The judges have offered no reaction to the charges, but those allowed to view the proceedings do far too often. I never believed so few could weep so freely for so many. The roaches, I must conclude, are a particularly emotional tribe. That is their fatal weakness and why they are unworthy to share our land. I will remember that when this charade is complete and I once again regain my command.
*****
The end: finally! My vindication was at hand. I walked into the familiar courtroom proudly, my many medals glowing in the flash of the cameras, the glare of the lights. I had spent several hours polishing each for its full effect.
It was amusing, the formality they pretended to. Armed soldiers stood at attention throughout the hall, whether to protect me or my erstwhile judges was unclear. I stood at attention as well, my back razor-straight, my head held high and proud. Anyone could see how thoroughly my demeanor shamed the roach military, which could never hope to emulate me. Again I was struck with the unworthiness of these little men to wear the uniform of my homeland. It is an insult that must be avenged!
Once more I was asked to explain the actions of my underlings, to explain myself. I repeated patiently that I was a prisoner of war and as such was required only to reveal my name, rank and serial number. This charade was repeated after each charge against me was read. The list seemed endless but throughout I remained proudly at attention, a sterling example of the internal strength and endless determination of my people.
It had become apparent as the trial continued haphazardly that the roaches had chosen my judges well; weak, spineless and unimaginative each. Not one revealed any understanding of patriotism, the slightest consideration for the plight of my people, our years of oppression, our overwhelming and righteous desire to breathe our own air as free men and women.
Even in their verdict they revealed their lack of courage. Exile! A pariah to the civilized world they called me, or some such nonsense. Of course they could not hope to imprison me within my own borders, my followers would free me within hours. They dare not execute me less I serve as an eternal symbol of my people's indomitable courage.
Again my contempt for these small men surged unbounded. If our positions were reversed, I would have summarily executed each of them as mortal enemies to the people and the state. Yet such is the difference between the mouse and the lion. The mouse, despite its numbers, must always live in fear of the predator and can never raise a paw against it. Just as my captors must now live in fear of me and my final retribution.
I maintained my silence as I was led from the chambers, the roaches around me celebrating their hollow victory, journalists trying vainly to pry away my innermost thoughts. I wondered: is this how Napoleon felt? Exultation, rebirth: that was what their "verdict" had provided me. I waved to the cheering crowd as I allowed myself to be placed in the limousine. Let my followers know I was unbroken and unbowed. Let them know I would be back. Yes, I will be back!
A Frozen Moment
"You have your time machine completed?" Professor Prump couldn't keep the admiration from his voice.
"Indeed I have," his colleague, Professor Cumberbund, pointed proudly at the black box resting innocuously on his work bench.
"It's really that small?" Prump continued as he approached the machine. The top was open and he could see hundreds of circuits and solder connections. A power cord ran to a wall outlet and an unmarked switch was on the side of the box. But there were no dials or gauges or anything else to suggest what the device actually did.
"Size only counts in matters of love, my dear sir."
"Indeed. Still." Prump gnawed on a fingernail as he gazed at the machine. "How would you use this time machine of yours? It's too small to sit in. Does it send objects forward into time or backward? Or does it retrieve objects? Allow you to peer into the future or the past?"
Professor Cumberbund shook his head. "None of the above, my good fellow. My machine stops time."
"Stops time?"
"Yes. As thoroughly and totally as a concrete dam checks a raging river, a dangler from the nose deters a heated kiss."
"But why?"
Professor Cumberbund pondered the question as if choosing a chocolate from a sampler. "Because I can.”
Professor Prump nodded in total agreement. "And how long will time be stopped?"
He shrugged. "Since time will, for all intents and purposes, cease to function, I would say that question is moot."
"Most interesting," Prump rubbed his hands vigorously. "Have you tried it yet?"
Professor Cumberbund laughed. "If I had, my good sir, we would not be holding this conversation! No, I wanted you to be here to witness this most historic event."
"I am most honored," he said and blushed.
"Then join me in a toast and we shall commence upon Man's greatest experiment!" So saying, Professor Cumberbund took two tankards and a wine of excellent vintage from a nearby shelf and poured healthy portions for he and his friend. "To no future, no past, only the present."
They clicked glasses... and disaster struck. Prump's tankard had a small crack. The slight contact of glass on glass was enough to cause it to break, and wine poured down onto Professor Cumberbund's time machine. Within seconds, sparks and flames shot out of the machine and before the academicians could react the device was in smoking ruins.
"Imagine," Professor Prump mused as he gazed at his broken tankard, then at the broken machine. "A niche in stein saves time."
LEGAL TENDER
“... and we’ll have your weather in a moment.” Immediately a commercial touting the benefits of attorneys Smith, Weaver and Kline erupted from the tiny radio. Haley Pryce ignored the spiel but hummed along with the background music as he placed two eggs sunny side up on his plate, then took his seat at the table. He ate tastelessly as he perused the want ads. “What to do, what to do,” he mumbled, scanning the list. Openings for lawyers, legal secretaries and court transcribers were everywhere. Research assistants and legal interns. He shook his head sadly; wouldn’t do, wouldn’t do.
