Birthday to You.”
When the din had subsided, Commodore Hansteen called out: “Anyone else besides Mrs. Williams who just remembered that it's his or her birthday? We know, of course, that some ladies like to keep it quiet when they reach a certain age—”
There were no volunteers, but Duncan McKenzie raised his voice above the general laughter.
“There's a funny thing about birthdays—I used to win bets at parties with it. Knowing that there are three hundred and sixty-five days in the year, how large a group of people would you think was needed before you had a fifty-fifty chance that two of them shared the same birthday?”
After a brief pause, while the audience considered the question, someone answered: “Why, half of three hundred and sixty-five, I suppose. Say a hundred and eighty.”
“That's the obvious answer—and it's completely wrong. If you have a group of more than twenty-four people, the odds are better than even that two of them have the same birthday.”
“That's ridiculous! Twenty-four days out of three sixty-five can't give those odds.”
“Sorry—it does. And if there are more than forty people, nine times out of ten two of them will have the same birthday. There's a sporting chance that it might work with the twentytwo of us. What about trying it, Commodore?”
“Very well. I'll go round the room, and ask each one of you for his date of birth.”
“Oh no,” protested McKenzie. “People cheat if you do it that way. The dates must be written down, so that nobody knows anyone else's birthday.”
An almost blank page from one of the tourist guides was sacrificed for this purpose, and torn up into twenty- two slips. When they were collected and read, to everyone's astonishment—and McKenzie's gratification—it turned out that both Pat Harris and Robert Bryan had been born on May 23.
“Pure luck!” said a skeptic, thus igniting a brisk mathematical argument among half a dozen of the male passengers. The ladies were quite uninterested; either because they did not care for mathematics or because they preferred to ignore birthdays.
When the Commodore decided that this had gone on long enough, he rapped for attention.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” he called. “Let's get on with the next item on our program. I'm pleased to say that the Entertainment Committee, consisting of Mrs. Schuster and Professor Jaya—er, Professor J. —has come up with an idea that should give us some amusement. They suggest that we set up a court and cross-examine everybody here in turn. The object of the court is to find an answer to this question: Why did we come to the Moon in the first place? Of course, some people may not want to be examined—for all I know, half of you may be on the run from the police, or your wives. You're at liberty to refuse to give evidence, but don't blame us if we draw the worst possible conclusions if you do. Well, what do you think of the idea?”
It was received with fair enthusiasm in some quarters and ironic groans of disapproval in others, but since there was no determined opposition, the Commodore went ahead. Almost automatically, he was elected President of the Court; equally automatic was Irving Schuster's appointment as General Counsel.
The front-right pair of seats had been reversed so that it faced toward the rear of the cruiser. This served as the bench, shared by the President and Counsel. When everyone had settled down, and the Clerk of the Court (viz. Pat Harris) had called for order, the President made a brief address.
“We are not yet engaged in criminal proceedings,” he said, keeping his face straight with some difficulty. “This is purely a court of enquiry. If any witness feels that he is being intimidated by my learned colleague, he can appeal to the Court. Will the Clerk call the first witness?”
“Er—your Honor—who is the first witness?” said the Clerk, reasonably enough.
It took ten minutes of discussion among the Court, learned Counsel, and argumentative members of the public to settle this important point. Finally it was decided to have a ballot, and the first name to be produced was David Barrett's.
Smiling slightly, the witness came forward and took his stand in the narrow space before the bench.
Irving Schuster, looking and feeling none too legal in undershirt and underpants, cleared his throat impressively.
“Your name is David Barrett?”
“That is correct.”
“Your occupation?”
“Agricultural engineer, retired.”
“Mr. Barrett, will you tell this court exactly why you have come to the Moon.”
“I was curious to see what it was like here and I had the time and money.”
Irving Schuster looked at Barrett obliquely through his thick glasses; he had always found this had an unsettling effect on witnesses. To wear spectacles was almost a sign of eccentricity in this age, but doctors and lawyers—especially the older ones-still patronized them; indeed, they had come to symbolize the legal and medical professions.
“You were 'curious to see what it was like,'” Schuster quoted. “That's no explanation. Why were you curious?”
“I am afraid that question is so vaguely worded that I cannot answer it. Why does one do anything?”
Commodore Hansteen relaxed with a smile of pleasure. This was just what he wanted—to get the passengers arguing and talking freely about something that would be of mutual interest to them all, but would arouse no passions or controversy. (It might do that, of course, but it was up to him to keep order in Court.)
“I admit,” continued Counsel, “that my question might have been more specific. I will try to reframe it.”
He thought for a moment, shuffling his notes. They consisted merely of sheets from one of the tourist guides. He had scribbled a few hines of questioning in the margins, but they were really for effect and reassurance. He had never hiked to stand up in court without something in his hand; there were times when a few seconds of imaginary consultation were priceless.
“Would it be fair to say that 'you were attracted by the Moon's scenic beauties?”
“Yes, that was part of the attraction. I had seen the tourist literature and movies, of course, and wondered if the reality would live up to it.”
“And has it done so?”
“I would say,” was the dry answer, “that it has exceeded my expectations.”
There was general laughter from the rest of the company. Commodore Hansteen rapped loudly on the back of his seat.
“Order!” he called. “If there are any disturbances, I shall have to clear the Court!”
This, as he had intended, started a much louder round of laughter, which he let run its natural course. When the mirth had died down, Schuster continued in his most “Where were you on the night of the twenty-second?” tone of voice.
“This is very interesting, Mr. Barrett. You have come all the way to the Moon, at considerable expense, to hook at the view. Tell me-have you ever seen the Grand Canyon ?”
“No. Have you?”
“Your Honor!” appealed Schuster. “The witness is being unresponsive.”
Hansteen looked severely at Mr. Barrett, who did not seem in the least abashed.
“You are not conducting this enquiry, Mr. Barrett. Your job is to answer questions, not to ask them.”
“I beg the Court's pardon, my Lord,” replied the witness.
“Er—am I 'my Lord'?” said Hansteen uncertainly, turning to Schuster. “I thought I was 'your Honor. '”
The lawyer gave the matter several seconds of solemn thought.
“I suggest—your Honor—that each witness use the procedure to which he is accustomed in his country. As long as due deference is shown to the Court, that would seem to be sufficient.”
“Very well—proceed.”
Schuster turned to his witness once more.
“I would hike to know, Mr. Barrett, why you found it necessary to visit the Moon while there was so much of Earth that you hadn't seen. Can you give us any valid reason for this illogical behavior?”
It was a good question, just the sort that would interest everyone, and Barrett was now making a serious attempt to answer it.
“I've seen a fair amount of Earth,” he said slowly, with his precise English accent—almost as great a rarity
