A Talent for War

VIII.

MACHESNEY HAD COME THROUGH. Though I was positive the reference was to Rashim Machesney, dead these two hundred years (like all the other principal actors in this curious business), I instructed Jacob to contact everybody on the net who owned that last name.

There weren’t many.

We found no one who’d ever heard of Gabriel Benedict, and no one who seemed to have any ties to the Resistance: nobody who’d written about it, no old-time war buffs, no antique collectors. (There was some difficulty in acquiring this information, because persons owning that famous name tended to assume a prank when we started asking about the Resistance.)

My next step was to learn what I could about the great man himself. But if the problem with Leisha Tanner had been a paucity of data, in Machesney’s case there was a tidal wave of crystals, books, articles, scientific analyses, you name it. Not to mention Machesney’s own works. Jacob counted some eleven hundred volumes written specifically about him, treating his diplomatic and scientific achievements; many times that number included him in their indices.

Rashim Machesney had been a physicist, probably the most eminent of his time. And when the war broke out, while most of his colleagues urged restraint, he’d warned against the common danger and announced his intention to support the Dellacondans "to the limits of my strength." His home world tried to stop him (creating an embarrassment it hasn’t yet lived down), but Machesney escaped, took some of his associates with him, and joined Sim.

His value to the Confederate cause had been, as far as anyone knew, primarily diplomatic. He lent his enormous prestige to the effort to induce neutrals to join the unequal struggle. He campaigned across half a hundred worlds, wrote brilliant tracts, addressed planetary audiences, survived assassination attempts, and in one memorable escapade was actually captured by the Ashiyyur, and rescued a few hours later.

Most historians credited Machesney for the ultimate intervention by Earth.

But I was overwhelmed by the sheer amount of material. "Jacob," I said, "there’s no way I can go through all this. You do it. Find the connection. I’m going to try another approach."

"What precisely am I looking for, Alex?"

"Hard to say. But you’ll know it when you see it."

"That’s not much of an instruction."

I agreed that it wasn’t, told him to do the best he could, and linked to the institution that had been created in Machesney’s memory.

The Rashim Machesney Institute is a temple, really, in the classical Hellenic vein. Constructed of white marble, adorned with graceful columns and statuary, it stands majestically on the banks of the Melony. In the rotunda, the great man’s likeness has been carved in stone. Overhead, around the circular roof, is his remark to the Legislature on Toxicon: "Friends, the danger awaits our convenience."

The Institute housed an astronomical data receiving station, which acted as a clearing house for telemetry relayed from a thousand observatories, from Survey flights, from deep space probes, and from God knew where else. Primarily, though, the Institute was a showcase for science and technology, a place where people took their families to see what life was really like out in the cylinder worlds. Or how computers and the pulsar Hercules X-l combine to create Universal Standard Time. There was a simulation of a ride into a black hole running at the theater.

In addition, the library and bookstore were good sources on Machesney. I would have liked to run a search of the library files to see whether Gabe had ever checked anything out, but the clerk insisted it wasn’t possible to obtain that kind of information. "Best we can do is look outside the net. We have better records on off-line materials that he’d have to check out physically. If he was late returning anything, we’d have it. Otherwise—" He shrugged.

"Don’t bother," I said.

I’d gone there hoping to find an expert of some sort, take him aside, and get a fresh point of view on the problem. But in the end I could think of no way to formulate a question. So I settled for picking up some off-line material, copied it into a blank crystal, and added it to Jacob’s pile.

Jacob reported no progress yet on the first batch. "I am processing at a slow rate, to allow better perception. But it would help if you could define the parameters of the search."

"Look for suggestions of a lost artifact," I said. "Preferably a puzzle for which we might reasonably expect Dr. Machesney to have had a solution. Or something that got lost, that we might consider an artifact."

I became something of an expert myself on Rash Machesney. He risked everything in that war. The scientific community blackballed him; his home world conducted criminal proceedings and sentenced him in absentia to two years in prison. The peace movement blasted him, one of its spokesmen declaring that his name would be linked with Iscariot. And the Ashiyyur denounced him as a prostitute, using his knowledge to create advanced weaponry. That was a charge he never denied.

He was also accused of being a crank, a womanizer, and a man who enjoyed his liquor. I acquired a distinct affection for him.

