He closed the barway behind him.
John followed and threw the pressure lock. Going to a sleek instrument, his hands inquired softly along its lines. Cold as space. Sure. Doubt proof. He swept the litter from his desk, and set the instrument in its center. Levers spun, mirrors sent out chips of light, adjusters adjusted.
Then, pausing, he moved to the viewplate and stood looking out a long time. His hands mangled themselves constantly behind his back. A star twinkled—one star in particular—as if through the prism of a cold tear.
But he went back to the instrument, and bent to it slowly. And as he gripped the desk, his knuckles erupted, pale as washed gravestones....
And the graph lines shivered and glowed hot, and the hate came pouring out of the shining needle between the stars, and somewhere a voice called into space....
"Come back, John Hastings, come back," the Questioner said. "You may return to the present."
Throbbing, the screen died as a stirring exhalation came from the crowd. Someone asked for more air. A baby cried, and was lulled to sleep.
"We have seen the pictures, Captain Hastings, and we accept them. The facts were presented as they happened. It is unfortunate that we can show no evidence of what reached John Hastings' eye as he looked into the electron-lightscope. Mechanical tabulations cannot be transmitted to our screen, since its envisioning powers are limited to the sensory memory patterns of the brain. We must therefore go to the defendant himself for further evidence."
They had removed the heavy mesh, but the captain's head remained bowed.