The Early Asimov. Volume 2

That's about done,' he said. 'Take it off the fire and let it cool a bit.'

Harley lifted it down, then squeezed his aching biceps with his left hand. The stuff was the consistency of sickly green fudge.

'Now what?' he asked.

Nicholls didn't answer. He looked up in mild surprise at the sudden squawk of triumph from outside, followed by the howling of a chill wind.

'Hank must be loose,' he said casually. 'He can't do us any harm, I think, but we'd better get a move on.' He rummaged in the dwindled pile of junk he'd brought from the car, extracted a paintbrush. 'Smear this stuff around all the windows and doors. All but the front door. For that I have something else.' He pointed to what seemed to be the front axle of an old Model-T. 'Leave that on the doorsill. Cold iron. You can just step over it, but Hank won't be able to pass it. It's been properly treated already with the very best thaumaturgy.'

'Step over it,' Harley repeated. 'What would I want to step over it for? He's out there.'

'He won't hurt you,' said Nicholls. 'You will carry an amulet with you - that one, there - that will keep him away. Probably he couldn't really hurt you anyhow, being a low-order ghost who can't materialize to any great density. But just to take no chances, carry the amulet and don't stay out too long. It won't hold him off forever, not for more than half an hour. If you ever have to go out and stay for any length of time, tie that bundle of herbs around your neck.' Nicholls smiled. 'That's only for emergencies, though. It works on the asafoe-tida principle. Ghosts can't come anywhere near it - but you won't like it much yourself. It has - ah - a rather definite odor.'

He leaned gingerly over the pot again, sniffing. He sneezed.

'Well, that's cool enough,' he said. 'Before it hardens, get moving. Start spreading the stuff upstairs - and make sure you don't miss any windows.'

'What are you going to do?'

'I,' said Nicholls sharply, 'will be here. Start.'

But he wasn't. When Harley finished his disagreeable task and came down, he called Nicholls' name, but the man was gone. Harley stepped to the door and looked out; the car was gone, too.

He shrugged. 'Oh, well,' he said, and began taking the dust-cloths off the furniture.

Somewhere within the cold, legal mind of Lawyer Turnbull, he weighed the comparative likeness of nightmare and insanity.

He stared at the plush chair facing him, noted with distinct uneasiness how the strangely weightless, strangely sourceless trickle of redness disappeared as it hit the floor, but left long, mud-ochre streaks matted on the upholstery. The sound was unpleasant, too; Pat. HISS. Pat. HISS -

The voice continued impatiently, 'Damn your human stupidity! I may be a ghost, but heaven knows I'm not trying to haunt you. Friend, you're not that important to me. Get this -I'm here on business.'

Turnbull learned that you ca

'Sure. The fact that I was once killed by violence, and have to continue my existence on the astral plane, doesn't mean I've lost my legal rights. Does it?'

The lawyer shook his head in bafflement. He said, This would be easier on me if you weren't invisible. Can't you do something about it?'

There was a short pause. 'Well, I could materialize for a minute,' the voice said. 'It's hard work - damn hard, for me. There are a lot of us astral entities that can do it easy as falling out of bed, but - Well, if I have to I shall try to do it once.'

There was a shimmering in the air above the armchair, and a milky, thin smoke condensed into an intangible seated figure. Turnbull took no delight in noting that, through the figure, the outlines of the chair were still hazily visible. The figure thickened. Just as the features took form - just as Turnbull's bulging eyes made out a prominent hooked nose and a crisp beard - it thi

The voice said weakly, 'I didn't think I was that bad. I'm way out of practice. I guess that's the first daylight materialization I've made in seventy-five years.'

The lawyer adjusted his rimless glasses and coughed. Hell's binges, he thought, the worst thing about this is that I'm believing it!

'Oh, well,' he said aloud. Then he hurried on before the visitor could take offense: 'Just what did you want? I'm just a small-town laywer, you know. My business is fairly routine -'

'I know all about your business,' the voice said. 'You can handle my case - it's a land affair. I want to sue Russell Har-ley.'

'Harley?' Turnbull fingered his cheeks. 'Any relation to Zeb Harley?'

'His nephew - and his heir, too.'

Turnbull nodded. 'Yes, I remember now. My wife's folks live in Rebel Butte, and I've been there. Quite a coincidence you should come to me -'

The voice laughed. 'It was no coincidence,' it said softly.

'Oh.' Turnbull was silent for a second. Then, 'I see,' he said. He cast a shrewd glance at the chair. 'Lawsuits cost money, Mr. - I don't think you mentioned your name?'

'Hank Jenkins,' the voice prompted. 'I know that. Would -let's see. Would six hundred and fifty dollars be sufficient?'

Turnbull swallowed. 'I think so,' he said in a relatively unemotional tone - relative to what he was thinking.

'Then suppose we call that your retainer. I happen to have cached a considerable sum in gold when I was - that is to say, before I became an astral entity. I'm quite certain it hasn't been disturbed. You will have to call it treasure trove, I guess, and give half of it to the state, but there's thirteen hundred dollars altogether.'

Turnbull nodded judiciously. 'Assuming we can locate your trove,' he said, 'I think that would be quite satisfactory.' He leaned back in his chair and looked legal. His aplomb had returned.

And half an hour later he said slowly, 'I'll take your case.'

Judge Lawrence Gimbel had always liked his job before. But his thirteen honorable years on the bench lost their flavor for him as he grimaced wearily and reached for his gavel. This case was far too confusing for his taste.

The clerk made his speech, and the packed courtroom sat down en masse. Gimbel held a hand briefly to his eyes before he spoke.

'Is the counsel for the plaintiff ready?'

'I am, your honor.' Turnbull, alone at his table, rose and bowed.

The counsel for the defendant?'

'Ready, your honor!' Fred Wilson snapped. He looked with a hard flicker of interest at Turnbull and his solitary table, then leaned over and whispered in Russell Harley's ear. The youth nodded glumly, then shrugged.

Gimbel said, 'I understand the attorneys for both sides have waived jury trial in this case of Henry Jenkins versus Russell Joseph Harley.'

Both lawyers nodded. Gimbel continued, 'In view of the unusual nature of this case, I imagine it will prove necessary to conduct it with a certain amount of informality. The sole purpose of this court is to arrive at the true facts at issue, and to deliver a verdict in accord with the laws pertaining to these facts. I will not stand on ceremony. Nevertheless, I will not tolerate any disturbances or u

He looked severely at the white faces that gleamed unintel-ligently up at him. He suppressed a sigh as he said, 'The counsel for the plaintiff will begin.'

Turnbull rose quickly to his feet, faced the judge.

'Your honor,' he said, 'we propose to show that my client, Henry Jenkins, has been deprived of his just rights by the defendant. Mr. Jenkins, by virtue of a sustained residence of more than twenty years in the house located on Route 22, eight miles north of the town of Rebel Butte, with the full knowledge of its legal owner, has acquired certain rights. In legal terminology we define these as the rights of adverse possession. The layman would call them common-law rights - squatters' rights.'