But I got nowhere, and gave up after several nights. There were no indications of anything valuable missing, and no connection with the Veiled Lady. That nebula was far from the scene of the war. It was a site for no battles, and no targets hid within its winding folds. (Strategic interest in the Veiled Lady was a creature of relatively recent development, springing from the expansion of the Confederacy into that region. During Sim’s time, there would have been no point in advancing through the nebula because there were easier routes into the heart of the Confederacy. Today, however, matters were different.)

Chase offered to help. I accepted, and she got a sack of reading and viewing material. It didn’t matter very much.

When the Ludik Talino Society held its next monthly meeting at the Collandium, I was there.

Jana Khyber was right: it was to be a social rather than an academic evening. The conversation in the lobby was good-humored, full of laughter, and everyone was clearly prepared for a party.

It felt a bit like going to the theater. People were well-dressed, waving to one another, mixing easily. Not at all the sort of crowd you might have expected at a gathering, say, of the local historical society, or the Friends of the University Museum.

I wandered inside, traded a few trivialities with a couple of women, and secured a drink. We were in a series of connected conference rooms, the largest of which was set up to seat about three hundred. It was just adequate.

There was money in the establishment: thick carpets, paneled walls, crystal chandeliers and electric candles, carved bookshelves, paintings by Manois and Romfret. Talino’s image was displayed on a banner in the main room. And Christopher Sim’s harridan device had been mounted on the podium.

There were exhibits of relevant works by the members: histories, battle analyses, discussions of various disputed details of that much-disputed war. Most had been privately produced, but a few bore the imprint of major publishers.

Above the speakers' platform, Marcross’s Corsarius appeared again.

An agenda was posted. Panels would evaluate the validity of assorted historical documents, examine the relationship between two people I’d never heard of (they turned out to be obscure women who might have known Talino, and, in the opinion of many of those present, had quarreled over his favors), and look into some esoteric aspects of Ashiyyurean battle tactics.

On the hour, we were gaveled to order by the president, a large, hostile woman with a stare like a laser cannon. She welcomed us, introduced a few guests, rambled on about old business, accepted the treasurer’s report (we were showing a pretty good profit), and introduced a red-faced man who moved to invite an Ashiyyurean "speaker" from the Maracaibo Caucus.

I whispered into my commlink and asked Jacob what the Maracaibo Caucus was.

"It’s composed of retired military officers," he said. "Both ours and Ashiyyurean, and dedicated to keeping the peace. It’s one of the few organizations in the Confederacy with alien members. What’s going on there anyway? What’s all the racket?"

The audience was voicing its discontent with the suggestion. The red-faced man shouted something above the noise, and was roundly hooted. I wondered whether there was any place in the Confederacy where feelings ran more strongly against the Ashiyyur than in the inner sanctum of the Ludik Talino Society.

The president reasserted herself, and the red-faced man turned away in disgust and descended into the crowd. A cheer went up, followed swiftly by laughter, and a hoisting of glasses. It was a game. Or a ritual.

The president quieted the audience with a cautionary glance, and launched into an introduction of the first speaker of the evening, a tall, balding man seated beside her, who was trying not to look impressed with the traditional flow of compliments. When she’d concluded and announced his name—it was Wyler—he ascended to the lectern, and cleared his throat. "Ladies and gentlemen, I’m delighted to be with you tonight." He lifted his jaw slightly, and struck a pose that he must have assumed to be one of considerable dignity. In fact, he was an ungainly individual, all elbows and odd angles, with wiry eyebrows and a nervous tic. "It’s been a good many years since I’ve been in these rooms. A lot has changed. I wonder, for one thing, whether we’re not closer to war. We’re certainly closer to destabilization. Every place I go, there’s talk of independence." He shook his head, and thrust one hand forward, waving it all away. "Well, it doesn’t matter, really. Tonight, we’re all here together, and I suspect whatever happens out there, the Talino Society will continue to serve as a bulwark of civilization!" His eyes brightened, and he jabbed a finger at the chandelier. "I remember I was sitting right over there— " I glanced in the direction he pointed, looked back toward the speaker, and realized suddenly that I’d seen someone I knew.

When I looked again, when I focused on the woman whose face had drawn my attention, I saw only a stranger. Yet there was something familiar in the graceful curve of throat and cheekbone, or perhaps in the almost introspective expression, or the subtle grace with which she lifted her glass to her lips.

I knew the face. But I could not give her a name, and she was far too attractive to have forgotten.

