She glanced at the waiting newsmen, at the scanning television eyes, and felt a little tremor of panic running in her veins. Was it wise, she asked herself, this move that she had planned? Futile, certainly; she knew that it was futile. But aside from its futility, how about the wisdom of it?

And in that instant of her hesitation, she knew that she had to do it, that it lay within the meaning of her duty and she could not fail that duty.

"Your Honor," she said, "I move that the Verdict be set aside on the grounds of prejudice."

The prosecutor bounded to his feet.

His Honor waved him back into his chair.

"Miss Harrison," said the judge, "I am not certain that I catch your meaning. Upon what grounds do you mention prejudice?"

She walked around the table so that she might better face the judge.

"On the grounds," she said, "that the key evidence

concerned mechanical failure of the vehicle the defendant used in his official duties."

The judge nodded gravely. "I agree with you. But how can the character of the evidence involve prejudice?"

"Your Honor," said Ann Harrison, "the Jury also is mechanical."

The prosecutor was on his feet again.

"Your Honor!" he brayed. "Your Honor!"

The judge banged his gavel.

"I can take care of this," he told the prosecutor, sternly.

The newsmen were astir, making notes, whispering among themselves. The television lenses seemed to shine more brightly.

The prosecutor sat down. The buzz subsided. The room took on a deadly quiet.

"Miss Harrison," asked the judge, "you challenge the objectivity of the Jury?"