Atkinson's initial claim of having acted in self-defense a moot point, thereby removing this early insinuation of even casual guilt from the court record -- unless, of course, the prosecution elected to reintroduce it later, a strategy I felt certain Alexander Dewey was already prepared to counter -- he also had managed once again to reinforce in the minds of the jury the image of the T'kai as a pet.

And Atkinson himself had yet to utter a single word in response to Truman's cross-examination!

I was beginning to wonder whether Morris had deposited me in one of those "alternate realities" so many bad science-fiction writers rely on so frequently for their so-called inspiration. Clearly, Bernard Truman would need to play some kind of trump card soon, if he were destined to fulfill the prophesy of Tanya Lodell's musty heirloom. No jury in its right mind could convict Peter Atkinson of any crime, not even jaywalking, based on how the trial had progressed up to this point.

As if on cue, a disturbance behind me interrupted my speculation. A tall man in a suit identical to Bernard Truman's had just entered the courtroom, carrying what appeared to be a cage in his arms. Obviously, confinement disagreed with whatever this cage contained. It was screeching like a banshee and, if the way in which the man struggled to maintain his hold provided any indication, expressing its discontent quite violently.

This event prompted a strange reaction from Bernard Truman. He actually smiled -- something I could not remember having seen him do even once, over the past four and a half weeks.

"Order. Order." The judge rapped her gavel furiously, her eyes scanning the crowd of spectators. "There will be order in this court."

It took a full minute for the courtroom to respond to her admonishments. The judge waited, patiently, after which she turned her attention toward the Prosecutor's table.

"Mr. Truman, would you care to explain what is going on here."

"I apologize for the interruption, Your Honor, but my colleague had instructions to seek me out as soon as he returned from his assignment."

"And what assignment might that be, Mr. Truman?"

"Allow me to explain, Your Honor. You see, my assistant, Mr. Kyle, has just returned from a rather lengthy deep-space flight, during which he had been entrusted with the task of securing..."

With slightly too much flourish, Truman removed a gray veil that had previously obscured the source of all the sound and fury.

"...a T'kai."

The announcement was somewhat anticlimactic. Anyone who hadn't figured out what the cage contained by the time Truman uncovered it undoubtedly needed help attaching the Velcro tabs on their shoes. The judge was particularly unimpressed by this performance.

"I'm not a big fan of theatrics, Mr. Truman. And I especially dislike surprises. Why was I not informed that this creature would be brought into my courtroom?"

"As I explained, Your Honor, Mr. Kyle was instructed to seek me out immediately upon returning to Earth. Uncommonly high solar activity in recent days prevented him from sending a sub-space message informing me of his arrival. Even I did not know if and when he would complete his assignment, until I saw him come through those doors."

"I'll accept that explanation for now, Mr. Truman. Be informed, however, that I will not look kindly upon any additional displays of this nature."

"I must protest, Your Honor." Having heard the judge express her displeasure, Dewey obviously figured now was the perfect time for him to ante up his own two-cents' worth. "I would point out to Mr. Truman that he is obligated to share with the Defense any and all information he possesses that might influence the outcome of this trial. Therefore, I respectfully request that this creature be removed from the jury's sight and any reference to its presence expunged from the court record."

The judge looked over at the T'kai, which remained quite agitated even after being unveiled and placed on display. It squealed constantly, repeatedly throwing itself against the cage's wire mesh.

"While I understand your chagrin, Mr. Dewey -- and, as I've already stated, I also am less than pleased with the manner in which the Prosecutor handled this affair -- I can't deny this creature's relevance to the matter currently before this court. Request denied.

"The T'kai can remain here for the time being, Mr. Truman. But I must insist that you attempt to keep it somewhat subdued during these proceedings, if at all possible."

"Thank you, Your Honor. My assistant will make every attempt to comply with your request."

"See that he does, Mr. Truman. Please continue."

"Now, Mr. Atkinson, is this T'kai similar to the one you're accused of killing, the one Mr. Dewey has characterized throughout this trial as being nothing more than your pet?"

"Similar, yes, but my T'kai was quite a bit smaller than the one you have there."

"That's understandable. According to forensic reports your T'kai was younger -- comparable in age to a human just entering adolescence, if I may use that analogy -- at the time of its death. Were you aware of this fact, Mr. Atkinson?"

"No, sir, I wasn't." Peter Atkinson seemed genuinely surprised. "The shopkeeper I purchased him from didn't mention that."

