The Early Asimov. Volume 2

'There is a good deal of danger, yes.'

'Hum.' Nicholls looked interestedly at his fingernails. 'Perhaps I chose the wrong lawyer.'

'Sure you did.' Harley waved at the waitress, ordered another drink. You want to know what else I think? I think you picked the wrong client, spelled s-t-o-o-g-e. I'm getting sick of this. This damn thing around my neck smells bad. How do I know it's any good, anyhow? Far as I can see, it just smells bad, and that's all.'

'It works,' Nicholls said succinctly. 'I wouldn't advise you to go without it. The late Hank Jenkins is not a very strong ghost - a strong one would tear you apart and chew up your herbs for dessert - but without the protection of what you wear about your neck, you would become a very uncomfortable human as soon as Jenkins heard you'd stopped wearing it.',

He put down the glass of red wine he'd been inhaling without drinking, looked intently at Wilson. 'I've put up the money in this,' he said. 'I had hoped you'd be able to handle the legal end. I see I'll have to do more. Now listen intently, because I have no intention of repeating this. There's an angle to this case that's got right by your blunted legal acumen. Jenkins claims to be an astral entity, which he undoubtedly is. Now, instead of trying to prove him a ghost, and legally dead, and therefore unfit to testify, which you have been doing, suppose you do this…'

He went on to speak rapidly and to the point.

And when he left them a bit later, and Wilson took Harley • up to his room and poured him into bed, the lawyer felt happy for the first time in days.

Russell Joseph Harley, a little hung over and a lot nervous, was called to the stand as first witness in his own behalf.

Wilson said, 'Your name?'

'Russell Joseph Harley.'

'You are the nephew of the late Zebulon Harley, who bequeathed the residence known as Harley Hall to you?'

'Yes.'

Wilson turned to the bench. 'I offer this copy of the late Mr. Zebulon Harley's will in evidence. All his possessions are left to his nephew and only living kin, the defendant.'

Turnbull spoke from his desk. The plaintiff in no way disputes the defendant's equity in Harley Hall.'

Wilson continued, 'You passed part of your childhood in Harley Hall, did you not, and visited it as a grown man on occasion?'

'Yes.'

'At any time, has anything in the shape of a ghost, specter or astral entity manifested itself to you in Harley Hall?'

'No. I'd remember it.'

'Did your late uncle ever mention any such manifestation to you?'

'Him? No.'

That's all.'

Turnbull came up for the cross-examination.

'When, Mr. Harley, did you last see your uncle before his death?'

'It was in nineteen thirtyreight. In September, some time -around the tenth or eleventh of the month.'

'How long a time did you spend with him?'

Harley flushed unaccountably. 'Ah - just one day,' he said.

'When before that did you see him?"

'Well, not since I was quite young. My parents moved to Pe

'And since then - except for that one-day visit in nineteen thirty-eight - has any communication passed between your uncle and yourself?'

'No, I guess not. He was a rather queer duck - solitary. A little bit balmy, I think.'

'Well, you're a loving nephew. But in view of what you've just said, does it sound surprising that your uncle never told you of Mr. Jenkins? He never had much chance to, did he?'

'He had a chance in nineteen thirty-eight, but he didn't.' Harley said defiantly.

Turnbull shrugged. 'I'm finished,' he said.

Gimbel began to look bored. He had anticipated something more in the way of fireworks. He said, 'Has the defense any further witnesses?'

Wilson smiled grimly. 'Yes, your honor,' he said. This was his big moment, and he smiled again as he said gently, 'I would like to call Mr. Henry Jenkins to the stand.'

In the amazed silence that followed, Judge Gimbel leaned forward. 'You mean you wish to call the plaintiff as a witness for the defense?'

Serenely, 'Yes, your honor.'

Gimbel grimaced, 'Call Henry Jenkins,' he said wearily to the clerk, and sank back in his chair.

Turnbull was looking alarmed. He bit his lip, trying to decide whether to object to this astonishing procedure, but finally shrugged as the clerk bawled out the ghost's name.

Turnbull sped down the corridor, out the door. His voice was heard in the anteroom, then he returned more slowly. Behind him came the trickle of blood drops: Pat. HISS. Pat. HISS -

'One moment,' said Gimbel, coming to life again. 'I have no objection to your testifying, Mr. Jenkins, but the State should not be subjected to the needless expense of reupholster-ing its witness chair every time you do. Bailiff, find some sort of a rug or something to throw over the chair before Mr. Jenkins is sworn in.'

A tarpaulin was hurriedly procured and adjusted to the chair; Jenkins materialized long enough to be sworn in, then sat.

Tell me, Mr. Jenkins,' he said, 'just how many "astral entities" - I believe that is what you call yourself - are there?'

'I have no way of knowing. Many billions.'

'As many, in other words, as there have been human beings to die by violence?'

Turnbull rose to his feet in sudden agitation, but the ghost neatly evaded the trap. 'I don't know. I only know there are billions.'

The lawyer's cat-who-ate-canary smile remained undimmed.

'And all these billions are constantly about us, everywhere, only remaining invisible. Is that it?'

'Oh, no. Very few remain on Earth. Of course, still fewer have anything to do with humans. Most humans are quite boring to us.'

'Well, how many would you say are on Earth? A hundred thousand?'

'Even more, maybe. But that's a good guess.'

Turnbull interrupted suddenly. 'I would like to know the significance of these questions. I object to this whole line of questioning as being totally irrelevant.'

Wilson was a study in legal dignity. He retorted, 'I am trying to elicijt some facts of major value, your honor. This may change the entire character of the case. I ask your patience for a moment or two.'

'Counsel for the defense may continue,' Gimbel said curtly.

Wilson showed his canines in a grin. He continued to the blood-dripping before him. 'Now, the contention of your counsel is that the late Mr. Harley allowed an "astral entity" to occupy his home for twenty years or more, with his full knowledge and consent. That strikes me as being entirely improbable, but shall we for the moment assume it to be the case?' 'Certainly! It's the truth.'

'Then tell me, Mr. Jenkins, have you fingers?'

'Have I-what?'

'You heard me!' Wilson snapped. 'Have you fingers, flesh-and-blood fingers, capable of making an imprint?'

'Why, no. I-'

Wilson rushed on. 'Or have you a photograph of yourself -or specimens of your handwriting - or any sort of material identification? Have you any of these?'

The voice was definitely querulous. 'What do you mean?'

Wilson 's voice became harsh, menacing. 'I mean, can you prove that you are the astral entity alleged to have occupied Zebulon Harley's home. Was it you - or was it another of the featureless, faceless, intangible unknowns - one of the hundreds of thousands of them that, by your own admission, are all over the face of the earth, rambling where they choose, not halted by any locks or bars? Can you prove that you are anyone in particular?'

'Your honor!' Turnbull's voice was almost a shriek as he found his feet at last. 'My client's identity was never in question!'

'It is now!' roared Wilson. 'The opposing counsel has presented a personage whom he styles "Henry Jenkins." Who is this Jenkins? What is he? Is he even an individual - or a corporate aggregation of these mysterious "astral entities" which we are to believe are everywhere, but which we never see? If he is an individual, is he the individual? And how can we know that, even if he says he is? Let him produce evidence - photographs, a birth certificate, fingerprints. Let him bring in identifying witnesses who have known both ghosts, and are prepared to swear that these ghosts are the same ghost. Failing this, there is no case! Your honor, I demand the court declare an immediate judgment in favor of the defendant!'