One night they watched a column of flame lift a silver speck into the sky. And one night, much later, they heard a voice call into space, saying, "Come back, John Hastings, come back.
"Our inspection has shown serious deviations in your emotiograph. You will turn your rocket and rechart for Earth, John Hastings. For trial, John Hastings."
And they came to the trial. Out of the ripe, wet hills, down from the blistering dome over the city, up through the shafts of the gritty Substructure. They came and stood in lines, wiping the August sweat from their eyes, littering the levels with orange peels as they ate. Women, with babies strapped to their shoulders, and suppers left unradiated on the cooker. Men, with lead-shielded faces, and tools laid aside in the middle of a movement. But they came, and stood and jostled one another, milling and gossiping:
"Gonna be some trial!"
"... might even resort to electrocution...."
"Naw, that's dark time methods."
"Oh yeah?"
Oh yeah, oh yeah, oh yeah....
But they felt good, the people, for it wasn't their trial. The words could come easy and undammed, for it was John Hastings who was on trial. They could look at him all they wanted to, and talk.