The Early Asimov. Volume 2

Judge Gimbel said, 'Objection overruled. Witness will answer the question.'

The voice from the chair said superciliously, 'I don't mind answering. Physical barriers mean nothing to me, by and large.'

The counsel for the defense drew himself up triumphantly.

'Very good,' he said with satisfaction. 'Very good.' Then to the judge, the words coming sharp and fast, 'I claim, your honor, that the so-called Henry Jenkins has no legal status as a witness in court. There is clearly no value in understanding the nature of an oath if a violation of the oath can bring no punishment in its wake. The statements of a man who can perjure himself freely have no worth. I demand they be stricken from the record!'

Turnbull was at the judge's bench in two strides.

'I had anticipated that, your honor,' he said quickly. 'From the very nature of the case; however, it is clear that my client can be very definitely restricted in his movements - spells, pentagrams, talismans, amulets, Exclusion Circles and whatnot. I have here - which I am prepared to deliver to the bailiff of the court - a list of the various methods of confining an astral entity to a restricted area for periods ranging from a few moments to all eternity. Moreover, I have also signed a bond for five thousand dollars, prior to the begi

Gimbel's face, which had looked startled for a second, slowly cleared. He nodded. 'The court is satisfied with the statement of the counsel for the plaintiff,' he declared. 'There seems no doubt that the plaintiff can be penalized for any mis-statements, and the motion of the defense is denied.'

Wilson looked choleric, but shrugged. 'All right,' he said. That will be all.'

'You may step down, Mr. Jenkins,' Gimbel directed, and watched in fascinatiori as the blood-dripping column rose and floated over the floor, along the corridor, out the door.

Turnbull approached the judge's bench again. He said, 'I would like to place in evidence these notes, the diary of the late Zebuloh Harley. It was presented to my client by Harley himself last fall. I call particular attention to the entry for April sixth, nineteen seventeen, in which he mentions the entrance of the United States into the First World War, and records the results of a series of eleven pinochle games played with a personage identified as "Old Hank." With the court's permission, I will read the entry for that day, and also various other entries for the next four years. Please note the references to someone known variously as "Jenkins," "Hank Jenkins" and - in one extremely significant passage - "Old Invisible."'

Wilson stewed silently during the slow reading of Harley's diary. There was anger on his face, but he paid close attention, and when the reading was over he leaped to his feet.

'I would like to know,' he asked, 'if the counsel for the plaintiff is in possession of any diaries after nineteen twenty?'

Turnbull shook his head. 'Harley apparently never kept a diary, except during the four years represented in this.'

Then I demand that the court refuse to admit this diary as evidence on two counts,' Wilson said. He raised two fingers to tick off the points. 'In the first place, the evidence presented is frivolous. The few vague and unsatisfactory references to Jenkins nowhere specifically describe him as what he is - ghost, astral entity or what you will. Second, the evidence, even were the first point overlooked, concerns only the years up to nineteen twenty-one. The case concerns itself only with the supposed occupation of Harley Hall by the so-called Jenkins in the last twenty years - since 'twenty-one. Clearly, the evidence is therefore irrelevant.'

Gimbel looked at Turnbull, who smiled calmly.

'The reference to "Old Invisible" is far from vague,' he said. 'It is a definite indication of the astral character of my client. Furthermore, evidence as to the friendship of my client with the late Mr. Zebulon Harley before nineteen twenty-one is entirely relevant, as such a friendship, once established, would naturally be presumed to have continued indefinitely. Unless of course, the defense is able to present evidence to the contrary.'

Judge Gimbel said, 'The diary is admitted as evidence.'

Turnbull said, 'I rest my case.'

There was a buzz of conversation in the courtroom while the judge looked over the diary, and then handed it to the clerk to be marked and entered.

Gimbel said, 'The defense may open its case.'

Wilson rose. To the clerk he said, 'Russell Joseph Harley.'

But young Harley was recalcitrant. 'Nix,' he said, on his feet, pointing at the witness chair. 'That thing's got blood all over it! You don't expect me to sit down in that large puddle of blood, do you?'

Judge Gimbel leaned over to look at the chair. The drip-drop trickle of blood from the apparition who'd been testifying had left its mark. Muddy brown all down the front of the chair. Gimbel found himself wondering how the ghost managed to replenish its supply of the fluid, but gave it up.

'I see your point,' he said. 'Well, it's getting a bit late anyhow. The clerk will take away the present witness chair and replace it. In the interim, I declare the court recessed till tomorrow morning at ten o'clock.'

Russell Harley noticed how the elevator boy's back registered repulsion and disapproval, and scowled. He was not a popular guest in the hotel, he knew well. Where he made his mistake, though, was in thinking that the noxious bundle of herbs about his neck was the cause of it. His odious personality had a lot to do with the chilly attitude of the management and his fellow guests.

He made his way to the bar, ignoring the heads that turned in surprise to follow the reeking comet-tail of his passage. He entered the red-leather-and-chromium drinking room, and stared about for Lawyer Wilson.

And blinked in surprise when he saw him. Wilson wasn't alone. In the booth with him was a tall, dark figure, with his back to Harley. The back alone was plenty fpr recognition. Nicholls!

Wilson had seen him. 'Hello, Harley,' he said, all smiles and affability in the presence of the man with the money. 'Come on and sit down. Mr. Nicholls dropped in on me a little while ago, so I brought him over.'

'Hello,' Harley said glumly, and Nicholls nodded. The muscles of his cheeks pulsed, and he seemed under a strain, strangely uncomfortable in Harley's presence. Still there was a twinkle in the look he gave young Harley, and.his voice was friendly enough - though supercilious - as he said:

'Hello, Harley. How is the trial going?'

'Ask him,' said Harley, pointing a thumb at Wilson as he slid his knees under the booth's table and sat down. 'He's the lawyer. He's supposed to know these things.'

'Doesn't he?'

Harley shrugged and craned his neck for the waitress. 'Oh, I guess so… Rye and water!' He watched the girl appreciatively as she nodded and went off to the bar, then turned his attention back to Nicholls. 'The trouble is,' he said, ' Wilson may think he knows, but I think he's all wet.'

Wilson frowned. 'Do you imply-' he began, but Nicholls put up a hand.

'Let's not bicker,' said Nicholls. 'Suppose you answer my question. I have a stake in this, and I want to know. How's the trial going?'

Wilson put on his most open-faced expression… 'Frankly,' he said, 'not too well. I'm afraid the judge is on the other side. If you'd listened to me and stalled till another judge came along-'

'I had no time to stall,' said Nicholls. 'I have to be elsewhere within a few days. Even now, I should be on my way. Do you think we might lose the case?'

Harley laughed sharply. As Wilson glared at him he took his drink from the waitress' tray and swallowed it. The smile remained on his face as he listened to Wilson say smoothly: