“Thank you, Dr. Cameron, thank you.” It was the old man who was once more on his feet. “Your music was charming and reminded me of a reverie I often enjoy when some man from another planet who has seen our earth says to his friends: ‘Come, come, let us rush to the earth. It is shaped like an egg, covered with fertile seas and continents, warmed and lighted by the sun. It has churches of indescribable beauty raised to gods that have never been seen, cities whose distant roofs and smokestacks will make your heart leap, auditoriums in which people listen to music of the most serious import and thousands of museums where man’s drive to celebrate life is recorded and preserved. Oh, let us rush to see this world! They have invented musical instruments to stir the finest aspirations. They have invented games to catch the hearts of the young. They have invented ceremonies to exalt the love of men and women. Oh, let us rush to see this world!’” He sat down.
“Dr. Cameron?” It was the voice of a senator who had just come in. “You have a son?”
“I had a son,” the doctor said. There was a splendid edge to his voice.
“You mean to say that your son is dead?”
“My son is in a hospital. He is an incurable invalid.”
“What is the nature of his illness?”
“He is suffering from a glandular deficiency.”
“What is the name of the hospital?”
“I don’t recall.”
“Is it the Pennsylvania State Hospital for the Insane?”
The doctor colored, he seemed touched. He was on the defensive for a moment. Then he rallied.
“I don’t recall.”
“In discussing your son’s illness has the subject of your treatment of him ever arisen?”
“All the discussions of my son’s illness,” the doctor said forcefully, “have unfortunately been confined to psychiatrists. These discussions are not sympathetic to me because psychiatry is not a science. My son is suffering from a glandular deficiency and no idle investigation of his past life will alter this fact.”
“Do you recall an incident when your son was four years old and you punished him with a cane?”
“I don’t recall any specific incident. I probably punished the boy.”
“You admit to punishing the boy?”
“Of course. My life is highly disciplined. I cannot tolerate a hint of disobedience or unreliability in my organization, my associates or myself. My life, my work, involving the security of the planet, would have been impossible if I had relaxed this point of view.”
“Is it true that you beat him so cruelly with a cane that he had to be taken to the hospital and kept there for two weeks?”
“As I have said, my life is highly disciplined. If I should relax my disciplines I would expect to be punished. I treat those around me in the same way.”
He replied with dignity but the damage had been done.
“Dr. Cameron,” the senator asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you ever remember employing a housekeeper named Mildred Henning?”
“That’s a difficult question.” He put a hand to his eyes. “I may have employed this woman.”
“Mrs. Henning, will you please come in.”
An old, white-haired woman dressed in mourning came through the door and when the formalities of recognition had been established she was asked to testify. Her voice was cracked and faint. “I worked for him six years in California,” she said, “and toward the end I just stayed on to try and protect the boy, Philip. He was always after him. Sometimes it seemed like he wanted to kill him.”
“Mrs. Henning, will you please describe the incident you mentioned to us earlier.”
