Justices Jones and Schluss straightened in their seats on either side of the presiding judge. Chief justice Klyutch cleared his throat importantly.
"Mrs. Wisson," he said, "the court finds it impossible to properly evaluate all the evidence presented in this case. It is our judgment that the only way to determine your competence is to have an impartial reliable person test you. Do you agree to submit to such a test?"
She nodded her head quickly. Of course she would agree. She'd agree to anything if they'd only let her get off the stand—off display.
"My colleagues and I want to select for this test a man who is impartial and whose judgment is valued by this court," Klyutch continued, strangely nervous. He colored slightly before adding, "I have been nominated.
"Do you have any objections?" he asked her.
Sar smiled at him. She began to relax in the presence of his archaic modesty—the nervous shyness, the faint blush. Momentarily, she pitied him in his embarrassment and forgot, momentarily, to pity herself.
She smiled at him. There was certainly no reason to object to him any more than to any other man. Less, perhaps. He had a gentleness about him that Sar decided was rather attractive. But she appreciated the humor in being tested for competence by a man whose own competence might be questioned.
Justice Klyutch was a middle-aged widower whose first-wife had died three years ago—from boredom, some people said. He belonged to the small sect who called themselves monogamists and had no second-wives, and, since his wife's death, he had been living a monastic life.
But, although he may not have been the best qualified man for the job, Sar was quite willing to have him conduct the test. In fact, she reflected, he would probably be easy to convince....
When the court convened the next morning, every seat in the spectators' section was filled. The room was hushed in expectancy as the judges filed in and took their seats on the dais.