"I'm sure he didn't. My guess is that he felt such information would offend your sensibilities and, not coincidentally, might ruin a good deal, so to speak."

Having allowed Atkinson to answer two questions, Alexander Dewey obviously decided it was time once again to interrupt his opponent's rhythm.

"Objection, Your Honor. All of this is mere conjecture on Mr. Truman's part. Furthermore, it has no bearing on the facts of this case."

"Would you care to respond, Mr. Truman?"

"Only to say, Your Honor, that, as I hope to demonstrate shortly, the age of Mr. Atkinson's T'kai is critical to understanding why, in the eyes of the State, his subsequent actions constituted murder."

"Very well, Mr. Truman. I'll allow you time to pursue this line of questioning. Objection overruled."

Twice in a row, now, Alexander Dewey had found himself on the losing end of an argument. I could tell, studying the scowl on his face as he sat down, that Dewey did not accept such losses gracefully.

"Tell me, Mr. Atkinson, how familiar are you with the T'kai race?"

"Not very, sir. I'd never even heard of them, until I saw one in that shop on Deneva IV. According to the owner, though, they originally evolved in a planetary system located within the Pleiades."

"My research uncovered the same story, Mr. Atkinson, along with more than ten other possible origins for the T'kai. The only thing anyone knows with any certainty about this exotic life form, it appears, is that its past remains cloaked in secrecy.

"Our present knowledge of the T'kai is equally meager. My colleague, Mr. Kyle, just spent six months scouring a dozen star systems, searching for any shred of information he could uncover about the T'kai. Do you know what he found?"

"No, sir, I don't."

"I won't burden the court with all of the details -- Mr. Dewey would only categorize them as hearsay, if I did -- but in the course of his travels my colleague uncovered dozens of myths, scores of rumors, hundreds of legends, and more conflicting anecdotes than one would ever believe could be fabricated around a single subject. Stories concerning the T'kai, it seems, permeate the folklore of virtually every alien society mankind has discovered to date.

"Perhaps the greatest surprise of all, however, was the actual number of these mysterious beings Mr. Kyle encountered during his long journey. That number was one, the T'kai you see before you."

All eyes in the courtroom tracked Bernard Truman's gesture, as he pointed toward the still agitated creature in the cage.

"Oh, yes, Mr. Atkinson, a T'kai is indeed a rare find. That you should discover one in a simple curio shop on Deneva IV almost defies belief. But discover one you did. And after negotiating the purchase of that T'kai, you brought it home to Earth, is that correct?"

"Yes, sir. But my T'kai was extremely docile, not like the one over there on the table -- at least, not until that afternoon he..."

Peter Atkinson suddenly fell silent, as did the entire courtroom.

"Yes, Mr. Atkinson? You were about to say something?"

If he was, he didn't -- at least not before Alexander Dewey decided to try to regain control of the situation.

"Your Honor, the Prosecutor is clearly badgering my client. Mr. Atkinson is under no obligation to provide unsolicited information while testifying in his own behalf."

"No ruling is necessary, Your Honor. I'll rephrase the question.

"Mr. Atkinson, is it not true that, on March 12 of this year, you were attacked by the T'kai you purchased on Deneva IV?"

"Yes, sir, I was."

"Would you please describe for the court what happened that day?"

Peter Atkinson looked over to the Defense table. I saw Dewey nod, signaling him to recount a story they had undoubtedly rehearsed many times and in great detail.

"We were playing out in the park. I'd hit a tennis ball with a baseball bat and he'd retrieve it. Nothing special. It was something we'd done a hundred times before.

"Suddenly, he went crazy. He started running and screeching and hurling himself down on the ground and against the trees. AT first, I just stood there, dumfounded, watching this. I didn't know what else to do. Then, without warning, the T'kai attacked me. He came right at me like a rabid animal."

"And what did you do then?"

"I did what anyone would do: I defended myself. It was that simple."

"So, as I implied earlier, you do claim to have killed the T'kai in self-defense?"

Once again, Atkinson looked to his attorney for guidance. Once again, Dewey nodded.

"Oh, yes, sir. I hit him with the baseball bat, once, and once only, on the side of his head. I didn't mean to kill the little guy. As it turned out, I struck a soft spot on his skull. Later, when I found out what I'd done, I was devastated. At the time, though, it was either him or me."

"So you say. Tell me, Mr. Atkinson, did the way your `pet' was acting in any way resemble the behavior of the T'kai on the Prosecutor's table?"

"Objection, Your Honor. This would be pure conjecture on my client's part."