"…I was quite a young man when I first came to Rimway. I was even then fascinated by the puzzles surrounding the life and death of Ludik Talino.

"Here was a man who had fought for the Dellacondans against Toxicon, and before that against Cormoral, and before that against the Tuscans. He had received damned near every award for valor that his world could offer. He had nearly been killed on at least two occasions, and had once cast himself from the open hatch of a disabled ship to assist an injured comrade. With no assurance that help would come in time for them.

"Do you have any idea what it means to be adrift out there, with nothing between you and the void but the thin fabric of a pressure suit? No tether to home but the weak signal of a helmet radio? Believe me, it isn’t the act of a coward."

Across the room, the woman was aware of me: she concentrated her attention on the speaker, and looked occasionally to her right, but never in my direction. Who the hell was she?

"How, I asked myself, could such a man have abandoned his post at so critical a moment? The only answer was that he could not. There had to be another explanation.

"So, as a young graduate student I was excited to have the opportunity to come here to look for that explanation in the place where Talino had spent most of his life, to study the documents firsthand, to walk where he had walked, to get a sense of what he must have felt during those final years. You won’t be surprised to know that, on my first day in Andiquar, I visited the Hatchmore House where he died."

He fumbled behind the podium momentarily, found a glass, and filled it with ice water. "I can remember standing outside the second-floor bedroom, where they have cordoned it off, and thinking I could almost feel his presence. Which shows you what imagination will do. I’ve had a lot of time since then to look at the truth of matters. And the truth is that the man who died on Rimway a hundred and fifty years ago, proclaiming his innocence, was not Ludik Talino."

The audience stirred. The woman, possibly startled by the statement, looked directly at me. And I, irritated by an assertion I knew to be untrue, suddenly realized who she was! She’d been a girl, not quite arrived at adolescence when I’d last seen her. Her name was Quinda, and she used to come with her grandfather to visit Gabe.

Wyler pressed on: "He was in fact Jeffrey Kolm, an actor. Kolm had, in his day, guarded the throne in Omicar, played an emissary who was murdered almost the moment he set foot on stage in Caesar and Cleopatra, and delivered the critical message in Trinity. It could not have been a very satisfying career, and it was certainly not lucrative. Kolm held down a variety of jobs, mostly state-sponsored positions for people without skills. And it is therefore not difficult to suppose that he was looking for some more subtle challenge, some role that would perhaps yield a substantial profit.

"He found that role in Ludik Talino.

"Think of it: after Rigel, there was only confusion. Sim was dead, the Dellacondans scattered, the war apparently lost. No one knew precisely what had occurred, nor what might happen next. The worlds of the Confederacy, and the neutrals whom they’d been protecting, were scrambling diplomatically and militarily to survive, and no one was paying much attention to the details of what had happened at Rigel.

"It was chaos. People thought Tarien had died with his brother, and there were some among the Dellacondans who were trying to make peace with the Ashiyyur. What more critical moment for a new hero to step forward?"

Wyler did not use notes. His voice had dropped, and he spoke with cool certainty, waggling the fingers of his right hand at his audience to emphasize each point. "Remember that no one knew yet that Sim had been betrayed."

The lights dimmed, and two holographic faces appeared behind and above the speaker. They were dark, handsome, blessed with the sort of features that you might almost think of as noble. One was bearded, one clean-shaven; there was about fifteen years difference between the two. Still, the resemblance was striking. "Talino is on the right. The other man is Kolm. It’s a publicity still, and shows him as he appeared in The Deeps." Both images faded, to be replaced by a third: this one was also bearded, but there were streaks of gray now in the black hair, and the eyes were troubled. "And this," Wyler said, "is from a holo of Talino made after Rigel. Which of the two men is it?" He drummed his fingers against the podium.

I momentarily forgot Quinda.

"Kolm may well have recognized the need of the times. And the opportunity to play a bona fide hero in a real life role must have appealed to him. So he stepped forward, presenting himself as Talino the lone survivor, somehow blown clear of the Corsarius in those final moments."

He chuckled. "It must have come as a terrible surprise when the story of the betrayal surfaced. Sim’s crewmen had fled. And what more natural for the general public to assume but that the man who claimed to have miraculously survived was in fact a liar? Particularly when that man’s account of events varied so considerably from the official version. So Holm, expecting to enjoy the fruits of another man’s heroism, instead found himself in the role of a miscreant."