But he had to do something. It had been nearly a year since his last job, when his company relocated their manufacturing facility to another country. Since then nothing but frustration. He had training and skills, he could learn, he tried to convince himself and prospective employers. To no avail. He turned the page. As usual, there was a raft of openings at fast food restaurants, but their promise was empty; they only hired teens and college students. And it had been years since Haley could lay claim to either title.
After twenty minutes his breakfast was cold and his enthusiasm as well. Nothing else in the want ads appealed to him, nothing at all. Which meant he had no choice: he would have to drive to the city. Before going to the garage, he checked himself thoroughly. His jacket fit tightly, with no protruding buttons. He removed his belt and watch ...just in case. His proof of auto insurance was in his wallet. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door, checked to see if anyone was approaching, then walked into the hallway.
His neighbor, Sally Peterson, was just entering the elevator and was kind enough to hold it for him. “Did you hear the good news?” she asked as soon as the door closed.
Security monitored the elevator, so they both had to place their hands on the electronic waiver clause on the wall before the elevator activated. “No, what?”
“I just passed the bar!” She held up an envelope proudly. “I just got the word this morning!”
He managed to smile. “Congratulations! So now what?”
“No more waiting tables, I’ll guarantee that. Say, if you ever need any help.” She began digging in her purse.
“That’s okay,” he stopped her. “My brother-in-law is an attorney. So’s my three sisters. Keep it in the family.”
She made a moue. “I understand.” The elevator stopped and the door opened to the apartment complex’s underground garage. “If you ever need something done quick, though, don’t forget I live right down the hall.”
“I won’t,
” he nodded to her retreating back. Sighing, he went to his own car, first checking that no one was hiding on the other side or underneath before getting in. He had heard stories of street people doing just that and then filing law suits. Even though the apartment garage was secure, Haley felt his vigilance was a small price to pay. He drove up to the exit, put his thumbprint on the electronic form clearing the building owners of any liability in case of accident or damage, and headed toward the city.
And regretted it almost immediately. Cars were everywhere, some roaring along as fast as 20 miles an hour. Haley worked his way into the inside lane where traffic was moving at a more secure five miles and breathed a sigh of relief. But why are so many people out today? he wondered. Then he turned on the radio to one of the ubiquitous automated stations and found out: it was Thurgood Marshall Day. He swore then and immediately considered returning to his apartment. No, he decided, he had come this far. In another hour he would be in the city.
But it was nearly two hours before he finally pulled into a parking lot. There had been a minor accident, nothing more than a fender bender, but he and all other potential witnesses had been detained while the police obtained signed depositions. Attorneys for each of the parties involved had also talked with him; only after assuring them all that he had seen nothing of the incident was he allowed to leave. Although he was given nearly a dozen business cards by the lawyers “just in case,” each had assured him.
Haley drove around the parking lot three times before admitting the obvious; he was going to have to park between two other cars. Holding his breath, he guided his vehicle in slowly. The onlookers walked away disappointed when he navigated successfully. When he got out of his car the attendant was waiting, Polaroid in hand. “For insurance,” the man explained as he took photos of all four sides of Haley’s car. He handed them to Haley. “Please look these over and sign on the back.”
Haley complied, then was handed a standard release form exonerating the lot in case of any damage to his car, falling and hurting himself while on their property and similar standard disclaimers. He signed that as well, then headed toward the employment agency.
He had hoped to stop by his bank but that was impossible now. Finding a time a bank was open was getting more difficult by the month as new legal holidays were declared: Johnny Cocharan Day, Roe Vs. Wade Day, Clarence Thomas Day, Ken Starr Week. Haley sometimes wondered if the law makers would run out of attorneys to honor before the year ran out of days, but he knew the answer to that: they would never run out of lawyers.
The employment office was open and after only a twenty minute wait he was ushered in to see a Mrs. Robacher. While she perused his resume he looked around her office. On her desk were photographs of her smiling clan; behind her, prominently displayed on the walls, were certificates and diplomas. The one proclaiming her law degree was most prominent.
She set down his document with a thump, then studied him over her glasses. “What are you looking for, Mr. Pryce?”
“A decent job, one with benefits. I’m willing to learn or take whatever training is necessary,” he added quickly.
“Your factory experience hardly counts for anything anymore, not with the way the economy is. And your degree, or lack thereof. It says here you started law school but quit. Why?”
He blushed. “I tried, but I just didn’t enjoy it. I get nervous speaking in front of people; I tend to, to stutter.”
“Well, if you had some type of law degree I could help you. Have you thought about going back?”
He shook his head.
She returned his resume. “In that case I can think of only one area of employment you could try.”
“Which is?” She told him and he shuddered. No, he vowed, he was not going to do that! “Thank you for your time.” He grabbed his papers and left her office, the emptiness within threatening to engulf him. A familiar voice stopped him before he could leave the agency, however.
“Haley! Haley Pryce! How you doing, good looking?”
He turned and smiled at Sylvia Williams. He hadn’t seen her since they both lost their jobs at the factory. “Sylvia, you’re looking fine as always. What brings you here?” He walked over and sat beside her.