"I withdraw the question, Your Honor. Instead, with your indulgence, I would like to share with the court one particular story Mr. Kyle heard repeatedly while conducting his research into the T'kai."

This time, it was the judge who glanced toward the Defense table.

"Any objections, Mr. Dewey?"

"Not at this time, Your Honor. But I would reserve the right to request that Mr. Truman's comments be stricken from the record later, should I so choose."

"Agreed. You may proceed, Mr. Truman."

"I ask the jury to study that T'kai. Listen to his squeals. Look at the way he keeps lunging at the sides of the cage. To my mind, his actions certainly resemble those described by Mr. Atkinson.

"And yet, what you're witnessing is not anger. Nor is it fear. Nor is it claustrophobia. Nor any emotion that could be traced to the creature's confinement. Quite the contrary. If I freed that T'kai in the middle of a field, he would continue doing exactly what he's doing now.

"Why? Because the source of the T'kai's current actions are genetic, not behavioral, in nature.

"The T'kai, it seems, pass through three distinct cycles on their way to full maturity. The first, corresponding to what we would call childhood, is a period of passive surveillance. During this initial cycle, a T'kai absorbs everything that happens around it. In a word, it observes. More than merely observes, a T'kai absorbs, because nothing he sees or hears during his `childhood' is forgotten.

"I believe the T'kai the Defendant killed was in this initial cycle, when he purchased it on Deneva IV.

"At some age, no one knows exactly when, the T'kai enters a second phase, analogous to our -- meaning a human's -- puberty. For want of a better term, I'll call this the _assimilation stage_. Another way in which this assimilation stage resembles human puberty is that it is a turbulent time. In essence, everything the T'kai encountered during its initial cycle -- sights, sounds, odors, tactile experiences, and so forth -- merges together. The result is a maelstrom of conflicting sensations.

"As you might surmise, this sudden flood of sensations is extremely frightening. So much so, in fact, that the T'kai reacts violently to the experience. If this analysis of T'kai development can be believed, our caged friend is currently in his second cycle, which he's been experiencing for several days.

"I propose that entering this second cycle is what drove the Defendant's T'kai to exhibit the seemingly violent behavior Mr. Atkinson described a few minutes earlier."

I fully expected Alexander Dewey to react to this comment. He did not disappoint me.

"Your Honor, I, like most people, appreciate a good fable. And Mr. Truman's is, I'll admit, more engrossing than most. But I fail to see what he hopes to accomplish with all of this. He has yet to offer any proof which supports his claim of T'kai intelligence, or even his somewhat strange theory regarding T'kai development. Unless the Prosecutor is prepared to do so, and to do so quite quickly, I'm tempted to move that his comments be censured now, even though doing so would mean we'll never find out how Mr. Truman's fascinating story ends."

"Mr. Truman?"

"If my calculations are correct, Your Honor, Mr. Dewey should have the proof he desires shortly. You see, unlike the initial cycle of a T'kai's life, the inhabitants of several planets Mr. Kyle visited did claim to know how long the second phase lasts. If they're correct, and if I have properly converted the alien chronologies reported to Mr. Kyle into human standards, this T'kai should be emerging from his, um, `puberty' within approximately two hours.

"Given the importance of this case, and considering how long these proceedings have lasted already, I respectfully request that the court grant me this relatively brief delay to determine if my assumptions are valid."

The judge considered Truman's request for several moments before responding.

"I'm inclined to indulge the Prosecutor, Mr. Dewey -- unless, of course, you have any objections or comments."

"Just one, Your Honor. Even if I accept Mr. Truman's premise, and I'm not saying that I do, how will waiting for the T'kai to emerge from this so-called `second cycle' confirm whether or not it possesses intelligence?"

"Mr. Truman?"

"That, Your Honor, depends on the results of a little experiment I performed."

"Please explain, if you will."

"During the early stages of Mr. Kyle's return flight, the T'kai was still in his initial cycle of development. Throughout that time, I had my colleague repeatedly play several extended news reports concerning this case in the presence of the T'kai.

"I believe he'll emerge from his second cycle with the knowledge of that experience intact. Should this be the case, the State contends that members of the T'kai race possess at least a primitive intelligence and, as such, deserve protection under our laws."

"I assume that `protection,' as you're defining it, translates into culpability on the part of Mr. Atkinson for his actions against the T'kai he purchased on Deneva IV?"

"That's correct, Your Honor."

