The first question came instantly. "Was this the same man as the other times?"

Miss J.E. colored. "Y-Yes," she admitted.

"Weren't you warned? Hadn't you been told in this very room to get yourself home at a decent hour and act like a good girl?"

In all probability this was now a different questioner. The voice was synthetic, issuing from a wall speaker. To preserve the aura of justice, questions were piped through a common channel, broken down and reassembled without characteristic timbre. The result was an impersonal accuser, who, when a sympathetic questioner appeared, became suddenly and a little oddly a defender.

"Let's hear what this ‘vile enterprise' was," Allen said, and, as always, was revolted to hear his voice boom out dead and characterless. "This may be a furor about nothing."

On the platform Mrs. Birmingham peered distastefully down, seeking to identify the questioner. Then she read from the summary. "Miss J.E. did willingly in the bathtub of the community bathroom of her housing unit—this unit—copulate."

"I'd call that something," the voice said, and then the dogs were loose. The accusations fell thick and fast, a blur of lascivious racket.

Beside Allen his wife huddled against him. He could feel her dread and he put his arm around her. In awhile the voice would be tearing at him.

At nine-fifteen the faction vaguely defending Miss J.E. seemed to have gained an edge. After a conference the council of block wardens released the girl with an oral reprimand, and she slipped gratefully from the room. Mrs. Birmingham again arose with the agenda.

With relief Allen heard his own initials. He walked forward, listening to the charges, glad to get it over with. The juvenile—thank God—had reported about as expected.

"Mr. A.P.," Mrs. Birmingham declared, "did on the night of October 7, 2114, at 11:30 p.m., arrive home in a drunken state and did fall on the front steps of the housing unit and in so doing utter a morally objectionable word."

Allen climbed the stage, and the session began.

There was always the danger that somewhere in the room a citizen waited with a deeply-buried quirk, a deposit of hate nourished and hoarded for just such an occasion as this. During the years that he had leased in this housing unit Allen might easily have slighted some nameless soul; the human mind being what it was, he might have set off a tireless vengeance by stepping ahead in line, failing to nod, treading on foot [sic] , or the like.

But as he looked around he saw no special emotion. No- body glowered demonically, and nobody, except for his stricken wife, even appeared interested.

Considering the shallowness of the charge he had good reason to feel optimistic. All in all, he was well off. Realizing this, he faced his composite accuser cheerfully.

"Mr. Purcell," it said, "you haven't been up before us in quite a spell." It corrected: "Mr. A.P., I meant."

"Not for several years," he answered.

"How much had you had to drink?"

"Three glasses of wine."

"And you were drunk on that?" The voice answered itself: "That's the indictment." It haggled, and then a clear question emerged. "Where did you get drunk?"

Not wishing to volunteer material, Allen kept his answer brief. "At Hokkaido." Mrs. Birmingham was aware of that, so evidently it didn't matter.

"What were you doing there?" the voice asked, and then it said: "That's not relevant. That has nothing to do with it. Stick to the facts. What he did before he was drunk doesn't matter."

To Allen it sounded like Janet. He let it battle on.

"Of course it matters. The importance of the act depends on the motives behind it. Did he mean to get drunk? Nobody means to get drunk. I'm sure I wouldn't know."

Allen said: "It was on an empty stomach, and I'm not used to liquor in any form."

"What about the word he used? Yes, what about it? Well, we don't even know what it was. I think we're just as well off. Why, are you convinced he's the sort of man who would use words ‘like that'? All I mean is that knowing the particular word doesn't affect the situation."

"And I was tired," Allen added. Years of work with media had taught him the shortest routes to the Morec mind. "Although it was Sunday I had spent the day at the office. I suppose I did more than was good for my health, but I like to have my desk clear on Monday."

"A regular little gentleman," the voice said. It retorted at once: "With manners enough to keep personalities out of this. Bravo," it said. "That's telling him. Probably her." And then, from the chaos of minds, a sharp sentiment took shape. As nearly as Allen could tell, it was one person. "This a mockery is. Mr. Purcell is one of our most distinguished members. As most of us know, Mr. Purcell's Agency supplies a good deal of the material used by Telemedia. Are we supposed to believe that a man involved in the maintenance of society's ethical standards is, himself, morally defective? What does that say about our society in general? This a paradox is. It is just such high-minded men, devoted to public service, who set by their own examples our standards of conduct."

Surprised, Allen peered across the room at his wife. Janet seemed bewildered. And the choice of words was not characteristic of her. Evidently it was somebody else.

"Mr. Purcell's family leased here several decades," the voice continued. "Mr. Purcell was born here. During his lifetime many persons have come and gone. Few of us have maintained a lease as long as he has. How many of us were here in this room before Mr. Purcell? Think that over. The purpose of these sessions is not the humbling of the mighty. Mr. Purcell isn't up there so we can deride and ridicule him. Some of us seem to imagine the more respectable a person is the more reason to attack him. When we attack Mr. Purcell we attack our better selves. And there's no percentage in that."

Allen felt embarrassed.

"These meetings," the voice went on, "operate on the idea that a man is morally responsible to his community. That's a good idea. But his community is also morally responsible to him. If it's going to ask him to come up and confess his sins, it's got to give him something in return. It's got to give him its respect and support. It should realize that having a citizen like Mr. Purcell up here is a privilege.

Mr. Purcell's life is devoted to our welfare and the improvement of our society. If he wants to drink three glasses of wine once in his life and say one morally objectionable word, I think he should be allowed to. It's okay by me."

There was silence. The roomful of people was cowed by piety. Nobody dared speak.

On the stage, Allen sat wishing somebody would attack. His embarrassment had become shame. The eulogizer was making a mistake; he didn't have the full picture.

"Wait a minute," Allen protested. "Let's get one thing straight. What I did was wrong. I haven't got any more right to get drunk and blaspheme than anybody else."

The voice said: "Let's pass on to the next case. There doesn't seem to be anything here."

On the platform the middle-aged ladies conferred, and presently composed their verdict. Mrs. Birmingham arose.

"The block-neighbors of Mr. A.P. take this opportunity to reprimand him for his conduct of the night of October 7, but feel that in view of his excellent prior record no disciplinary action is indicated. You may step down, Mr. A.P."

Allen stepped down and rejoined his wife. Janet squeezed against him, wildly happy. "Bless him, whoever he was."

"I don't deserve it," Allen said, disturbed.

"You do. Of course you do." Her eyes shone recklessly. "You're a wonderful person."

Not far off, at one of the tables, was a mild little elderly fellow with thinning gray hair and a formal, set smile. Mr. Wales glanced at Allen, then turned immediately away.