Isaac Asimov - The Early Asimov. Volume 2

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 dunno. The last I saw of him was in your office. He came around to see me right after the deputy slapped the show-cause order on me at the house. He brought me down, to you - said you'd been recommended to him. Then you and him and I talked about the case for a while. He went out, after he lent me a little money to help meet your retainer. Haven't seen him since.'

'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 beginning to trickle back in. Harley and his attorney went with them.

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 connections have you with the building referred to as Harley Hall?'

'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.'

'How long did this friendship last?'

'Until he died last fall. I was with him when he died. I still have a few keepsakes he left me then.' There was a distinct nostalgic sigh from the witness chair, which by now was liberally spattered with muddy red liquid. The falling drops seemed to hesitate for a second, and their sizzling noise was muted as with a strong emotion.

Turnbull went on, 'Your relations with" him were good, then?'

'I'd call them excellent,' the emptiness replied firmly. 'Every night we sat up together. When we didn't play pinochle or chess or cribbage, we just sat and talked over the news of the day. I still have the book we used to keep records of the chess and pinochle games. Zeb made the entries himself, in his own handwriting.'

Turnbull abandoned the witness for a moment. He faced the judge with a smile. 'I offer in evidence,' he said, 'the book mentioned. Also a ring given to the plaintiff by the late Mr. Harley, and a copy of the plays of Gilbert and Sullivan. On the flyleaf of this book is inscribed, "To Old Hank," in Harley's own hand.'

He turned again to the empty, blood-leaking witness chair.

He said, 'In all your years of association, did Zebulon Harley ever ask you to leave, or to pay rent?' 'Of course not. Not Zeb!'

Turnbull nodded. 'Very good,' he said. 'Now, just one or two more questions. Will you tell in your own words what occurred, after the death of Zebulon Harley, that caused you to bring this suit?'

'Well, in January young Harley -'

'You mean Russell Joseph Harley, the defendant?'

'Yes. He arrived at Harley Hall on January fifth. I asked him to leave, which he did. On the next day he returned with another man. They placed a talisman upon the threshold of the main entrance, and soon after sealed every threshold and windowsill in the Hall with a substance which is noxious to me. These activities were accompanied by several of the most deadly spells in the Ars Magicorum. He further added an Exclusion Circle with a radius of a little over a mile, entirely surrounding the Hall.'

'I see,' the lawyer said. 'Will you explain to the court the effects of these activities?'

'Well,' the voice said thoughtfully, 'it's a little hard to put in words. I can't pass the Circle without a great expenditure of energy. Even if I did I couldn't enter the building because of the talisman and the seals.'

'Could you enter by air? Through a chimney, perhaps?'

'No. The Exclusion Circle is really a sphere. I'm pretty sure the effort would destroy me.'

'In effect, then, you are entirely barred from the house you have occupied for ninety years, due to the wilful acts of Russell Joseph Harley, the defendant, and an unnamed accomplice of his.'

'That is correct.'

Turnbull beamed. 'Thank you. That's all.'

He turned to Wilson, whose face had been a study in dour-ness throughout the entire examination. 'Your witness,' he said.

Wilson snapped to his feet and strode to the witness chair.

He said belligerently, 'You say your name is Henry Jenkins?'

'Yes. 1

'That is your name now, you mean to say. What was your name before?'

'Before?' There was surprise in the voice that emanated from above the trickling blood-drops. 'Before when?"

Wilson scowled. 'Don't pretend ignorance,' he said sharply. 'Before you died, of course.'

'Objection!' Turnbull was on his feet, glaring at Wilson. The counsel for the defense has no right to speak of some hypothetical death of my client!'

Gimbel raised a hand wearily and cut off the words that were forming on Wilson 's lips. 'Objection sustained,' he said. 'No evidence has been presented to identify the plaintiff as the prospector who was killed in 1850 - or anyone else.'