"You're attempting to establish some tricky, but fascinating, legal precedents, Mr. Truman. Still, the law is nothing if not fluid. As I stated earlier, my initial inclination is to indulge you in this effort.

"Very well. I'll grant you the two hours you have requested. If the T'kai does not respond as you predict, however, I'll have no alternative but to expunge this portion of the proceedings from the record, as Mr. Dewey requested -- a move that, I assure you, will almost certainly result in the dismissal of all charges currently before this bench."

"Very well, Your Honor."

And so, we waited. For an hour, we waited. And while we waited, we watched the T'kai. And then we waited some more, as the hour stretched into an hour-and-a-half. And still the alien creature's behavior did not change. He continued to squeal and claw and scratch and hurl himself against the walls of his personal prison, like a decidedly _un_intelligent and trapped animal.

Suddenly, a mere ten minutes before Truman's self-imposed deadline was scheduled to expire, the metamorphosis occurred. That's when the T'kai's squealing was replaced with absolute silence. His frenetic movements slowed, then ceased completely, as the T'kai closed his eyes for several seconds. When he opened them once more, the madness was gone. So, too, was the anger and the haunted look of abject fear.

Instead, the T'kai projected an aura of unusual tranquillity. One by one, he studied the spectators in the courtroom, then the prosecution team, then the judge. Finally, those strangely calm eyes focused on Peter Atkinson, who was sitting at the Defense table.

That's when humanity heard the first message from a member of this strange and mysterious race: "Fear not, man of Earth. You did not know. All is forgiven."

Lawyers spend countless hours scrutinizing the behavior of juries, trying to analyze how their collective minds work. Ask ten attorneys to summarize the results of their efforts, however, and you'll get a dozen different answers.

Some lawyers contend that, the less time it takes a jury to deliberate, the more likely it is they'll return a verdict favorable to the defendant. Others swear that precisely the opposite holds true. A third group believes the length of a jury's deliberation portends guilt or innocence about as reliably as the presence or absence of a ground hog's shadow predicts how long Old Man Winter will stick around in any given year.

I couldn't tell, studying the two legal adversaries who had followed the T'kai's stunning pronouncement with their own hastily prepared summations, which philosophy either of them adhered to. Although the jury had been deliberating for almost six hours, Alexander Dewey displayed little concern. Bernard Truman did appear to be slightly nervous; but then, as I had already discerned, this was his normal disposition.

The media representatives in the courtroom, on the other hand, were growing increasingly apprehensive. Network stringers had already missed their evening and late-night broadcasts, and the newspaper journalists were fast approaching deadline for morning editions.

One reporter from _The Chicago Tribune_ (who I discreetly struck up a conversation with out in the hall) bragged about how his paper had three different versions of its front page typeset and ready to take to press -- one each for a guilty or innocent verdict and a third, "failsafe" edition, just in case the jury deliberations extended beyond final ("_final_ final," to quote him) deadline. As we talked, he lamented the fact that, unless "those twelve laggards" made up their minds in the next half-hour or so, "yesterday's news will be all that greets tomorrow morning's commuters."

Twenty-five minutes later, the bailiff announced that a verdict had been reached. As the jury filed in, I looked over and saw my newfound acquaintance from _The Trib_ checking his watch. The grin on his face would have sent the Cheshire Cat running for an orthodontist.

"Mr. Foreman, has the jury reached a verdict?" the judge asked, following an age-old ritual.

"Yes, we have, Your Honor," the Foreman responded.

"Would you tell the court that verdict, please?" "We the Jury find the defendant, Peter Atkinson, guilty . . ."

Before the foreman got out another word, all hell broke loose. Many in the courtroom cheered, many more tendered less polite indications of their displeasure over this verdict. Peter Atkinson's mother, who had maintained a brave front throughout the previous six weeks, burst into tears and ran toward her son. Several other people trying to reach Peter Atkinson were restrained by security guards. Alexander Dewey threw a stack of manila folders into his attache case and slammed it shut. Bernard Truman stood up and began shaking hands with his colleagues at the Prosecutor's table. My reporter friend, who had already been edging his way toward the back of the room, bolted into the hallway. My guess was that he found an open phone, punched in _The Trib_'s number, and gave his editor a go-ahead for the "guilty" headline, before the courtroom's massive oak doors even had a chance to swing shut

behind him.

I sat there, quietly disappointed. Tanya Lodell's situation had not changed. It appeared as if she and the rest of Atkinson's offspring would still bear the stigma of "Cain's Curse."

"Order in the court. Order in the court."

