E for Effort

by Thomas L Sherred

  She took the binoculars and focused them expertly on the officer, who had stopped reading and was watching alertly. “I am ready.”

  Samuels: “Will you please read, sir?”

  He did, and the Gomez woman repeated aloud, quickly and easily, a section that sounded as though it might be anything at all. I can’t speak Spanish. The officer continued to read for a minute or two.

  Samuels: “Thank you, sir. And thank you, Miss Gomez. Your pardon, sir, but since there are several who have been known to memorize the Bible, will you tell the Court if you have anything on your person that is written, anything that Miss Gomez has no chance of viewing?” Yes, the officer had. “Will you read that as before? Will you, Miss Gomez—”

  She read that, too. Then the officer came to the front to listen to the court reporter read Miss Gomez’s words.

  “That’s what I read,” he affirmed.

  Samuels turned her over to the prosecution, who made more experiments that served only to convince that she was equally good as an interpreter and lipreader in either language.

  In rapid succession Samuels put the rest of the lipreaders on the stand. In rapid succession they proved themselves as able and as capable as Miss Gomez, in their own linguistic specialty. The Russian from Ambridge generously offered to translate into his broken English any other Slavic language handy, and drew scattered grins from the press box. The Court was convinced, but failed to see the purpose of the exhibition. Samuels, glowing with satisfaction and confidence, faced the Court.

  “Thanks to the indulgence of the Court, and despite the efforts of the distinguished prosecution, we have proved the almost amazing accuracy of lipreading in general, and these lipreaders in particular.” One Justice absently nodded in agreement. “Therefore, our defense will be based on that premise, and on one other which we have had until now found necessary to keep hidden—the picture in question was and is definitely not a fictional representatian of events of questionable authenticity. Every scene in that film contained, not polished professional actors, but the original person named and portrayed. Every foot, every inch of film was not the result of an elaborate studio reconstruction but an actual collection of pictures, an actual collection of newsreels—if they can be called that—edited and assembled in story form!”

  Through the startled spurt of astonishment we heard one of the prosecution: “That’s ridiculous! No newsreel—”

  Samuels ignored the objections and the tumult to put me on the stand. Beyond the usual preliminary questions I was allowed to say things my own way. At first hostile, the Court became interested enough to overrule the repeated objections that flew from the table devoted to the prosecution. I felt that at least two of the Court, if not outright favorable, were friendly. As far as I can remember, I went over the maneuvers of the past years, and ended something like this:

  “As to why we arranged the cards to fall as they did; both Mr. Laviada and myself were unable to face the prospect of destroying his discovery, because of the inevitable penalizing of needed research. We were, and we are, unwilling to better ourselves or a limited group by the use and maintenance of secrecy, if secrecy were possible. As to the only other alternative,” and I directed this straight at Judge Bronson, the well-known liberal on the bench, “since the last war all atomic research and activity has been under the direction of a Board nominally civilian, but actually under the ‘protection and direction’ of the Army and Navy. This ‘direction and protection,’ as any competent physicist will gladly attest, has proved to be nothing but a smothering blanket serving to conceal hide-bound antiquated reasoning, abysmal ignorance, and inestimable amounts of fumbling. As of right now, this country, or any country that was foolish enough to place any confidence in the rigid regime of the military mind, is years behind what would otherwise be the natural course of discovery and progress in nuclear and related fields.

  “We were, and we are, firmly convinced that even the slightest hint of the inherent possibilities and scope of Mr. Laviada’s discovery would have meant, under the present regime, instant and mandatory confiscation of even a supposedly secure patent. Mr. Laviada has never applied for a patent, and never will. We both feel that such a discovery belongs not to an individual, a group, a corporation, or even to a nation, but to the world and those who live in it.

  “We know, and are eager and willing to prove, that the domestic and external affairs of not only this nation, but of every nation are influenced, sometimes controlled, by esoteric groups warping political theories and human lives to suit their own ends.” The Court was smothered in sullen silence, thick and acid with hate and disbelief.

