The Heaven Makers by Frank Herbert Page A

“we should swear him in like they do in court.”
    Whelye remained silent for a moment. He shuffled his papers, then: “I don’t see what you’re driving at.”
    “You reminded me of a district attorney of my acquaintance,” Thurlow said.
    “Oh?” Whelye’s eyes glazed with anger.
    “By the way,” Thurlow said, “do you believe in flying saucers?”
    The heads of both Mrs. Norman and Chaplain Hardwicke snapped up. They stared at Thurlow. Whelye, however, drew back, his eyes veiled, watchful.
    “What is the meaning of that question?” Whelye demanded.
    “I’d like to know your position,” Thurlow said.
    “On flying saucers?” There was a cautious disbelief in Whelye’s tone.
    “Yes.”
    “They’re delusional material,” Whelye said. “Utter nonsense. Oh, there could be a few cases of mistaken identity, weather balloons and that sort of thing, but the people who insist they’ve seen spaceships, these people are in need of our services.”
    “A sound opinion,” Thurlow said. “I’m glad to hear it.”
    Whelye nodded. “I don’t care what you think of my methods,” he said, “but you’re not going to find my opinions based on delusional material—of any type. Is that clear?”
    “Quite clear,” Thurlow said. He saw that Whelye was convinced the question had carried a subtle intent to discredit.
    Whelye got to his feet, glanced at his watch. “I fail to see the point in all this, but doubtless you had some idea in mind.” He left the room.
    Mrs. Norman took a deep breath, bent a look of sympathy on Thurlow. “You like to play with fire, evidently,” she said.
    Thurlow stood up, smiled.
    Hardwicke, catching Thurlow’s eyes, said: “The defense rests.”
    As the scene passed through his mind, Thurlow shook his head. Again, he glanced at his wristwatch, smiled at himself as the unconscious gesture displayed the stopped hands. The air coming in the car window smelled of wet leaves.
    Why did Ruth ask me to meet her here? She’s another man’s wife now. Where is she—so damned late! Could something have happened to her?
    He looked at his pipe.
    Damn pipe’s gone out. Always going out. I smoke matches, not tobacco. Hate to burn myself with this woman again. Poor Ruth—tragedy, tragedy. She was very close to her mother.
    He tried to remember the murdered woman. Adele Murphey was photographs and descriptions in stories now, a reflection from the words of witnesses and police. The Adele Murphey he’d known refused to come out from behind the brutal new images. Her features were beginning to grow dim in the leaf whirl of things that fade. His mind held only the police pictures now—color photos in the file at the sheriff’s office—the red hair (so much like the daughter’s) fanned out on an oil-stained driveway.
    Her bloodless skin in the photo—he remembered that.
    And he remembered the words of the witness, Sarah French, the doctor’s wife from next door, words on a deposition. Through Mrs. French’s words, he could almost visualize that violent scene. Sarah French had heard shouting, a scream. She’d looked out of her second floor bedroom window onto moon-flooded night just in time to see the murder.
    “Adele… Mrs. Murphey came running out of her back door. She was wearing a green nightgown… very thin. She was barefooted. I remember thinking how odd: she’s barefooted. Then Joe was right behind her. He had that damned Malay kris. It looked horrible, horrible. I could see his face… the moonlight. He looked like he always looks when he’s angry. He has such a terrible temper!”
    Sarah’s words—Sarah’s words… Thurlow could almost see that zigzag blade glinting in Joe Murphey’s hand, a vicious, shivering, wavering thing in the mottled shadows. It had taken Joe no more than ten steps to catch his wife. Sarah had counted the blows.
    “I just stood there counting each time he struck her. I don’t know why. I just counted. Seven times. Seven times.”
    Adele had