Four walls around him, bare to the point of boredom. Through the barred window, the throbbing throat of the crowd talked to him. His young body took it in, his young mind accepted it, catalogued it and pushed it out of consciousness. And for each individual voice there was an individual face, staring up at his cell from the comparative safety of outside. Young Oliver Symmes could not see the faces from where he sat, waiting, but he could sense them. There came a feel of hands on his shoulder; his reverie was interrupted. Arms under his raised him to his feet. A face smiled, almost kindly, in understanding. "They're waiting for you, Mr. Symmes. It's time to go." More words. Walking from this place to that, mostly with a crowd of people at his shoulders, pressing him in. Then a door ahead of him, ornate in carving, a replica of the doors to the Roman Palace of Justice many centuries before. Again his mind catalogued the impressions. Then, like the faces of the people outside his cell, the pictures of the bas-relief faded away, melted and merged into a pelagic blackness. The doors opened and, with part of the crowd still at his side, he went through. The people inside were standing; stick men, it seemed to him, with painted balloons for faces. The sound of the rapping of a gavel caught his ear. The people sat, and the trial began. "This court will admit to evidence only those events and artifacts which are proved true and relevant to the alleged crime." An obsequious clearing of throats. A coughing now and then. "... And did you see the defendant, Oliver Symmes, enter the apartment of the deceased on the night of the Thirty-first of December, two thousand and ..." "I did. He was wearing a sort of orange tunic ..." Someone whispered in his ear. Oliver Symmes heard and shook his head. "... You are personally acquainted with the defendant?" "I am. We worked for United Anthropological Laboratories before he ..." "Objection." "Sustained." The blackness of the judge's robe puzzled him. A vestige, an anachronism, handed down from centuries before. White was the color of truth, not black. "You swear that you found the defendant standing over the body of the deceased woman on the night of ..." "Not standing, sir. He was bending over, kissing ..." "Your witness." * * * * * Days of it, back and forth, testimony and more testimony. Evidence and more evidence and the lack of it. Smiling lawyers, grimacing lawyers, soothing lawyers and cackling lawyers. And witnesses. "You will please take the stand, Mr. Symmes." He walked to the chair and sat down. The courtroom leaned forward, the stick men bowed toward him slightly, as in eager applause of the coming most dramatic moment of a spectacle. "You will please tell the court in your own words ..."