  “Secret treaties, for example, and vicious, lying propaganda have too long controlled human passions and made men hate; honored thieves have too long rotted secretly in undeserved high places. The machine can make treachery and untruth impossible. It must, if atomic war is not to sear the face and fate of the world.

  “Our pictures were all made with that end in view. We needed, first, the wealth and prominence to present to an international audience what we knew to be the truth. We have done as much as we can. From now on, this Court takes over the burden we have carried. We are guilty of no treachery, guilty of no deceit, guilty of nothing but deep and true humanity. Mr. Laviada wishes me to tell the Court and the world that he has been unable till now to give his discovery to the world, free to use as it wills.”

  The Court stared at me. Every foreign representative was on the edge of his seat waiting for the Justices to order us shot without further ado, the sparkling uniforms were seething, and the pressmen were racing their pencils against time. The tension dried my throat. The speech that Samuels and I had rehearsed the previous night was strong medicine. Now what?

  Samuels filled the breach smoothly. “If the Court pleases; Mr. Lefko has made some startling statements. Startling, but certainly sincere, and certainly either provable or disprovable. And proof it shall be!”

  He strode to the door of the conference room that had been allotted us. As the hundreds of eyes followed him it was easy for me to slip down from the witness stand, and wait, ready. From the conference room Samuels rolled the machine, and Mike rose. The whispers that curdled the air seemed disappointed, unimpressed. Right in front of the Bench he trundled it.

  He moved unobtrusively to one side as the television men trained their long-snouted cameras. “Mr. Laviada and Mr. Lefko will show you … I trust there will be no objection from the prosecution?” He was daring them.

  One of the prosecution was already on his feet. He opened his mouth hesitantly, but thought better, and sat down. Heads went together in conference as he did. Samuels was watching the Court with one eye, and the courtroom with the other.

  “If the Court pleases, we will need a cleared space. If the bailiff will… thank you, sir.” The long tables were moved back, with a raw scraping. He stood there, with every eye in the courtroom glued on him. For two long breaths he stood there, then he spun and went to his table. “Mr. Lefko,” and he bowed formally. He sat.

  The eyes swung to me, to Mike, as he moved to his machine and stood there silently. I cleared my throat and spoke to the Bench as though I did not see the directional microphones trained at my lips.

  “Justice Bronson.”

  He looked steadily at me and then glanced at Mike. “Yes, Mr. Lefko?”

  “Your freedom from bias is well known.” The corners of his mouth went down as he frowned. “Will you be willing to be used as proof that there can be no trickery?” He thought that over, then nodded slowly. The prosecution objected, and was waved down.

  “Will you tell me exactly where you were at any given time? Any place where you are absolutely certain and can verify that there were no concealed cameras or observers?”

  He thought. Seconds. Minutes. The tension twanged, and I swallowed dust. He spoke quietly. “1918. November 11th.”

  Mike whispered to me. I said, “Any particular time?”

  Justice Bronson
looked at Mike. “Exactly eleven. Armistice time.” He paused, then went on. “Niagara Falls. Niagara Falls New York.”

  I heard the dials tick in the stillness, and Mike whispered again. I said, “The lights should be off.” The bailiff rose. “Will you please watch the left wall, or in that direction? I think that if Justice Kassel will turn a little … we are ready.”

  Bronson looked at me, and at the left wall. “Ready.”

  The lights flicked out overhead and I heard the television crews mutter. I touched Mike on the shoulder. “Show them, Mike!”

  We’re all showmen at heart, and Mike is no exception. Suddenly out of nowhere and into the depths poured a frozen torrent. Niagara Falls. I’ve mentioned, I think, that I’ve never got over my fear of heights. Few people ever do. I heard long, shuddery gasps as we started straight down. Down, until we stopped at the brink of the silent cataract, weird on its frozen majesty. Mike had stopped time at exactly eleven, I knew. He shifted to the American bank. Slowly he moved along. There were a few tourists standing in almost comic attitudes. There was snow on the ground, flakes in the air. Time stood still, and hearts slowed in sympathy.

