Isaac Asimov - The Early Asimov. Volume 2

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!'

Judge Gimbel stared at Turnbull. 'Have you anything to say?' he asked. 'The argument of the defense would seem to have every merit with it. Unless you can produce some sort of evidence as to the identity of your client, I have no alternative but to find for the defense.'

For a moment there was a silent tableau. Wilson triumphant, Turnbull furiously frustrated.

How could you identify a ghost?

And then came the quietly amused voice from the witness chair.

'This thing has gone far enough,' it said above the sizzle and splatter of its own leaking blood. 'I believe I can present proof that will satisfy the court.'

Wilson 's face fell with express-elevator speed. Turnbull held his breath, afraid to hope.

Judge Gimbel said, 'You are under oath. Proceed.'

There was no other sound in the courtroom as the voice said, 'Mr. Harley, here, spoke of a visit to his uncle in nineteen thirty-eight. I can vouch for that. They spent a night and a day together. They weren't alone. I was there.'

No one was watching Russell Harley, or they might have seen the sudden sick pallor that passed over his face.

The voice, relentless, went on. 'Perhaps I shouldn't have eavesdropped as I did, but old Zeb never had any secrets from me anyhow. I listened to what they talked about. Young Harley was working for a bank in Philadelphia at the time. His first big job. He needed money, and needed it bad. There was a shortage in his department. A woman named Sally -'

'Hold on!' Wilson yelled. 'This has nothing to do with your identification of yourself. Keep to the point!'

But Turnbull had begun to comprehend. He was shouting, too, almost too excited to be coherent. 'Your honor, my client must be allowed to speak. If he shows knowledge of an intimate conversation between the late Mr. Harley and the defendant, it would be certain proof that he enjoyed the late Mr. Harley's confidence, and thus, Q.E.D., that he is no other than the astral entity who occupied Harley Hall for so long!'

Gimbel nodded sharply. 'Let me remind counsel for the defense that this is his own witness. Mr. Jenkins, continue.'

The voice began again, 'As I was saying, the woman's name -'

'Shut up, damn you!' Harley yelled. He sprang upright, turned beseechingly toward the judge. 'He is twisting it! Make him stop! Sure, I knew my uncle had a ghost. He's it, all right, curse his black soul! He can have the house if he wants it - I'll clear out. I'll clear out of the whole damned state!'

He broke off into babbling and turned about wildly. Only the intervention of a marshal kept him from hurtling out of the courtroom.

Banging of the gavel and hard work by the court clerk and his staff restored order in the courtroom. When the room had returned almost to normalcy, Judge Gimbel, perspiring and annoyed, said, 'As far as I am concerned, identification of the witness is complete. Has the defense any further evidence to present?'

Wilson shrugged morosely. 'No, your honor.'

'Counsel for the plaintiff?'

'Nothing, your honor. I rest my case.'

Gimbel plowed a hand through his sparse hair and blinked. 'In that case,' he said, 'I find for the plaintiff. An order is entered hereby that the defendant, Russell Joseph Harley, shall remove from the premises of Harley Hall all spells, pentagrams, talismans and other means of exorcism employed; that he shall cease and desist from making any attempts, of whatever nature, to evict the tenant in the future; and that Henry Jenkins, the plaintiff, shall be permitted the full use and occupancy of the premises designated as Harley Hall for the full term of his natural - ah - existence.' The gavel banged. 'The case is closed.'