I could barely hear the judge as she spoke these words into the microphone on the desk before her. Obviously, no one else could, either -- a fact evidenced by the continued chaos.

"Silence, please. May we please have order in the court?"

This time she augmented the request with several sharp raps of her gavel -- again, to no avail.

"All right, people. I said _SILENCE_! All of you, just SIT DOWN AND SHUT UP!!"

Her shouting, amplified by the court's rather substantial sound system, accomplished what judicial decorum could not. All heads turned toward the front of the courtroom.

"In case you haven't noticed, this is a court of law. It is not some public forum where citizens are free to express their opinions in any way they see fit. For those of you who seem to have forgotten how a court of law functions, I would remind you that there is still business before this bench. We will conclude that business, I assure you, and we will do so without any additional outbursts."

Slowly, the din subsided. Everyone, including Peter Atkinson's mother, returned to his or her seat. It took almost twenty minutes, but the proceedings ultimately did resume."

"Now, Mr. Foreman, I would ask you to finish reading your verdict."

"Of course, Your Honor. As I started to say, We the Jury find the defendant, Peter Atkinson, guilty of no criminal activity. Rather, it is our opinion that . . ."

As you may suspect, this touched off a second round of pandemonium, even more raucous than the earlier one. Once again, the crowd split between kudos and catcalls, but this time the cheers outnumbered the jeers. Once again, Mrs. Atkinson burst into tears and broke toward her son; this time, however, the tears were joyful. Once again, one attorney emerged victorious and another endured defeat, only their roles had reversed.

I looked around for the _Trib_ reporter, curious to analyze his reaction to this surprising chain of events. He was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he was already back at his desk, or maybe heading home for what I'm sure he felt was a well deserved rest. Little did he know . . .

Somewhere in The Windy City, massive printing presses undoubtedly rumbled, spitting out page after page of _The Trib_. I could picture drivers already delivering copies of the first edition to various newsstands around the city. I felt no compulsion to rush right out and pick one up. I already knew what Chicago's early-morning commuters would discover on its front page.

Peter Atkinson must have gotten hold of a paper from that initial print run. Hell, he probably ended up with a whole stack of them, courtesy of friends, family, even strangers -- anyone who thought he might appreciate a souvenir of his ordeal. No doubt, its headline made him feel doubly vindicated. Not only was he declared innocent in the eyes of the law, but the retraction the paper was forced to print exonerated him a second time in the more critical court of public opinion.

The way I figure it, at least one copy of this erroneous edition survived to beget the Atkinson legacy. It may have been stuffed in a drawer or an old footlocker only to be rediscovered, possibly decades later, by an unwitting descendant of Atkinson's who did not know the entire story. However the scenario played out, it was obviously _The Trib_'s fallacious headline that someone, somewhere, turned up and subsequently turned into the beginnings of Peter Atkinson's infamy. Over the next five hundred years, the family's shame mutated into "Cain's Curse," a skeleton Peter Atkinson's descendants proceeded to hide away in a very private closet.

Tanya Lodell was ecstatic when I explained my hypothesis to her. With the mystery of Peter Atkinson's murder trial solved, her personal demons could finally be put to rest.

I had managed to clear up my own quandary, as well. I finally understood how Peter Atkinson's name had managed to vanish from the annals of history. In point of fact, it never belonged there. When the jury exonerated Peter Atkinson of murder, it effectively exorcised the "Intergalactic Ghoul."

Don't you just love it when a case comes together, its dangling threads all neatly tied up and tucked away? So do I.

Unfortunately, one, small detail in the Atkinson case still bothers me. It has to do with something that happened the morning after the trial ended.

I was standing in an alley off Wacker Drive, preparing to return to my own era, when a stack of papers thrown from a deliver truck landed about five feet in front of me. It was that morning's _Trib_. I only had time enough to read its headline and glance at the accompanying picture before Morris phased me into the tachyon stream.

In reporting its error, subsequent editions of the previous day's _Tribune_ gave top billing to Atkinson's flamboyant Defense Attorney. The headline in these later editions stated, simply: "Dewey Defeats Truman!" The picture I caught a brief glimpse of just as Morris whisked me out of the 22nd century showed an obviously elated Alexander Dewey holding up a copy of _The Trib_ in which this retraction appeared.

What baffles me is the headline printed just above the picture depicting Dewey's triumph, the one that read: "200 Years Later, We Get It Right!" I have no idea what that means, but I know I won't be satisfied until I figure it out.

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