The Early Asimov. Volume 2

Gimbel folded his hands and tried to relax. Squatters' rights - for a ghost! He sighed, but listened attentively as Turnbull went on.

'Upon the death of Sebulon Harley, the owner of the house involved - it is better known, perhaps, as Harley Hall - the defendant inherited title to the property. We do not question his right to it. But my client has an equity in Harley Hall; the right to free and full existence. The defendant has forcefully evicted my client, by means which have caused my client great mental distress, and have even endangered his very existence.'

Gimbel nodded. If the case only had a precedent somewhere… But it hadn't; he remembered grimly the hours he'd

spent thumbing through all sorts of unlikely law books, looking for anything that might bear on the case. It had been his better judgment that he throw the case out of court outright - a judge couldn't afford to have himself laughed at, not if he were ambitious. And public laughter was about the only certainty there was to this case. But Wilson had put up such a fight that the judge's temper had taken over. He never did like Wilson, anyhow.

'You may proceed with your witnesses,' he said.

Turnbull nodded. To the clerk he said, 'Call Henry Jenkins to the stand.'

Wilson was on his feet before the clerk opened his mouth.

'Objection!' he bellowed. 'The so-called Henry Jenkins ca

'Why not?' demanded Turnbull.

'Because he's dead!'

The judge clutched his gavel with one hand, forehead with the other. He banged on the desk to quieten the courtroom.

Turnbull stood there, smiling. 'Naturally,' he said, 'you'll have proof of that statement.'

Wilson snarled. 'Certainly.' He referred to his brief. 'The so-called Henry Jenkins is the ghost, spirit or specter of one Hank Jenkins, who prospected for gold in this territory a century ago. He was killed by a bullet through the throat from the gun of one Long Tom Cooper, and was declared legally dead on September 14, 1850. Cooper was hanged for his murder. No matter what hocus-pocus you produce for evidence to the contrary now, that status of legal death remains completely valid.'

'What evidence have you of the identity of my client with this Hank Jenkins?' Turnbull asked grimly.

'Do you deny it?'

Turnbull shrugged. 'I deny nothing. I'm not being cross-examined. Furthermore, the sole prerequisite of a witness is that he understand the value of an oath. Henry Jenkins was tested by John Quincy Fitzjames, professor of psychology at the University of Southern California. The results - I have Dr. Fitzjames' sworn statement of them here, which I will introduce as an exhibit - show clearly that my client's intelligence quotient is well above normal, and that a psychiatric examination discloses no important aberrations which would injure his validity as a witness. I insist that my client be allowed to testify on his own behalf.'

'But he's dead!' squawked Wilson. 'He's invisible right now!'

'My client,' said Turnbull stiffly, 'is not present just now. Undoubtedly that accounts for what you term his invisibility.' He paused for the appreciative murmur that swept through the court. Things were breaking perfectly, he thought, smiling. 'I have here another affidavit,' he said. 'It is signed by Elihu James and Terence MacRae, who respectively head the departments of physics and biology at the same university. It startes that my client exhibits all the vital phenomena of life. I am prepared to call all three of my expert witnesses to the stand, if necessary.'

Wilson scowled but said nothing, Judge Gimbel leaned forward.

'I don't see how it is possible for me to refuse the plaintiff the right to testify,' he said. 'If the three experts who prepared these reports will testify on the stand to the facts contained in them, Henry Jenkins may then take the stand.'

Wilson sat down heavily. The three experts spoke briefly -and dryly. Wilson put them through only the most formal of cross-examinations.

The judge declared a brief recess. In the corridor outside, Wilson and his client lit cigarettes and looked unsympathetic-ally at each other.

'I feel like a fool,' said Russell Harley. 'Bringing suit against a ghost.'

'The ghost brought the suit,' Wilson reminded him. 'If only we'd been able to hold fire for a couple more weeks, till another judge came on the bench, I could've got this thing thrown right out of court.'

'Well, why couldn't we wait?' 'Because you were in such a damn hurry!' Wilson said. 'You and that idiot Nicholls - so confident that it would never come to trial.'

Harley shrugged, and thought unhappily of their failure in completely exorcising the ghost of Hank Jenkins. That had been a mess. Jenkins had somehow escaped from the charmed circle they'd drawn around him, in which they'd hoped to keep him till the trial was forfeited by non-appearance.

'That's another thing,' said Wilson. 'Where is Nicholls?'

Harley shrugged again. 'I du

'I'd like to know who recommended me to him,' Wilson said grimly. 'I don't think he'd ever recommend anybody else. I don't like this case - and I don't much like you.'

Harley growled but said nothing. He flung his cigarette away. It tasted of the garbage that hung around his neck -everything did. Nicholls had told no lies when he said Harley wouldn't much like the bundle of herbs that would ward off the ghost of old Jenkins. They smelled.

The court clerk was in the corridor, bawling something, and people were begi

When the trial had been resumed, the clerk said, 'Henry Jenkins!'

Wilson was on his feet at once. He opened the door of the judge's chamber, said something in a low tone. Then he stepped back, as if to let someone through.

Pat. HISS. Pat. HISS -

There was a concerted gasp from the spectators as the weirdly appearing trickle of blood moved slowly across the open space to the witness chair. This was the ghost - the plaintiff in the most eminently absurd case in the history of jurisprudence.

'All right, Hank,' Turnbull whispered. 'You'll have to materialize long enough to let the clerk swear you in.'

The clerk drew back nervously at the pillar of milky fog that appeared before him, vaguely humanoid in shape. A phantom hand, half transparent, reached out to touch the Bible. The clerk's voice shook as he administered the oath, and heard the response come from the heart of the cloudpillar.

The haze drifted into the witness chair, bent curiously at about hip-height, and popped into nothingness.

The judge banged his gavel wildly. The buzz of alarm that had arisen from the spectators died out.

Til warn you again,' he declared, 'that unruliness will not be tolerated. The counsel for the plaintiff may proceed.'

Turnbull walked to the witness chair and addressed its emptiness.

'Your name?'

'My name is Henry Jenkins.'

'Your occupation?'

There was a slight pause. 'I have none. I guess you'd say I'm retired.'

'Mr. Jenkins, just what co

'I have occupied it for ninety years.'

'During this time, did you come to know the late Zebulon Harley, owner of the Hall?"

'I knew Zeb quite well.'

Turnbull nodded. 'When did you make his acquaintance?' he asked.

'In the spring of 1907. Zeb had just lost his wife. After that, you see, he made Harley Hall his year-round home. He became - well, more or less of a hermit. Before that we had never met, since he was only seldom at the Hall. But we became friendly then.'