  Bronson snapped, “Stop!”

  A couple, young. Long skirts, high-buttoned army collar, dragging army overcoat, facing, arms about each other. Mike’s sleeve rustled in the darkness and they moved. She was sobbing and the soldier was smiling. She turned away her head, and he turned it back. Another couple seized them gaily, and they twirled breathlessly.

  Bronson’s voice was harsh. “That’s enough!” The view blurred for seconds.

  Washington. The White House. The President. Someone coughed like a small explosion. The President was watching a television screen. He jerked erect suddenly, startled. Mike spoke for the first time in court.

  “That is the President of the United States. He is watching the trial that is being broadcast and televised from this courtroom. He is listening to what I am saying right now, and he is watching, in his television screen, as I use my machine to show him what he was doing one second ago.”

  The President heard those fateful words. Stiffly he threw an unconscious glance around his room at nothing and looked back at his screen in time to see himself do what he just had done, one second ago. Slowly, as if against his will, his hand started toward the switch of his set.

  “Mr. President, don’t turn off that set.” Mike’s voice was curt, almost rude. “You must hear this, you of all people in the world. You must understand!

  “This is not what we wanted to do, but we have no recourse left but to appeal to you, and to the people of this twisted world.” The President might have been cast in iron. “You must see, you must understand that you have in your hands the power to make it impossible for greed-born war to be bred in secrecy and rob man of his youth or his old age or whatever he prizes.” His voice softened, pleaded. “That is all we have to say. That is all we want. This is all anyone could want, ever.” The President, unmoving, faded into blackness. “The lights, please,” and almost immediately the Court adjourned. That was over a month ago.

  Mike’s machine has been taken from us, and we are under military guard. Probably it’s just as well we’re guarded. We understand there have been lynching parties, broken up only as far as a block or two away. Last week we watched a white-haired fanatic scream about us, on the street below. We couldn’t catch what he was shrieking, but we did catch a few air-borne epithets.

  “Devils! Anti-Christs! Violation of the Bible! Violations of this and that!” Some, right here in the city, I suppose, would be glad to build a bonfire to cook us right back to the flames from which we’ve sprung. I wonder what the various religious groups are going to do now that the truth can be seen. Who can read lips in Aramaic, or Latin, or Coptic? And is a mechanical miracle a miracle?

  This changes everything. We’ve been moved. Where, I don’t know, except that the weather is warm, and we’re on some military reservation, by the lack of civilians. Now we know what we’re up against. What started out to be just a time-killing occupation, Joe, has turned out to be a necessary preface to what I’m going to ask you to do. Finish this, and then move fast! We won’t be able to get this to you for a while yet, so I’ll go on for a bit the way I started, to kill time.

  Like our clippings:

  TABLOID:

  …Such a weapon cannot, must not be loosed in unscrupulous hands. The last professional production of the infamous pair proves what distortions can be wrested from isolated and misunderstood events. In the hands of perpetrators of hereticalisms, no property, no business deal, no personal life could be sacrosanct, no foreign policy could be…

  TIMES:

  …colonies stand with us firmly… liquidation of the Empire…

  white man’s burden…

  LE MATIN:

  …rightful place… restore proud France…

  PRAVDA:

  …democratic imperialist plot… our glorious scientist ready to announce…

  NICHI-NICHI:

  …incontrovertibly prove divine descent…

  LA PRENSA:

  …oil concessions… dollar diplomacy…

  DETROIT JOURNAL:

  …under our noses in a sinister fortress on East Warren… under close Federal supervision… perfection by our production-trained technicians a mighty aid to law-enforcement agencies… tirades against politicians and business common sense carried too far… tomorrow revelations by…

  L’OSSERVATORE ROMANO:

  Council of Cardinals… announcement expected hourly…

  JACKSON STAR-CLARION:

  …proper handling will prove the fallacy of race equality…

  Almost unanimously the press screamed; Pegler frothed, Win-chell leered. We got the surface side of the situation from the press. But a military guard is composed of individuals, hotel rooms must be swept by maids, waiters must serve food, and a chain is as strong— We got what we think the truth from those who work for a living.

