His gratitude was quite genuine, by God; it left me completely speechless.
“Nothing can stop us,” he declared—and for the first time the fanaticism that lurked behind that smooth, cynical facade was not altogether under control. “History is on our side. We’ll be using America’s own decadence as a weapon against her, and it’s a weapon for which there’s no defense. The Air Force won’t attempt space piracy by shooting down a satellite nowhere near American territory. The FCC can’t even protest to a country that doesn’t exist in the eyes of the State Department. If you’ve any other suggestions, I’d be most interested to hear them.”
I had none then, and I have none now. Perhaps these words may give some brief warning before the first teasing advertisements appear in the trade papers, and may start stirrings of elephantine alarm among the networks. But will it make any difference? Hartford did not think so, and he may be right.
“History is on our side.” I cannot get those words out of my head. Land of Lincoln and Franklin and Melville, I love you and I wish you well. But into my heart blows a cold wind from the past; for I remember Babylon.
THE LAGGING PROFESSION
by Leonard Lockhard
Readers of previous S-F annuals will remember Theodore L. Thomas’s “The Far Look” and “Satellite Passage” particularly for the vivid personal realism of his near-future portraits of man in space. Mr. Thomas, who first trained as a chemical engineer and now practices law as a patent attorney, started his writing career under the pseudonym of Leonard Lockhard, and still uses that by-line for his series of humorous-instructive tales about the patent pursuits of Mr. Saddle and Mr. Spardleton.
In the introduction to “I Remember Babylon,” I made a point of the real-life elements involved in the story. Obviously this is just as true of “Leonard Lockhard’s” piece. Both authors are trained scientists as well as first-rate storytellers. Both are writing here about the same (genuine) idea of Mr. Clarke’s concerning the television satellite which has been so much discussed in the past year (and may have become a reality by the time, this reaches print). But it is important to remember that of these two pieces, only one is fact-written-like-fiction. The other is fiction-written-like-fact.
Early morning was the best part of the day in the offices of Helix Spardleton, Esquire, patent attorney extraordinary, and this particular morning in February, 1960, was no exception. Susan, our secretary, made the coffee, and she, Mr. Spardleton, and I sat around and drank it while Mr. Spardleton went through the morning’s mail. We talked of many things, but mostly we listened to Mr. Spardleton’s comments as he opened letters and packages and journals and circulars. Many of the letters were from the United States Patent Office informing us that the patent applications we had filed for our inventors were incomplete or too vague or too broad or too indefinite or were otherwise defective, and in any case the subject matter was clearly unpatentable over a host of prior patents which showed our inventions with such clarity that an eight-year-old child could understand them. Those Office Actions could break the heart of a sincere inventor unless he understood that such conduct was just part of the normal give-and-take of patent practice. With few exceptions, the Primary Examiners considered it necessary to reject all the claims in a patent application the first time around no matter how good the invention.
I always enjoyed listening to Mr. Spardleton’s remarks about the various absurd Actions of the Patent Office. “Look at this one. He cites wood pulp patents against us when all our claims cover asbestos fibers and have nothing to do with cellulosic fibers. He’s wasting our time, his time, and the taxpayers’ money. We’ll give him a short answer with sarcastic overtones. And look at this. In this one we claim a dielectric heater and the Examiner cites against us patents dealing with inductive heating; he doesn’t know the difference between a fluctuating field and a fluctuating current. Oh my, they don’t make scientific lawyers the way they used to.”
He took a sip of coffee and opened some junk mail without comment. He placed it on the pile farthest to his left, the one that Susan simply dropped into the wastebasket.
Mr. Spardleton opened another Office Action and glanced at it. He nodded and said, “Hm-m-m,” under his breath. He looked up at me and said, “Mr. Saddle, you seem to have filed a patent application for Dr. Marchare claiming a laminated wall panel that supplies both heat and light, and also serves as a heat sink. That right?”
I had to think for a moment. I had filed so many Marchare applications that I sometimes lost track. Then I remembered. That panel was going to revolutionize the building industry in the United States. “Sure,” I said. “It takes the place of all interior walls at a price so cheap you—”
“Did you by any chance check any of the published articles relating to structures that will be used under the airless conditions encountered out in space?”
“Why, I don’t remember that I did. I don’t see what that has—”
“Well, the Examiner here says that your structure is just like the one described in a published article-—a new kind of domed structure for use on the Moon and other airless sites. The Examiner may have something here; he seems to have written a good Action. Let’s see.” He looked at the name at the end of the page, on the left side, and he nodded. “I might have known. Herbert Krome. Well, you’ll have fun getting this one through.” He put the Action on the pile that was to come to me, and picked up the next piece of mail.
“Well,” he said. “Speaking of space, we seem to have a letter from Mr. Arthur C. Clarke. You’ve heard of him, I presume?”
Susan and I nodded. “Yes,” I said. “I’ve read two of his novels. What’s he writing to us for? Copyright problems?”
By this time Mr. Spardleton had the letter open and was glancing down it. “It looks like we have a new client. Mr. Clarke has a patent problem, and he wants to talk to us about it. He says he believes he is the first to conceive of the twenty-four-hour satellite and its use in communications. He wants to know if we can take out a patent on it for him. He’ll be in to see us next week.” ’
Susan beat me to the question. “What kind of satellite?”
“The twenty-four-hour satellite. It completes one revolution around the earth every twenty-four hours, which means that it is motionless overhead with respect to a point on the surface of the earth; the earth revolves once every twenty-four hours too. Well, such a satellite would make an excellent relay station for television signals. Mr. Clarke says here that with three twenty-four-hour satellites spaced one hundred twenty degrees apart in a plane around the earth, a television signal can be beamed from any place on the earth’s surface to any other place without worrying about cables or line-of-sight problems. He wants us to patent the arrangement for him. Well, Mr. Saddle, what do you think?”
I had been working with Mr. Spardleton for eight years. I had learned in that time that I must be ready to answer some pretty interesting questions without any time for reflection. Mr. Spardleton always said that a patent attorney must be ready to answer questions by instinct; often there is no time to think. This kind of mental reflex action is necessary when arguing cases before the various tribunals. For instance, in arguing before the Board of Appeals, any of the three members might have had a bad breakfast that morning and begin tossing questions at the attorney. The same thing can happen before the United States Court of Customs and Patent Appeals, except there are five judges to contend with instead of three. I sometimes think judges never eat breakfast.