And then, suddenly, they could look at me too. Because I was called as the thirteenth juror on the John Hastings trial. * * * * * I walked into it after a night that held no sleep. And looked at it. The yawning amphitheatre where humanity poured. And saw it. The thirteen chairs raised high in the center. And heard it. The crowd's susurrus gentling under insistent reminders from a bodiless Questioner. I glanced at the faces in the other twelve boxes, recognizing some of them. Angus Vortler, the psychosurgeon. William Bax, head of Intergalactic, a bleak, wintery man who doodled constantly. Dollar signs, probably. Fred Kitson, of the horny palms, chief mechanic on the _Darkness_. All men who, because they had once reached out and touched hands with John Hastings, were now called to judge him. Several of them nodded to me as I took my place. Wait. They brought him in. I remembered the first time I had ever seen him, in the classroom. Eager and tall ... tall and eager. Lord, what changed him? Something had taken the straightness from his shoulders, the sureness from his stride. There were furrows on his face where the tears had already been. He stood silently in the box where they had put him. A box just big enough for his bulky body, and maybe a little of the misery he carried with him. A voice spoke. "This, John Hastings, is your trial. You stand before this Court of Truth-Probity, accused of registering the emotion of hate. A hatred so violent, that had we permitted you to carry out your anticipated actions, it would have resulted in the murder of one Mary Hastings, your wife. Do you understand the charge?" "I do." He didn't know what to do with his hands. "How do you plead?" "I plead not guilty." "On what ground?" asked the voice. The defendant raised his head. "On the ground that I had good and sufficient reason to justify my emotion." "The reactographs on your wife, Mary Hastings, have been thoroughly examined, and it has been determined that she performed no act which in any way deviated from the norm. Had any disturbances taken place within Mary Hastings during the week of last March ninth to sixteenth, it would have shown up plainly in a flux on the charts. Your contention is impossible." The man in the box bit his lip. "Nevertheless, I contend it. My wife gave me sufficient reason. She--she was unfaithful to me." Only silence for a full minute. "It is impossible." "_But_ true!" Hastings shouted. The multitude leaned forward, a misted inquiry rustling its skirts. "Very well," the voice almost sighed. "Will you submit, Captain Hastings, to the use of the concentric screen? We wish to know more of the circumstances surrounding several pertinent dates." His face was the color of picked bones. "Yes, I will submit." Two men advanced carrying a mesh complexity between them. Placing it over the defendant's head they allowed it to fall to his shoulders. "Are you ready, John Hastings?"