The Early Asimov. Volume 2

'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.'

Wilson 's mouth twisted into a sour grimace. He continued on a lower key.

'You say, Mr. Jenkins, that you occupied Harley Hall for ninety years.'

'Ninety-two years next month. The Hall wasn't built - in its present form, anyhow - until 1876, but I occupied the house that stood on the site previously.'

'What did you do before then?'

'Before then?' The voice paused, then said doubtfully, 'I don't remember.'

'You're under oath!' Wilson flared.

The voice got firmer. 'Ninety years is a long time,' it said. 'I don't remember.'

Tret's see if I can't refresh your memory. Is it true that ninety-one years ago, in the very year in which you claim to have begun your occupancy of Harley Hall, Hank Jenkins was killed in a gun duel?'

'That may be true, if you say so. I don't remember.'

'Do you remember that the shooting occurred not fifty feet from the present site of Harley Hall?'

'It may be.'

'Well, then,' Wilson thundered, 'is it not a fact that when Hank Jenkins died by violence his ghost assumed existence? That it was then doomed to haunt the site of its slaying throughout eternity?'

The voice said evenly, 'I have no knowledge of that.'

'Do you deny that it is well known throughout that section that the ghost of Hank Jenkins haunts Harley Hall?'

'Objection!' shouted Turnbull. 'Popular opinion is not evidence.'

'Objection sustained. Strike the question from the record.'

Wilson, badgered, lost his control. In a dangerously uneven

voice, he said, 'Perjury is a criminal offense. Mr. Jenkins, do you deny that you are the ghost of Hank Jenkins?'

The tone was surprised. 'Why, certainly.'

'You are a ghost, aren't you?'

Stiffly, 'I'm an entity on the astral plane.'

'That, I believe, is what is called a ghost?'

'I can't help what it's called. I've heard you called a lot of things. Is that proof?'

There was a surge of laughter from the audience. Gimbel slammel his gavel down on the bench.

'The witness,' he said, 'will confine himself to answering questions.'

Wilson bellowed, 'In spite of what you say, it's true, isn't it, that you are merely the spirit of a human being who had died through violence?'

The voice from above the blood drops retorted, 'I repeat that I am an entity of the astral plane. I am not aware that I was ever a human being.'

The lawyer turned an exasperated face to the bench.

'Your honor,' he said, 'I ask that you instruct the witness to cease playing verbal hide-and-seek. It is quite evident that the witness is a ghost, and that he is therefore the relict of some human being, ipso facto. Circumstantial evidence is strong that he is the ghost of the Hank Jenkins who was killed in 1850. But this is a non-essential point. What is definite is that he is the ghost of someone who is dead, and hence is unqualified to act as witness! I demand his testimony be stricken from the record!'