Overruled

by Hank Davis

  He found a stone bench and sat down upon it and stared out across the lake. It was beautiful, he thought, just the way he had dreamed it—maybe even better than that—the walks and bridges, the flower beds and rock gardens, the anchored model ships swinging in the wind on the dimpling lake. He sat and looked at it and, while it was beautiful, he found he was not proud of it, that he took little pleasure in it.

  He lifted his hands out of his lap and stared at them and curved his fingers as if he were grasping a tool. But they were empty.

  And he knew why he had no interest in the garden and no pleasure in it. Model trains, he thought. Archery. A mechanobiologic dog. Making pottery. Eight rooms tacked onto the house. Would he ever be able to console himself again with a model train or an amateurish triumph in ceramics? Even if he could, would he be allowed to?

  He rose slowly and headed back to the house. Arriving there, he hesitated, feeling useless and unnecessary. He finally took the ramp down into the basement. Albert met him at its foot and threw his arms around him.

  “We did it, Boss! I knew we would do it!” He pushed Knight out to arm’s length and held him by the shoulders. “We’ll never leave you, Boss. We’ll stay and work for you. You’ll never need to do another thing. We’ll do it all for you!”

  “Albert—”

  “That’s all right, Boss. You won’t have to worry about a thing. We’ll lick the money problem. We’ll make a lot of lawyer robots and we’ll charge good stiff fees.”

  “But don’t you see…”

  “First, though,” said Albert, “we’re going to get an injunction to preserve our birthright. We’re made of steel and glass and copper and so forth, right? Well, we can’t allow humans to waste the matter we’re made of—or the energy, either, that keeps us alive. I tell you, Boss, we can’t lose!”

  Sitting down wearily on the ramp, Knight faced a sign that Albert had just finished painting. It read, in handsome gold lettering, outlined sharply in black:

  ANSON, ALBERT, ABNER

  ANGUS & ASSOCIATES

  ATTORNEYS AT LAW

  “And then, boss,” said Albert, “we’ll take over How-2 Kits, Inc. They won’t be able to stay in business after this. We’ve got a double-barreled idea, Boss. We’ll build robots, lots of robots. Can’t have too many, I always say. And we don’t want to let you humans down, so we’ll go on manufacturing How-2 Kits—only they’ll be preassembled to save you the trouble of putting them together. What do you think of that as a start?”

  “Great,” Knight whispered.

  “We’ve got everything worked out, Boss. You won’t have to worry about a thing the rest of your life.”

  “No,” said Knight. “Not a thing.”

  •

  Clifford D. Simak (1904–1988) published his first SF story, “The World of the Red Sun” in 1931, and went on to become one of Astounding’s star writers during John W. Campbell’s Golden Age of Science Fiction in the 1940s, notably in the series of stories which he eventually combined into his classic novel, City. Other standout novels include Time and Again, Ring Around the Sun, Time is the Simplest Thing, and the Hugo-winning Way Station. Altogether, Simak won the International Fantasy Award (for City), three Hugo Awards, a Nebula Award, and was the third recipient of the Grand Master Award of the Science Fiction Writers of America for lifetime achievement. He also received the Bram Stoker Award for lifetime achievement from the Horror Writers Association. He was noted for stories written with a warm, pastoral feeling, though he could also turn out a chilling horror story, such as “Good Night, Mr. James,” which was made into an episode of the original Outer Limits. His day job was newspaperman, joining the staff of the Minneapolis Star and Tribune in 1939, becoming its news editor in 1949, retiring in 1976. He once wrote that “My favorite recreation is fishing (the lazy way, lying in a boat and letting them come to me).”

  MOVING SPIRIT

  Arthur C. Clarke

  Better living—and boozing—through chemistry may run afoul of His Majesty’s Government, and don’t you know there’s a war on? Fortunately, the celebrated Harry Purvis, raconteur extraordinaire and star of Sir Arthur C. Clarke’s hilarious “White Hart” stories, is on hand to save the day. Or most of it, anyway…

  •

  We were discussing a sensational trial at the Old Bailey when Harry Purvis, whose talent for twisting the conversation to his own ends is really unbelievable, remarked casually: “I was once an expert witness in a rather interesting case.”

