In the night, Terence Mann had felt he was not asking himself the right questions. If as prosecutor he could frame them, allowing rational objections from himself as defender, perhaps as witness (or accused?) he might find answers acceptable to himself as judge, jury, and appellate court. But under torment of insomnia the many selves of the mind may abandon the congress of reason and start a rat-race. And now--well, this was full tide; he could not let counsel stand there wondering what ailed him. "That's it, then. Let the defendant be brought in." As they returned to their places he sketched on the doodle-pad two egg-shaped boxers: tangled eyebrows for Cecil Warner, for Hunter too much forehead and shovel chin. A police matron appeared, and a court officer. A hush, then a murmur, each voice swelling but slightly, the crescendo joining others in one uproar that expresses no more than the human need to make a noise under stress. Heads turned, weeds under water. Mann heard the s-whispers, water over sand: _Callista Blake--Callissssta_ ... She walked with a barely noticeable limp--polio in childhood, Mann recalled from the record. She was also very slightly hunchbacked, her thin pale arms seeming too long. As Warner escorted her to the defense section, Judge Mann saw she wore no make-up, though powder might have hidden the narrow scar that ran from her left ear to her jaw. Dark blue suit and white blouse were neat, unobtrusive, severe. A natural curl held her black hair in lines of grace above a skin of porcelain white. She was ignoring Warner's arm, and walked alone. She was nineteen. Her eyes were the blue of undersea. Mann searched for other compensating beauty--hard to find. High cheekbones, large nose, small abrupt chin, high forehead modified by the curls but still too high. The extreme whiteness of skin made one think of marble, or heart disease. The medical report declared that apart from the unimportant deformity she was quite healthy. And the State's psychiatrist was prepared to testify, following the quaint barbarism of the once useful McNaughton Rule, that Callista Blake was legally sane. As the jargon had it, she knew the difference between right and wrong, the nature and consequences of her acts. With no word yet, Callista Blake rejected sympathy, dared the world to pity her, indicated a readiness to spit in its eye. Warner said: "Give the clerk your name for the record." Mann heard a strong contralto drawl; it might have sounded warm and pleasant at other times: "Which is the clerk?" Some idiot woman in the back row giggled. Warner spoke quickly: "Up there, my dear, that's Mr. Delehanty." The girl glanced casually at the clerk's dapper dignity, and resumed her level examination of Judge Mann. "I am Callista Blake."