Flash and Filigree by Terry Southern Page A

smile of encouragement: “We have a good deal to go on, you see, and these people, of course, will eventually be found.”
    One of the Jurors, a serious, business-type man, seated on the lower row nearest the Judge, immediately raised his hand as in question, first at the Doctor, then at the Judge.
    “Are questions in order?” asked Dr. Eichner of the Judge before acknowledging the gesture.
    “Yes, yes,” said Judge Lester. “The Jury may ask questions now.”
    “Dr. Richards,” the man blurted out, already half standing, but his attention was caught at once by the woman on his left who cupped her hands in a whisper.
    “I mean, Dr. Eig-ner,” continued the businessman and snickered embarrassedly. Some of the Jurors nearest him tittered, as in approval of the mistake, and Dr. Eichner smiled condescendingly.
    “Do you know of any reason why there should have been this attempt made on your life?” demanded the businessman, frowning heavily. “I mean, do you know anyone who would have wanted to kill you ?”
    The rest of the Jury became respectfully attentive again, waiting, with the easy interest of young philosophy students.
    “No,” said the Doctor earnestly, “nor did I mean to imply as much. I did not, in fact, mean to imply that an attempt had been made on my life as such—though, of course, my opinion on this could not be properly brought out before your question. Let me now state, however, that to my knowledge I have no, shall we say, mortal enemies. The criminal aspect of this case is under investigation, of course; but, at this point, there occurs to me only one plausible explanation, the obvious one: mistaken identity. ”
    Perhaps it was merely a dramatic arrangement of the words, but many of the Jurors were visibly moved by the Doctor’s statement, and whispered, as in his behalf, among themselves. Against this, however, a woman seated just in the middle of the body who had vied with the businessman for first question, and had kept her hand half raised during the Doctor’s answer, now rose above the neighboring looks of wonderment in a voice edged with accusation: “Doctor, how fast would you estimate you were going at the point of the collision?”
    “Let’s clarify this question,” said Dr. Eichner with spirited good nature. “There were several ‘points-of-collision,’ though perhaps no more than three distinct ones, these occurring over the distance of a 16th mile or so. You have asked for an estimate of speed. Clearly, it will be only that—though I might add, that, as such, it will be relatively expert. Frankly, I anticipated this, if not as a question, then as a point of interest, and I have already made the calculations. I think I will ask your indulgence, however, to mentally re-check these figures.”
    And while the wrath on the woman’s face appeared to soften toward annoyance, and around her some of the Jurors coughed and whispered, Judge Lester himself gently cleared his throat, and Dr. Eichner was again in the attitude of concentrated thought, his head back, eyes half-closed, fingertips tremoring on the railing of the stand, but only for an instant. “Yes, that is correct,” he said with finality. “My estimates, then—for the speed at the points-of-collision: first point, 95; second, 112; and the third, 127.” Each figure was spoken distinctly and after a pause, evidently for the benefit of anyone taking notes; but with the announcement of the third figure, the Jury became such a muddle of whispered astonishment that Judge Lester had to rap twice for order.
    “A-hundred-and-twenty-seven-miles-an- hour ?” echoed one young-man’s voice above the gavel.
    “That is my estimate,” said the Doctor, taking it for a question, and there was a whining woman-chorus of “Why, I never!”
    “What kind of car do you drive, Doctor?” asked the businessman in a voice that seemed too harsh for contempt alone.
    “Delahaye 235,” said the Doctor, almost proudly; but his smile