He shrugged, and held up his hands, palms out. "So why did he continue? Why not go back to his old life?

"We’ll never really know. Talino could easily have been allowed to vanish, and none would have ever known. But he stayed on, continued to play the part, addressed after-dinner groups. It might have been that it was more profitable to play the disgraced hero than to return to the anonymity of an unsuccessful acting career.

"But Iwish to propose an infinitely stranger possibility: that Holm played Talino so well, identified with him so closely, that he literally became Talino. That he felt driven to defend the name he had adopted.

"Whatever the explanation, Ludik Talino lived on.

"And if his bitter denials that he had abandoned his captain ring so convincingly in our ears, it is because they are the cries of a man who was indeed innocent."

Briefly, he summed up the evidence. There wasn’t much: inconsistencies in statements attributed to TalinoIKolm, the disappearance of the actor at about the same time that the Rigel action was fought, two statements by persons who had known Kolm maintaining that he had indeed masqueraded as Talino. And so on. "Individually," the speaker observed, "none of these amounts to much. But taken as a whole, they point clearly to one conclusion."

He looked around for questions. "What happened to Talino himself?" asked a young woman in front.

Quinda turned as casually as she could, and glanced in my direction. She appeared deep in thought.

"I think we can argue," Wyler said, "that of all the crewmen, only he remained loyal. It’s my opinion that he died with his captain."

"I don’t believe a word of it," I remarked in the general direction of some people who were standing in front of me. One of them, a tall white-haired man with carefully honed diction and the bearing of a philosophy department chairman, turned and fixed me with a disapproving stare. "Wyler is a solid researcher," he said solemnly. "If you can demonstrate an error, I’m sure we’d be happy to hear from you." He laughed, jammed his elbow into the ribs of one of his companions, and finished off his drink with a flourish.

"Pity when you think about it," a woman behind us said. "A man stays and gives his life while everyone else runs, and what does he get?" Her eyes misted briefly, and she shook her head.

Quinda was talking with a young man, her back toward me. It was her; I was sure of it. The grandfather had been Artis Llandman, one of Gabe’s colleagues. I could not recall the girl’s last name. I started in her direction, pushing past snatches of conversation that suggested everyone wasn’t as affected by Wyler’s remarks as I: ". . . Stripped him of his tenure, it’s a damned shame, well I can tell you we won’t stand for it—" and, ". . . Wish to hell they could get their act together before real estate values go into the toilet around here—"

"Quinda," I said, coming up behind her, "is that you?"

She swung around with that appearance of vague defensiveness people display when they encounter a familiar face but can’t put a name to it. "Yes," she said tentatively, as though there might be some doubt as to the facts of the matter. "I thought I knew you."

"Alex Benedict."

She smiled politely, but gave no sign of recognition.

"You and I used to go down and look at the Melony. Remember? My uncle lived in Northgate, and you came sometimes to visit us with your grandfather."

Her brow furrowed briefly, and then I saw an ignition in her eyes. "Alex!" she breathed, discovering the name. "Is it really you?"

"You’ve grown up very nicely," I said. "You were mostly pixie last time I saw you."

"She still is," said her companion, whose name I’ve long since forgotten. He excused himself moments later, and we drifted into one of the clubrooms, and fell into reminiscences of other days.

"Arm," she said, when I asked about her last name. "Same as it was." Her eyes were cool and green; her hair was cut short, framing expressive features; and she owned a comfortable smile which formed readily and naturally. "I always enjoyed those visits," she said. "Because of you, mostly, I think."

"That’s nice to hear."

"I wouldn’t have recognized you," she said.

"I’ve had a hard life."

"No, no. I don’t mean that. You didn’t have a beard then." She squeezed my arm. "I had a crush on you," she confided, with the slightest emphasis on the verb. "And then one time we went and you weren’t there anymore."

"I went off to make my fortune."

"And did you?"

"Yes," I said. "In a way." And it was true: I’d enjoyed my work, and made a decent living from it.

She waited for me to elaborate. I let it pass. "What did you think of him?" she asked, noting my reticence and indicating Wyler, who was still lecturing a group of admirers.

"Of the speaker?"

"Of his notion."

"I don’t know," I said. The fact that the audience had taken him seriously had left me off balance. "At this distance, how can anyone really know what happened?"

"I suppose," she said doubtfully. "But I don’t think you’ll find anybody who’d buy his story."

