Flatlander - Larry Niven [107]
“Was your love life affected by these developments?”
“It was killed dead. And he did have that congenital tendency. Eventually he … he snapped.”
“Three months later you applied to the Belt.”
“Yes.”
“And Chris Penzler blocked you.”
“I didn’t know that. I never had reason to hate Chris Penzler,” she said. “I didn’t know why my application was turned down. But that vindictive bastard had reason to hate me! He made a pass at me once, and I slapped him down good!”
“Physically? Did you actually strike him?”
“No, of course not. I told him to go to hell. I told him that if he ever came near me again I’d tell Itch. Itch would have knocked him silly. That’s macho, too.”
I guessed she’d made a point in her favor. Lunies wouldn’t be familiar with open marriages.
The elf woman thought differently. “Very well, Mr. Penzler made indecent proposals to you, a married woman. Surely that might be reason for you to hate and despise him? Especially after what later happened to your marriage.”
Naomi shook her head. “He didn’t cause that.”
The prosecution dismissed her and called Alan Watson.
* * *
Of the team that had tried to follow Naomi’s ill-timed attempt to play tourist, four were called as witnesses. They did Naomi little good. Naomi had led them straight to the scene of the crime. Her knowledge of the terrain was spotty at best. The best reason for believing her was that she would have had to be crazy to lie.
I ate dinner alone and went back to my room. It was my mind that was exhausted; I’d had no exercise, yet I felt like sleeping for a week. But I checked my phone before I dropped off.
I had messages from Taffy and from Desiree Porter.
Taffy and Harry were both free Friday. They planned to explore the shops of the Belt Trading Post. Would I like to join them? Feel free to add a friend, female preferred. I phoned back, but Taffy wasn’t in and neither was Harry. I left a message: Sorry, I was tied up in the conference and a murder trial.
I tried to call Naomi’s room. Her phone refused my call. I wasn’t up to fighting with Artemus Boone.
And I didn’t want to talk to a newstaper. I called off the lights and flopped back. And the phone said, “Phone call, Mr. Hamilton. Pho—”
“Chiron, answer phone.”
Tom Reinecke was standing behind the seated Desiree, their faces level. It was a nice effect, and they knew it. I said, “What do you two want?”
“News,” Desiree said. “Are you getting anywhere with the conference?”
“Secret. Anyway, we postponed it.”
“We heard that. Do you think Naomi Mitchison will be convicted?”
“Up to the jury.”
“You’re a big help.”
Tom cut in smoothly. “It’s the speed of the trial that impressed us. Why do you suppose it went so fast?”
“Oh, hell.” I was fully awake. “They think they’ve got a locked room murder. One suspect, locked out on the moon. If they could eliminate Naomi, they’d invent themselves a real problem. No suspects. So they aren’t really trying.”
“How would you go about it?” Tom asked, while Desiree was saying, “Would you change the law?”
They’d caught me half asleep and gotten me talking. It served me right. “Changing the law wouldn’t make anything different. How would I get her off? I’d prove she wasn’t there, or I’d prove someone else was, or maybe I’d prove the killer wasn’t where we thought he was.”
Tom asked, “How would you do that?”
“I’m tired. Go away and leave me alone.”
Desiree asked, “Is she guilty?”
“Chiron, phone off. No calls for eight hours.”
I didn’t know.
Getting to sleep took a long time.
7. LAST NIGHT AND MORNING AFTER
We discussed the trial over our rolls and coffee next morning. Belters and flatlanders both expressed surprise at its speed and at the number of jurors.
The lunies were affronted. They asserted that the accused’s agony of anticipation should be as brief as possible. As for the jury, the moon had never had a large population with vast leisure. Three were enough. A