  “Only a witness?” said Drew, as he deftly filled two glasses of Bass at once.

  “Yes—but it was a rather close thing. It was in the early part of the war, about the time we were expecting the invasion. That’s why you never heard about it at the time.”

  “What makes you assume,” said Charles Willis suspiciously, “that we never did hear of it?”

  It was one of the few times I’d ever seen Harry caught trying to cover up his tracks. “Qui s’excuse s’accuse,” I thought to myself, and waited to see what evading action he’d take.

  “It was such a peculiar case,” he replied with dignity, “that I’m sure you’d have reminded me of it if you ever saw the reports. My name was featured quite prominently. It all happened in an out-of-the-way part of Cornwall, and it concerned the best example of that rare species, the genuine mad scientist, that I’ve ever met.

  “Perhaps that wasn’t really a fair description,” Purvis amended hastily.

  Homer Ferguson was eccentric and had little foibles like keeping a pet boa constrictor to catch the mice, and never wearing shoes around the house. But he was so rich that no one noticed things like this.

  Homer was also a competent scientist. Many years ago he had graduated from Edinburgh University, but having plenty of money he had never done a stroke of real work in his life. Instead, he pottered round the old vicarage he’d bought not far from Newquay and amused himself building gadgets. In the last fourteen years he’d invented television, ball-point pens, jet propulsion, and a few other trifles. However, as he had never bothered to take out any patents, other people had got the credit. This didn’t worry him in the least as he was of a singularly generous disposition, except with money.

  It seemed that, in some complicated way, Purvis was one of his few living relatives. Consequently when Harry received a telegram one day requesting his assistance at once, he knew better than to refuse.

  No one knew exactly how much money Homer had, or what he intended to do with it. Harry thought he had as good a chance as anyone, and he didn’t intend to jeopardize it.

  At some inconvenience he made the journey down to Cornwall and turned up at the rectory. He saw what was wrong as soon as he entered the grounds. Uncle Homer (he wasn’t really an uncle, but he’d been called that as long as Harry could remember) had a shed beside the main building which he used for his experiments. That shed was now minus roof and windows, and a sickly odor hovered around it. There had obviously been an explosion, and Harry wondered, in a disinterested sort of way, if Uncle had been badly injured and wanted advice on drawing up a new will. He ceased day-dreaming when the old man, looking the picture of health (apart from some sticking plaster on his face) opened the door for him.

  “Good of you to come so quickly,” he boomed. He seemed genuinely pleased to see Harry. Then his face clouded over. “Fact is, my boy, I’m in a bit of a jam and I want you to help. My case comes up before the local Bench tomorrow.”

  This was a considerable shock. Homer had been as law-abiding a citizen as any motorist in petrol-rationed Britain could be expected to be. And if it was the usual black-market business, Harry didn’t see how he could be expected to help.

  “Sorry to hear about this, Uncle. What’s the trouble?”

  “It’s a long story. Come into the library and we’ll talk it over.”

  Homer Ferguson’s library occupied the entire west wing of the somewhat decrepit building. Harry believed that bats nested in the rafters, but had never been able to pr
ove it.

  When Homer had cleared a table by the simple expedient of tilting all the books off on to the floor, he whistled three times, a voice-operated relay tripped somewhere, and a gloomy Cornish voice drifted out of a concealed loudspeaker. “Yes, Mr. Ferguson?”

  “Maida, send across a bottle of the new whiskey.”

  There was no reply except an audible sniff. But a moment later there came a creaking and clanking, and a couple of square feet of library shelving slid aside to reveal a conveyor belt.

  “I can’t get Maida to come into the library,” complained Homer, lifting out a loaded tray. “She’s afraid of Boanerges, though he’s perfectly harmless.”