  There are meetings on street corners and homes, two great veterans’ groups have arbitrarily fired their officials, seven governors have resigned, three senators and over a dozen representatives have retired with “ill health,” and the general temper is ugly. International travelers report the same of Europe, Asia is bubbling, and transport planes with motors running stud the airports of South America. A general whisper is that a Constitutional Amendment is being rammed through to forbid the use of any similar instrument by any individual, with the manufacture and leasing by the Federal government to law-enforcement agencies or financially-responsible corporations suggested; it is whispered that motor caravans are forming throughout the country for a Washington march to demand a decision by the Court on the truth of our charges; it is generally suspected that all news disseminating services are under direct Federal—Army control; wires are supposed to be sizzling with petitions and demands to Congress, which are seldom delivered.

  One day the chambermaid said: “And the whole hotel might as well close up shop. The whole floor is blocked off, there’re MP’s at every door, and they’re clearing out all the other guests as fast as they can be moved. The whole place wouldn’t be big enough to hold the letters and wires addressed to you, or the ones that are trying to get in to see you. Fat chance they have,” she added grimly. “The joint is lousy with brass.”

  Mike glanced at me and I cleared my throat. “What’s your idea of the whole thing?”

  Expertly she spanked and reversed a pillow. “I saw your last picture before they shut it down. I saw all your pictures. When I wasn’t working I listened to your trial. I heard you tell them off. I never got married because my boy friend never came back from Burma. Ask him what he thinks,” and she jerked her head at the young private that was supposed to keep her from talking. “Ask him if he wants some bunch of stinkers to start him shooting at some other poor chump. See what he says, and then ask me if I want an atom bomb dropped down my neck just because some chiselers want more than they got.” She le
ft suddenly, and the soldier left with her. Mike and I had a beer and went to bed. Next week the papers had headlines a mile high.

  U. S. KEEPS MIRACLE RAY CONSTITUTION AMENDMENT AWAITS STATES OKAY LAVIADA-LEFKO FREED

  We were freed all right, Bronson and the President being responsible for that. But the President and Bronson don’t know, I’m sure, that we were rearrested immediately. We were told that we’ll be held in “protective custody” until enough states have ratified the proposed constitutional amendment. The Man Without a Country was in what you might call “protective custody,” too. We’ll likely be released the same way he was.

  We’re allowed no newspapers, no radio, allowed no communication coming or going, and we’re given no reason, as if that was necessary. They’ll never, never let us go, and they’d be fools if they did. They think that if we can’t communicate, or if we can’t build another machine, our fangs are drawn, and when the excitement dies, we fall into oblivion, six feet of it. Well, we can’t build another machine. But, communicate?

  Look at it this way. A soldier is a soldier because he wants to serve his country. A soldier doesn’t want to die unless his country is at war. Even then death is only a last resort. And war isn’t necessary any more, not with our machine. In the dark? Try to plan or plot in absolute darkness, which is what would be needed. Try to plot or carry on a war without putting things in writing. O.K. Now—

  The Army has Mike’s machine. The Army has Mike. They call it military expediency, I suppose. Bosh! Anyone beyond the grade of moron can see that to keep that machine, to hide it, is to invite the world to attack, and attack in self-defense. If every nation, or if every man, had a machine, each would be equally open, or equally protected. But if only one nation, or only one man can see, the rest will not long be blind. Maybe we did this all wrong. God knows that we thought about it often. God knows we did our best to make an effort at keeping man out of his own trap.