uproar that expresses no more than the human need to make a noise under
stress. Heads turned, weeds under water. Mann heard the s-whispers,
water over sand: Callista Blake--Callissssta ...

She walked with a barely noticeable limp--polio in childhood, Mann
recalled from the record. She was also very slightly hunchbacked, her
thin pale arms seeming too long. As Warner escorted her to the defense
section, Judge Mann saw she wore no make-up, though powder might have
hidden the narrow scar that ran from her left ear to her jaw. Dark blue
suit and white blouse were neat, unobtrusive, severe. A natural curl
held her black hair in lines of grace above a skin of porcelain white.

She was ignoring Warner's arm, and walked alone.

She was nineteen.

Her eyes were the blue of undersea. Mann searched for other compensating
beauty--hard to find. High cheekbones, large nose, small abrupt chin,
high forehead modified by the curls but still too high. The extreme
whiteness of skin made one think of marble, or heart disease. The
medical report declared that apart from the unimportant deformity she
was quite healthy. And the State's psychiatrist was prepared to testify,
following the quaint barbarism of the once useful McNaughton Rule, that
Callista Blake was legally sane. As the jargon had it, she knew the
difference between right and wrong, the nature and consequences of her
acts.

With no word yet, Callista Blake rejected sympathy, dared the world to
pity her, indicated a readiness to spit in its eye.

Warner said: "Give the clerk your name for the record."

Mann heard a strong contralto drawl; it might have sounded warm and
pleasant at other times: "Which is the clerk?"

Some idiot woman in the back row giggled.

Warner spoke quickly: "Up there, my dear, that's Mr. Delehanty."

The girl glanced casually at the clerk's dapper dignity, and resumed her

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