  Harry found it hard not to feel some sympathy for the invisible Maida. All six feet of Boanerges was draped over the case holding the “Encyclopedia Britannica,” and a bulge amidships indicated that he had dined recently.

  “What do you think of the whiskey?” asked Homer when Harry had sampled some and started to gasp for breath.

  “It’s—well, I don’t know what to say. It’s—phew—rather strong. I never thought—”

  “Oh, don’t take any notice of the label on the bottle. This brand never saw Scotland. And that’s what all the trouble’s about. I made it right here on the premises.”

  “Uncle!”

  “Yes, I know it’s against the law, and all that sort of nonsense. But you can’t get any good whiskey these days—it all goes for export. It seemed to me that I was being patriotic making my own, so that there was more left over for the dollar drive. But the Excise people don’t see it that way.”

  “I think you’d better let me have the whole story,” said Harry. He was gloomily sure that there was nothing he could do to get his uncle out of this scrape. Homer had always been fond of the bottle, and wartime shortages had hit him badly.

  He was also, as has been hinted, disinclined to give away money, and for a long time he had resented the fact that he had to pay a tax of several hundred percent on a bottle of whiskey. When he couldn’t get his own supply anymore, he had decided it was time to act.

  The district he was living in probably had a good deal to do with his decision. For some centuries, the Customs and Excise had waged a never-ending battle with the Cornish fisherfolk. It was rumored that the last incumbent of the old vicarage had possessed the finest cellar in the district next to that of the Bishop himself—and had never paid a penny in duty on it. So Uncle Homer merely felt he was carrying on an old and noble tradition.

  There was little doubt, moreover, that the spirit of pure scientific enquiry also inspired him. He felt sure that this business about being aged in the wood for seven years was all rubbish, and was confident that he could do a better job with ultrasonics and ultraviolet rays.

  The experiment went well for a few weeks. But late one evening there was one of those unfortunate accidents that will happen even in the best-conducted laboratories, and before Uncle knew what had happened, he was draped over a beam, while the grounds of the vicarage were littered with pieces of copper tubing.

  Even then it would not have mattered much had not the local Home Guard been practicing in the neighborhood. As soon as they heard the explosion, they immediately went into action, Sten guns at the ready. Had the invasion started? If so, they’d soon fix it.

  They were a little disappointed to discover that it was only Uncle, but as they were used to his experiments they weren’t in the least surprised at what had happened. Unfortunately for Uncle, the Lieutenant in charge of the squad happened to be the local excise man, and the combined evidence of his nose and his eyes told him the story in a flash.

  “So tomorrow,” said Uncle Homer, looking rather like a small boy who had been caught stealing candy, “I have to go up before the Bench, charged with possessing an illegal still.”

  “I should have thought,” replied Harry, “that was a matter for the Assizes, not the local magistrates.”

  “We do things our own way here,” answered Homer, with more than a touch of pride. Harry was soon to discover how true this was.

  They got little sleep that night, as Homer outlined his defense, overcame Harry’s objections, and hastily assembled the apparatus he intended to produce in court.

  “A Bench like this,” he explained, “is always impressed by experts. If we dared, I’d like to say you were someone from the War Office, but they could check up on that. So we’ll just tell them the truth—about your qualifications, that is.”

  “Thank you,” said Harry. “And suppose my college finds out what I’m doing?”

  “Well, you won’t claim to be acting for anyone except yourself. The whole thing is a private venture.”

  “I’ll say it is,” said Harry.

  The next morning they loaded their gear into Homer’s ancient Austin, and drove into the village. The Bench was sitting in one of the classrooms of the local school, and Harry felt that time had rolled back a few years and he was about to have an unpleasant interview with his old headmaster.

  “We’re in luck,” whispered Homer, as they were ushered into their cramped seats. “Major Fotheringham is in the Chair. He’s a good friend of mine.”

  That would help a lot, Harry agreed. But there were two other justices on the Bench as well, and one friend in court would hardly be sufficient. Eloquence, not influence, was the only thing that could save the day.

