Slowly, reluctantly, almost rebelliously, twenty thousand people came to their feet in response to the Major’s command. If he noticed their reticence, he gave no sign. “Ladies and gentlemen, the Honorable Judge Lorenzo R. Bradford, who will be presiding at these proceedings.”

From the row in front of Nicole a man stood, clothed in long black robes, and moved to take his seat at the center table on the platform.

“You may be seated.”

The sound of the crowd settling back onto their seats was a soft rustle, but no other noise could be heard—no talking, no laughter, no cheering, no cries of disappointment—none of the sounds that were so typical of this stadium. As Nicole peered upward at the people, then dropped her eyes to study the Major and those on the stand, she felt a sudden bitterness. This isn’t a trial. Cliff was right. Before it had ever begun, he had known. It was a show. A well-staged, manipulated event.

And then as she scanned the sullen faces of the crowd, she understood, and knew the Major understood as well. It was a show, and the show was for them—for every one of them who had asked himself the question, “What will I do if Eric Lloyd and his men ask me to join them?” Television coverage alone was not sufficient to answer that question. Only a live demonstration, where the shock and reality would be undiluted, would suffice. And then the Major spoke and pulled her thoughts away from the crowd.

“Citizens of Shalev.” His voice gave the impression of one caught in sudden mourning. “For the first time in our eighteenyear history, we begin a trial—not the first civil trial, for we are still human and have had to work out our differences with the aid of the courts and counselors and legal processes—no, for the first time, we convene to conduct a criminal trial. And I cannot fully express the inner feelings that tear at me now. How many times in all of history has mankind gone eighteen years without a single criminal action? How many times have they gone two decades without crime, violence, or unrestrained passion?”

He half turned so that he could see Dr. Clifford Cameron. “Now, for the first time we have had violence, we have had killing, we have had treason. One of the men responsible for that breach of history is here now. He must answer for robbing us of our chance to extend that remarkable, unequalled record of peace and security and harmony to three decades, or four. Or even a century. That was my dream.”

The two men locked gazes, the Major’s expression a mixture of sadness and anger, Dr. Cameron’s one of curious amusement.

The Major turned back. “Ladies and gentlemen, we will now proceed with the case of the Alliance of Four Cities versus Dr. Clifford C. Cameron.”