“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
“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
