Martha van Vogel sat in the courtroom as a spectator only, but she was surrounded by secretaries, guards, maid, publicity men, and yes men, and had one television camera trained on her alone. She was nervous. McCoy had insisted on briefing Pomfrey through Weinberg to keep Pomfrey from knowing that he was being helped by a shyster. She had her own opinion of Pomfrey—
The McCoy had insisted that Jerry not wear his beautiful new kilt but had dressed him in faded dungaree trousers and jacket. It seemed poor theater to her.
Jerry himself worried her. He seemed confused by the lights and the noise and the crowd, about to go to pieces.
And McCoy had refused to go to the trial with her. He had told her that it was quite impossible, that his mere presence would alienate the court, and Weinberg had backed him up. Men! Their minds were devious—they seemed to like twisted ways of doing things. It confirmed her opinion that men should not be allowed to vote.
But she felt lost without the immediate presence of McCoy’s easy self-confidence. Away from him, she wondered why she had ever trusted such an important matter to an irresponsible, jumping jack, bird-brained clown as McCoy. She chewed her nails and wished he were present.
The panel of attorneys appearing for Worker’s, Incorporated, began by moving that the action be dismissed without trial, on the theory that Jerry was a chattel of the corporation, an integral part of it, and no more able to sue than the thumb can sue the brain.
The honorable Augustus Pomfrey looked every inch the statesman as he bowed to the court and to his opponents. “It is indeed strange,” he began, “to hear the second-hand voice of a legal fiction, a soulless, imaginary quantity called a corporate ‘person,’ argue that a flesh-and-blood creature, a being of hopes and longings and passions, has not legal existence. I see here beside me my poor cousin Jerry.” He patted Jerry on the shoulder; the ape-man, needing reassurance, slid a hand into his. It went over well.
“But when I look for this abstract fancy ‘Workers,’ what do I find? Nothing—some words on paper, some signed bits of foolscap—”
“If the Court please, a question,” put in the opposition chief attorney, “does the learned counsel contend that a limited liability stock company cannot own property?”
“Will the counsel reply?” directed the judge.
“Thank you. My esteemed colleague has set up a straw man; I contended only that the question as to whether Jerry is a chattel of Workers, Incorporated, is immaterial, nonessential, irrelevant. I am part of the corporate city of Great New York. Does that deny me my civil rights as a person of flesh and blood? In fact it does not even rob me of my right to sue that civic corporation of which I am a part, if, in my opinion, I am wronged by it. We are met today in the mellow light of equity, rather than in the cold and narrow confines of law. It seemed a fit time to dwell on the strange absurdities we live by, whereunder a nonentity of paper and legal fiction could deny the existence of this our poor cousin. I ask that the learned attorneys for the corporation stipulate that Jerry does, in fact, exist, and let us get on with the action.”
They huddled; the answer was “No.”
“Very well. My client asked to be examined in order that the court may determine his status and being.”
“Objection! This anthropoid cannot be examined; he is a mere part and chattel of the respondent.”
“That is what we are about to determine,” the judge answered dryly. “Objection overruled.”
“Go sit in that chair, Jerry.”
“Objection! This beast cannot take an oath—it is beyond his comprehension.”
“What have you to say to that, Counsel?”
“If it pleases the Court,” answered Pomfrey, “the simplest thing to do is to put him in the chair and find out.”
“Let him take the stand. The clerk will administer the oath.” Martha van Vogel gripped the arms of her chair; McCoy had spent a full week training him for this. Would the poor thing blow up without McCoy to guide him?
The clerk droned through the oath; Jerry looked puzzled but patient.
“Your honor,” said Pomfrey, “when young children must give testimony, it is customary to permit a little leeway in the wording, to fit their mental attainments. May I be permitted?” He walked up to Jerry.
“Jerry, my boy, are you a good worker?”
“Sure mike! Jerry good worker!”
“Maybe bad worker, huh? Lazy. Hide from strawboss.”
“No, no, no! Jerry good worker. Dig. Weed. Not dig up vegetaber. Dig up weed. Work hard.”
“You will see,” Pomfrey addressed the court, “that my client has very definite ideas of what is true and what is false. Now let us attempt to find out whether or not he has moral values which require him to tell the truth. Jerry—”
“Yes, Boss.”
Pomfrey spread his hand in front of the anthropoid’s face. “How many fingers do you see?”
Jerry reached out and ticked them off. “One—two—sree—four, uh—five.”
“Six fingers, Jerry.”
“Five, Boss.”
“Six fingers, Jerry. I give you cigaret. Six.”
“Five, Boss. Jerry not cheat.”
Pomfrey spread his hands. “Will the court accept him?”
