Alvin Jorneyman

Maybe in such a land, where men did not have to lie about who they were in order to be granted the right to live, maybe in such a land he could find his way to some kind of truth, some kind of understanding about what the universe was for. And, failing that, at Icast Verily could be free there.

The trouble was, it was English law that Verily had studied, and it was English clients who were on the way to making him a rich man. What if he married? What if he had children? What kind of life would he make for them in America, amid the forest primeval? How could he ask a wife to leave civilization and go to Philadelphia?

And he wanted a wife. He wanted to raise children. He wanted to prove that goodness wasn't beaten into children, that fear was not the fount from which virtue flowed. He wanted to be able to gather his family in his arms and know that not one of them dreaded the sight of him, or felt the need to lie to him in order to have his love.

So he dreamed of America but stayed in London, searching in high society to find the right woman to make a family with. By now his homely ma

Verily Cooper was twenty-six years old when he found himself at a party with a remarkable young American named Calvin Miller.

Verily noticed him at once, because he didn't fit, but it wasn't because of his America

A lady near Verily murmured to him, “If he's bad at languages, I shudder to imagine what he's good at.”

Lying, that's what he's good at, thought Verily. But he kept his mouth shut, because how could he possibly know that Calvin's every word was false, except because he knew that nothing fit when Calvin was speaking? The boy was fascinating if only because he seemed to lie when there was no possible benefit from lying; he lied for the sheer joy of it.

Was this what America produced? The land that in Verily's fantasies was a place of truth, and this was what was spawned there? Maybe the ministers were not wholly wrong about those with hidden powers-or “knacks,” as the Americans quaintly called them.

“Mr. Miller,” said Wrily. “I wonder, since you're an American, if you have any personal knowledge of knacks.”

The room fell silent. To speak of such things– it was only slightly less crude than to speak of personal hygiene. And when it was rising young barrister Verily Cooper doing the asking…

“I beg your pardon?” asked Calvin.

“Knacks,” said Verily. “Hidden powers. I know that they're legal in America, and yet Americans profess to be Christian. Therefore I'm curious about how such things are rationalized, when here they are considered to be proof of one's enslavement to Satan and worthy of a sentence of death.”

“I'm no philosopher, sir,” said Calvin.

Verily knew better. He could tell that Calvin was suddenly more guarded than ever. Verily's guess had been right. This Calvin Miller was lying because he had much to hide. “All the better,” said Verily. “Then there's a chance that your answer will make sense to a man as ignorant of such matters as I am.”

“I wish you'd let me speak of other things,” said Calvin. “I think we might offend this company.”

“Surely you don't imagine you were invited here for any reason other than your America

There was a buzz of comment. Who had ever seen Verily be openly rude like this?

Verily knew what he was doing, however. He hadn't interviewed a thousand witnesses without learning how to elicit truth even from the most flagrant habitual liar. Calvin Miller was a man who felt shame sharply. That was why he lied– to hide himself from anything that would shame him. If provoked, however, he would respond with heat, and the lies and calculation would give way to bits of honesty now and then. In short, Calvin Miller had a dander, and it was up.

“Oddity?” asked Calvin. “Perhaps the odd thing is not having knacks, but rather denying that they exist or blaming them on Satan.”

Now the buzz was louder. Calvin, by speaking honestly, had shocked and offended his pious listeners more than Verily's rudeness had. Yet this was a cosmopolitan crowd, and there were no ministers present. No one left the room; all watched, all listened with fascination.

“Take that as your premise, then,” said Verily. “Explain to me and this company how these occult knacks came into the world, if not caused by the influence of the Devil. Surely you won't have us believe that we Englishmen burn people to death for having powers given to them by God?”

Calvin shook his head. “I see that you want merely to provoke me, sir, into speaking in ways, that are against the law here.”

“Not so,” said Verily. “There are three dozen witnesses in this salon right now who would testify that far from initiating this conversation, you were dragged into it. Furthermore, I am not asking you to preach to us. I'm merely asking you to tell us, as scientists, what Americans believe. It is no more a crime to tell about American beliefs concerning knacks than it is to report on Muslim harems and Hindu widow-burning. And this is a company of people who are eager to learn. If I'm wrong, please, let me be corrected.”

No one spoke up to correct him. They were, in fact, dying to hear what the young American would say.

“I'd say there's no consensus about it,” said Calvin. “I'd say that no one knows what to think. They just use the knacks that they have. Some say it's against God. Some say God made the world, knacks included, and it all depends on whether the knacks are used for righteousness or not. I've heard a lot of different opinions.”

“But what is the wisest opinion that you've heard?” insisted Verily.

He could feel it the moment Calvin decided on his answer: It was a kind of surrender. Calvin had been flailing around, but now he had given in to the inevitable. He was going to tell, if not the truth, then at least a true reporting of somebody else's truth.

“One fellow says that knacks come because of a natural affinity between a person and some aspect of the world around him. It's not from God or Satan, he says. It's just part of the random variation in the world. This fellow says that a knack is really a matter of wi