"I’ve already found someone."

She canted her head and smiled mischievously. "I don’t think you quite understand the nature of the Talino Society, Alex. And I’m not sure I should spoil all this for you, but I’d be very much surprised if Dr. Wyler believes any of his arguments himself!"

"You’re not serious."

She looked quickly round the room, and fastened her attention on a stout, middle-aged woman in a white jacket. "That’s Maryam Shough. She can demonstrate conclusively that the actor Kolm was in fact one of the Seven."

"You’re right," I said. "I don’t understand."

Quinda suppressed a giggle. "The true purpose of the Talino Society is never spoken of. Never admitted."

I shook my head. "That can’t be right. The Society’s goal is clearly stated on the plate beside the doorway downstairs. To clear the name and establish a proper respect for the acts of Ludik Talino.' Or something to that effect."

" Faithful navigator of the Corsarius," she concluded, with mock solemnity.

"So what’s the secret?"

"The secret, Alex, is that there’s probably no one in the room, except perhaps you and one or two other first-time guests, who takes any of this seriously."

"Oh."

"Now, why don’t you tell me about your uncle? How is Gabe? How long have you been back?"

"Gabe was on the Capella."

Her eyes fluttered shut, and then: "I’m sorry."

I shrugged. "The human condition," I said. I knew that her grandfather, Llandman, was also dead. Gabe had mentioned it years before. "Explain to me why people come here and listen to hoaxes."

It was several seconds before she recovered herself. "I liked Gabe," she said.

"Everybody did."

We drifted over to the bar, and got a couple of drinks. "I wouldn’t know how to explain this exactly," she said. "It’s a fantasy, a way to get away from bookkeeping, and stand on the bridge with Christopher Sim."

"But you can do that with the simulations!"

"I suppose." She grew thoughtful. "But it isn’t really the same. Here in the Talino Society clubrooms, it’s always 1206, and the Corsarius still leads the defenses. We exercise some control over history: we can change it, make it ours. Oh, hell, I don’t know how to explain it in a way that would make any sense." She smiled up at me. "The point is, I suppose, that Wyler’s idea might be right. It’s possible. And that possibility gives us room to breathe and move about during Resistance times. It’s a way of becoming part of it, don’t you see?" She watched me for a moment, and then shook her head with a flick of good humor. "It’s okay, Alex. I doubt that any sensible person would."

I did not want to offend her. So I said of course I understood, and that I thought it was a fine idea.

If I’d been a stranger, she might have been irritated. As it was, I could see her decide to tolerate me. "It’s okay," she said. "Listen, I have friends to attend to. Will you be coming back?"

"Yes," I said. "Probably." Meaning, of course, no.

She nodded, understanding.

"How about dinner instead?" I asked. "Maybe tomorrow evening?"

"Yes," she said. "I’d like that." We settled the details, and I moved on.

I found a few people who had known John Khyber. They liked him. But there seemed nothing extraordinary about the man, at least nothing that would have drawn Gabe’s interest. Only one or two seemed to be aware that he was dead.

The Talino Society maintained a Trophy Room which was a permanent feature (and curiosity) of the Collandium. It opened off one of the conference areas, and was filled with visitors when I strolled into it.

It was dominated by exquisite matched portraits of Talino and Christopher Sim. Certificates and plaques were mounted on the walls. They were awards to persons whom I assumed were members, citing various achievements in scholarship: forays into naval tactics at Grand Salinas, analyses of Ashiyyurean psychology as it affected the attack on Point Edward, the publication of a collection of aphorisms attributed to Tarien Sim, and so on. I wondered how much was real, and how much was part of the illusion.

There were also photos of men and women in the light and dark blue uniforms of the early Confederacy; portraits of staid, middle-aged types who were among the founders of the Society; and a large platinum cup which had been awarded to a Society-sponsored kids' ramble team.

There were other trophies, some decorated with gleaming frigates or sunbursts. One particularly prominent silver plaque featured a black harridan. Some sixty names were engraved on it, outstanding members of the Talino Society, one chosen each year.