“Same as you, looking for work. First chance I’ve had since I went back to school.”
“Really? What are you taking?”
“Pre-law. I’m here to see if I can get in somewhere as a legal secretary or assistant. Tide me over ‘til I pass the bar.”
Further conversation was interrupted when a secretary approached. “Mr. Babcock will see you know, Miss Williams.”
“Thank you.” She turned and smiled at Haley. “Good luck.”
“You, too.” Haley’s mood was dark as he walked down the stairs toward the street. Was everyone becoming an attorney? He leaned against the building outside and thought about his friends and acquaintances ...and was brought up short when he realized that just about everyone he knew, even casually, had a degree in law or was working on one. Maybe his employment counselor was right, he thought sourly as he started walking, maybe he would have to go back to school. But to pay for it...
His train of thought was interrupted by a slight bump and grunt of surprise. He turned and smiled weakly at the man he had brushed against. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?” the man erupted. “You almost knocked me off my feet. You could have hurt me!”
Haley had to suppress a laugh. The man was six inches taller than he and outweighed him by more than 100 pounds. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bump into you.”
“You saw it,” the man turned and addressed the gathering crowd. “That man tried to knock me over.”
“You’re right,” someone raised their hand. “He definitely attacked you!”
“No,” another said. “He lost his balance on this sidewalk. The city shouldn’t be so lax with their maintenance. He should sue the city.”
Haley grimaced as the voices rose in argument for and against his innocence. A dozen men and women stepped forward and addressed his accuser, assuring him they would defend his accusations of personal attack most vigorously. An equal number were telling Haley that they would take his case and counter sue for false accusation and character defamation. The crowd continued to grow, hemming him in with their bodies and words, until a police officer forced his way in amongst them. “What is happening here?”
“This man attacked me,” Haley’s accuser pointed at him. A chorus of agreement and disagreement arose immediately.
“And you?” the officer asked Haley.
“I just was walking and brushed against him accidentally. I certainly had no intention of hurting him.” The chorus rose again.
“I guess we’ll have to file a report,” the officer said and pulled out some forms. “First I need your names.”
Forty-five minutes later Haley reached his car, incensed and depressed. In his coat pocket was the citation summoning him to court in two weeks, along with over 20 business cards from attorneys eager to represent him. What I really need now is a lawsuit, he thought as he made his way out of the parking lot and started back to his apartment. No job, no prospects, and now he was going to have to go to court. “Now what do I do?” he asked the radio as he carefully negotiated the traffic. When he reached his apartment nearly two hours later he had reluctantly made his decision; his employment counselor was correct. “If you can’t join them, beat them,” he said to himself as he reached for the phone.
Haley sat behind the desk in his new office. He now sported a new haircut, a new suit, new shoes and new title. Training had taken no time at all; now it was time to work on his first case. He dialed, spoke to the secretary and was quickly transferred to his quarry. “Good morning, Mr. Simonson,” he tried to sound cheerful. “This is Haley Pryce with the IRS. We need to set up a time to go over your latest tax return.”
UNFAIR TRADE
The wind tore across Gren’s face, ripping away at his lips and eyes. He snarled, but it couldn’
t be heard long above the storm. The Aldian pulled the fur collar tighter around his neck and checked to see if his companions were all right. Inside a copious pocket the Llyl trilled softly and burrowed deeper into the warmth. He closed the flap with a swift tug – it would be secure the remainder of the journey. Bre, just behind and to his right, was almost hidden by the swirling snow. He flicked his tail and kicked his mount forward. Fjen, the last, waved and adjusted the packs on his back. Ordinarily the three felines would not be out in weather like this. It was not good for hunting or traveling: such times were best spent drinking stek and fornicating before a warming fire. But it was the time for the Trader, and they had been chosen to take the furs to him.
Gren couldn’t see it now, but somewhere on the plain below stood the six-foot cube the Trader called home. He cursed and thought of the warm lodges and his friends’ activities. Still, someone had to go. Just their luck the gods had decided to storm. Gren’s mount shook its head and ice fell from its mane. The cherae did not like such weather either. Gren kicked it in the ribs. The animal squealed, then continued into the frozen blast furnace.
One moonset later the travelers stood in front of the Trader’s ship. Gren had seen it before, but still the vessel amazed him. The ship was no taller than he, gold and smooth-walled. Yet he knew that inside it was as large as two of his people’s lodges. The Trader had said something about “non-Euclidian space” when questioned; then he had laughed and admitted most of his people didn’t understand it.
Bre and Fjen looked at Gren for orders. He nodded and they dismounted. He tied the animals securely to a nearby tree while the others removed the packs and jogged quickly to loosen cramped muscles. Then he guided them through the opening that appeared suddenly on the golden wall before them.
Inside it was as warm as summer. Bre and Fjen had never visited the Trader; they stood in wonder at the doorway. A thick red carpet ran from the door twenty feet to the spacious banquet tabled manufactured from rare alien woods. Art works dotted the walls and the table was piled high with delicacies, all from planets the Trader frequented. Gren was used to such miracles; he calmly doffed his traveling clothes and bid his fellows do the same.
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