  The courtroom was crowded, and Harry found it surprising that so many people had managed to get away from work long enough to watch the case. Then he realized the local interest that it would have aroused, in view of the fact that—in normal times, at least—smuggling was a major industry in these parts.

  He was not sure whether that would mean a sympathetic audience. The natives might well regard Homer’s form of private enterprise as unfair competition. On the other hand, they probably approved on general principles with anything that put the excise men’s noses out of joint.

  The charge was read by the clerk of the court, and the somewhat damning evidence produced. Pieces of copper tubing were solemnly inspected by the justices, each of whom in turn looked severely at Uncle Homer. Harry began to see his hypothetical inheritance becoming even more doubtful.

  When the case for the prosecution was completed, Major Fotheringham turned to Homer. “This appears to be a serious matter, Mr. Ferguson. I hope you have a satisfactory explanation.”

  “I have, your Honor,” replied the defendant in a tone that practically reeked of injured innocence. It was amusing to see His Honor’s look of relief, and the momentary frown, quickly replaced by calm confidence, that passed across the face of H. M. Customs and Excise.

  “Do you wish to have a legal representative? I notice that you have not brought one with you.”

  “It won’t be necessary. The whole case is founded on such a trivial misunderstanding that it can be cleared up without complications like that. I don’t wish to incur the prosecution in unnecessary costs.”

  This frontal onslaught brought a murmur from the body of the court, and a flush to the cheeks of the Customs man. For the first time he began to look a little unsure of himself. If Ferguson thought the Crown would be paying costs, he must have a pretty good case. Of course, he might only be bluffing…

  Homer waited until the mild stir had died away before creating a considerably greater one.

  “I have called a scientific expert to explain what happened at the Vicarage,” he said. “And owing to the nature of the evidence, I must ask, for security reasons, that the rest of the proceedings be in camera.”

  “You want me to clear the court?” said the Chairman incredulously.

  “I am afraid so, sir. My colleague, Doctor Purvis, feels that the fewer people concerned in this case, the better. When you have heard the evidence, I think you will agree with him. If I might say so, it is a great pity that it has already attracted so much publicity. I am afraid it may bring certain—ah—confidential matters to the wrong ears.” Homer glared at the customs officer, who fid
geted uncomfortably in his seat.

  “Oh, very well,” said Major Fotheringham. “This is all very irregular, but we live in irregular times. Mr. Clerk, clear the court.”

  After some grumbling and confusion, and an overruled protest from the prosecution, the order was carried out. Then, under the interested gaze of the dozen people left in the room, Harry Purvis uncovered the apparatus he had unloaded from the Baby Austin. After his qualifications had been presented to the court, he took the witness stand.

  “I wish to explain, your Honor,” he began, “that I have been engaged on explosives research, and that is why I happen to be acquainted with the defendant’s work.”

  The opening part of this statement was perfectly true. It was about the last thing said that day that was. “You mean—bombs and so forth?”

  “Precisely, but on a fundamental level. We are always looking for new and better types of explosives, as you can imagine. Moreover, we in government research and the academic world are continually on the lookout for good ideas from outside sources. And quite recently, Unc—er, Mr. Ferguson, wrote to us with a most interesting suggestion for a completely new type of explosive. The interesting thing about it was that it employed non-explosive materials such as sugar, starch and so on.”

  “Eh?” said the Chairman. “A non-explosive explosive? That’s impossible.”

  Harry smiled sweetly. “I know, sir—that is one’s immediate reaction. But like most great ideas, this has the simplicity of genius. I am afraid, however, that I shall have to do a little explaining to make my point.”

  The Bench looked very attentive, and also a little alarmed. Harry surmised that it had probably encountered expert witnesses before.

  He walked over to a table that had been set up in the middle of the courtroom, and which was now covered with flasks, piping, and bottles of liquids.

  “I hope, Mr. Purvis,” said the Chairman nervously, “that you’re not going to do anything dangerous.”