The Trophy Room included a data bank and two terminals. I waited until one became accessible, and then sat down. It was an offline system, of course, linked to data banks elsewhere in the building, but not tied in with the general net. Input was either verbal or by keyboard; responses were posted on the display. I brought up the menu, opened a channel to "Archives," entered "John Khyber," and requested available biographical information. There wasn’t much:

KHYBER, JOHN

CODE 367L441

His name, and the number by which he could be reached on the net. I asked for duties performed with the Talino Society. The unit responded:

CHAIRMAN, FINANCE COMMITTEE 1409-10

MEMBER, MEMBERSHIP COMMITTEE 1406-08

MEMBER, MATERIEL SURVEY COMMITTEE 1411-12

NAVAL ADVISOR, SIMULGROUP, RIGEL 1407

MASTER OF CEREMONIES, NUMEROUS OCCASIONS, 1407-PRESENT

DO YOU WISH DETAILS?

"No. Has he ever spoken at the meetings?"

YES. DO YOU WISH DETAILS?

"Yes. Titles of addresses, please."

TRIAL AND ERROR AT IMARIOS: CORMORAL REACTS

3I31I02

BATTLE CHARACTERISTICS OF CORMORAL’S CRUISERS

4I27I04

THE TWILIGHT WAR: THE FRIGATE COMES OF AGE

13I30I07

ALCOHOL AND THE ASHIYYUR

5I29I08

THE DANCING GIRLS AT ABONAI LOSE THE WAR

8I33I11

SMALL FORCE TACTICS: SIM AT ESCHAT’ON

10I28I13

THE GUERRILLAS COME TO STAY: SIM AT SANUSAR

11I29I13

ROOTS OF VICTORY: DELLACONDAN CRYPTOLOGY

3I31I14

PRINT COPIES ARE AVAILABLE.

"Please provide copies of everything."

I listened to the barely audible whirr of the printer, which was concealed in a cabinet beneath the terminal. I’d come here hoping that somewhere I’d find the reason Khyber was riding with Gabe. But, in this morass of game-playing, what was it possible to believe? "Computer," I said, "has Gabriel Benedict ever been here?" PLEASE BE AWARE THAT THE COMINGS AND GOINGS OF THE GENERAL MEMBERSHIP, AND OF THEIR GUESTS, IS NOT RECORDED. HOWEVER, THERE IS ONE KNOWN OCCASION ON WHICH GABRIEL BENEDICT ATTENDED A MONTHLY MEETING.

"When was that?"

THE FIRST MEETING OF THIS YEAR, PRIMA 30.

"Was he alone?" NO DATA.

"Was Khyber here the same night?" NO DATA.

I thought it over. What did I want to know? "Did Mr. Benedict speak? To the group, that is?" NO.

There must have been something special about that one meeting. "May I see the program for the evening?"

403RD MEETING OF THE LUDIK TALINO SOCIETY

PRIMA 30, 1414

2000 HOURS

GUEST SPEAKER: LISA PAROT

"CONSPIRACY: WAS SIM MURDERED BY CONSPIRATORS PRIOR TO RIGEL?"

FEATURED SPEAKER: DR. ARDMOR KAIL

"A PSYCHOLOGIST LOOKS AT THE TALINO RECORDINGS."

DINNER: VEAL MARCHAND

TEMERE SALAD

VEGETABLES

Something I’d overlooked occurred to me. "You said that attendance at these sessions is not routinely recorded."

THAT IS CORRECT.

"How do you happen to know that Gabriel Benedict was here on Prima 30?"

BECAUSE HE CONSULTED ME.

Ah! "About what?"

TWO ITEMS. HE WISHED INFORMATION CONCERNING JOHN KHYBER’S BACKGROUND.

"Did he see anything on that subject that you have not shown me?"

NO.

"What was the other item?"

HE REQUESTED A COPY OF AN ADDRESS GIVEN TWO AND A HALF YEARS AGO.

"Please provide a copy of the address."

A single page dropped into the tray. I picked it up and read through it.

It was hard to see a reason for Gabe’s interest. This one was little more than a diatribe. "(Talino) has been betrayed by history," the speaker said, "and I am happy that there are still some who care about the truth. Time may prove you correct. Talino, and indeed his unfortunate comrades, are victims of a set of circumstances which took from them something far worse than their lives. I know of no similar miscarriage of justice in all the ages. And I wonder whether we’ll ever succeed in correcting the record."

That was really the essence of the speaker’s remarks. He said it several different ways, he laced it with redundancies, and he poured on the dramatics. Why was Gabe interested in it?

I stopped puzzling when I saw the name of the speaker. It was Hugh Scott.