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- Herausgeber: iOnlineShopping.com
- Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
Science Fiction Novel There are human beings who function "like machines" and there are machines which seem to be "almost human". So—the problem in this case was not murder, or who committed it but who was the "machine" and who was the "human being".
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LES MACHINES
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LES MACHINES
BY JOE LOVE
There are human beings who function "like machines" and there are machines which seem to be "almost human". So—the problem in this case was not murder, or who committed it but who was the "machine" and who was the "human being".
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, December 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
On January 5, 1997 Isobel Smith became Isobel Smith d'Larte. On November 13, 1997 Isobel Smith d'Larte gave birth to a boy-child who died. And on March 20, 1998 Isobel Smith d'Larte was placed on trial for the willful and premeditated murder of her husband Arnaud d'Larte.
"Not Isobel," said her friends. "Not Isobel. Too mousey. So quiet. Surely it wasn't Isobel."
"But it's the quiet type you've got to watch out for," said others. "Probably has a lover somewhere. She was younger than her husband you know. Much younger. Too much younger."
"Killed him for his money," said the people on the street. "Read where she likes art and museums, stuff like that. Must be a queer one that Isobel d'Larte."
The accusations piled high against Isobel, but she said nothing. She sat in court, a tiny figure in black saying nothing, seemingly not even listening to the accusations of the Prosecutor.
"We will prove willful and premeditated murder," the Prosecutor thundered.
"Easily done," an old woman in the audience murmured spitefully. "Young wife, old husband. Rich husband. Murder! Easily proved."
"First witness," the Prosecutor called. "Sergeant Melot."
Sergeant Melot took the stand. The witness chair creaked under his weight. He answered a loud, "I do," when the clerk swore him in.
"Tell us about finding the body," the Prosecutor said. "Miss no details."
"A Mrs. Watson, servant of Arnaud d'Larte, called us at nine five P.M. on March 15. Her master was dead, she said. When we answered her call we found Mr. d'Larte's body in his bedroom. He had been dead for about an hour."
"The cause?"
"Beaten to death. Beaten with an iron statue of Venus. Evidence of a struggle. Twenty wounds on his head."
"Twenty wounds, Sergeant Melot?"
"Twenty. The first, or second, would have been enough to kill him. But there were twenty."
The audience gasped and the Prosecutor smiled. "And where was Mrs. d'Larte?" he asked.
"Locked in her bedroom. Had to break the door down to get to her."
"Did you speak to her?"
"We spoke to her, but she didn't speak to us."
The audience laughed and the judge rapped for silence.
