Barrington Bayley SF Gateway Omnibus: The Soul of the Robot, The Knights of the Limits, The Fall of Chronopolis

‘And is there any evidence to say at what point in the proceedings this experience of Captain Aton’s took place? Ten minutes before he entered the life raft? Five minutes before? Or only a moment before?’

‘None. Traumatic amnesia can obliterate the events leading up to the trauma as well as those following it.’

‘Thank you very much, Major.’

When the time came for him to sum up his case, Aton’s counsel did the best he could. He began by speaking of Aton’s excellent service record and of his three previous engagements, for one of which he had received a commendation. He stressed the fact of Aton’s amnesia, trying to suggest that this threw something of a mystery over the whole affair.

‘It is odd,’ he said, ‘that Captain Aton should be unable to make any reply to the accusations that are made against him. Finally –’ he confronted the tribunal, his face white – ‘I request that the witnesses for the prosecution should themselves undergo a field-effect test!’

The prosecutor jumped to his feet. ‘The prosecution objects to that remark! The defence is imputing perjury in my witnesses!’

The tribunal chief shifted in his seat and looked grim. ‘Use of the field-effect device is not recognised in civil law, and this tribunal takes its cue from the civil establishment where the laws of evidence are concerned,’ he said to the defending lieutenant. ‘Although we were prepared to listen to the opinion of Major Batol, in law the amnesia of your client has not itself been established. Your request is denied.’

That, Aton knew, had been the counsel’s last desperate fling. The tribunal spent little time deliberating its decision. When the commanders returned from the inner chamber, the tribunal head looked at Aton with no hint of compassion.

‘Captain Mond Aton, we find you guilty. The evidence of eight independent witnesses can hardly be gainsaid. As for the effort by the defence to suggest your actions were the result of a personality change, and thereby to mitigate your guilt, that argument cannot be accepted. Even if true, it remains that an officer named Captain Aton committed the offences, and an officer named Captain Aton stands before us now. Personality changes are not admitted in an officer of the Time Service.’

He paused before coming to his grave conclusion. ‘Your sentence is the only one that can be expected. From here you will be taken to the laboratories of the Courier Department, where you will perform your last service to the empire. And may God restore your soul.’

As he was led away, Aton passed by Sergeant Quelle who was sitting in the anteroom alongside the others who had given evidence against him. They all – Quelle especially – looked at him with glittering eyes. They could not hide their triumph.

‘Most unusual,’ murmured the technician.

He was sitting casually across from Aton in the briefing-room. ‘I think this is the first time I’ve had to deal with someone of your calibre,’ he said. ‘Mostly we get common murderers, thieves, petty traitors – scum like that.’

He eyed Aton with unveiled curiosity. His manner was relaxed and he seemed to think of his job as a mildly interesting technical exercise instead of as the bizarre method of execution which it was to be for Aton.

‘I’m supposed to teach you as much as you need to know to perform your task properly,’ the technician resumed, ‘but as a chronman yourself you hardly need to be told very much, of course.’

‘All chronmen fear the strat,’ Aton said emptily. ‘It surrounds us. We never forget that.’

‘Are you afraid?’

‘Yes.’

The other nodded. ‘You’re right to be. It is fearful. This business is worse for you than it is for some criminal of low intelligence, I can see that. Still, we all have our job to do.’

He doesn’t pity me, Aton thought. He has no sympathy for me at all. He’s probably processed hundreds of men – it doesn’t mean anything to him any more.

The technician came around the table and placed a headset over Aton’s cranium. He felt electrodes prodding his scalp. The other retreated back to his chair and glanced at tracer dials, making entries on a sheet of paper.

‘Good,’ he announced. ‘Your cephalic responses are adequate – we’d expect them to be, wouldn’t we? Some of the dimmer types get out of this business by not having the alertness to be able to target themselves once we put them through. So it’s the gas chamber for them.’

‘How soon?’ grated Aton.

‘Hm?’

‘When do I go through?’

‘Oh –’ the technician glanced at his watch – ‘in about an hour.’

Aton steeled his nerves to face the coming ordeal. He had been languishing for nearly a week since his trial, waiting for his name to be called. Despite that the department dispatched a daily stream of messages to the distant time-fleets it never seemed to run short of couriers.