The court did. Martha van Vogel sighed. Jerry could not count very well and she had been afraid that he would forget his lines and accept the bribe. But he had been promised all the cigarets he wanted and chocolate as well if he would remember to insist that five was five.
“I suggest,” Pomfrey went on, “that the matter has been established. Jerry is an entity; if he can be accepted as a witness, then surely he may have his day in court. Even a dog may have his day in court. Will my esteemed colleagues stipulate?”
Workers, Incorporated, through its battery of lawyers, agreed—just in time, for the judge was beginning to cloud up. He had been much impressed by the little performance.
The tide was with him; Pomfrey used it. “If it please the court and if the counsels for the respondent will permit, we can shorten these proceedings. I will state the theory under which relief is sought and then, by a few questions, it may be settled one way or another. I ask that it be stipulated that it was the intention of Workers, Incorporated, through its servants, to take the life of my client.”
Stipulation was refused.
“So? Then I ask that the court take judicial notice of the well-known fact that these anthropoid workers are destroyed when they no longer show a profit; thereafter I will call witnesses, starting with Horace Blakesly, to show that Jerry was and presumably is under such sentence of death.”
Another hurried huddle resulted in the stipulation that Jerry had, indeed, been scheduled for euthanasia.
“Then,” said Pomfrey, “I will state my theory. Jerry is not an animal, but a man. It is not legal to kill him—it is murder.”
First there was silence, then the crowd gasped. People had grown used to animals that talked and worked, but they were no more prepared to think of them as persons, humans, men, than were the haughty Roman citizens prepared to concede human feelings to their barbarian slaves.
Pomfrey let them have it while they were still groggy. “What is a man? A collection of living cells and tissues? A legal fiction, like this corporate ‘person’ that would take poor Jerry’s life? No, a man is none of these things. A man is a collection of hopes and fears, of human longings, of aspirations greater than himself—more than the clay from which he came; less than the Creator which lifted him up from the clay. Jerry has been taken from his jungle and made something more than the poor creatures who were his ancestors, even as you and I. We ask that this Court recognize his manhood.”
The opposing attorneys saw that the Court was moved; they drove in fast. An anthropoid, they contended, could not be a man because he lacked human shape and human intelligence. Pomfrey called his first witness—Master B’na Kreeth.
The Martian’s normal bad temper had not been improved by being forced to wait a
round for three days in a travel tank, to say nothing of the indignity of having to interrupt his researches to take part in the childish pow-wows of terrestrials.
There was further delay to irritate him while Pomfrey forced the corporation attorneys to accept B’na as an expert witness. They wanted to refuse but could not—he was their own Director of Research. He also held voting control of all Martian-held Workers’ stock, a fact unmentioned but hampering.
More delay while an interpreter was brought in to help administer the oath—B’na Kreeth, self-centered as all Martians, had never bothered to learn English.
He twittered and chirped in answer to the demand that he tell the truth, the whole truth, and so forth; the interpreter looked pained. “He says he can’t do it,” he informed the judge.
Pomfrey asked for exact translation.
The interpreter looked uneasily at the judge. “He says that if he told the whole truth you fools—not ‘fools’ exactly; it’s a Martian word meaning a sort of headless worm—would not understand it.”
The Court discussed the idea of contempt briefly. When the Martian understood that he was about to be forced to remain in a travel tank for thirty days he came down off his high horse and agreed to tell the truth as adequately as was possible; he was accepted as a witness.
“Are you a man?” demanded Pomfrey.
“Under your laws and by your standards I am a man.”
“By what theory? Your body is unlike ours; you cannot even live in our air. You do not speak our language; your ideas are alien to us. How can you be a man?”
The Martian answered carefully: “I quote from the Terra-Martian Treaty, which you must accept as supreme law. ‘All members of the Great Race, while sojourning on the Third Planet, shall have all the rights and prerogatives of the native dominant race of the Third Planet.’ This clause has been interpreted by the Bi-Planet Tribunal to mean that members of the Great Race are ‘men’ whatever that may be.”
“Why do you refer to your sort as the ‘Great Race’?”
“Because of our superior intelligence.”
“Superior to men?”
“We are men.”
“Superior to the intelligence of earth men?”
“That is self-evident.”
“Just as we are superior in intelligence to this poor creature Jerry?”
“That is not self-evident.”
“Finished with the witness,” announced Pomfrey. The opposition counsels should have left bad enough alone; instead they tried to get B’na Kreeth to define the difference in intelligence between humans and worker-anthropoids. Master B’na explained meticulously that cultural differences masked the intrinsic differences, if any, and that, in any case, both anthropoids and men made so little use of their respective potential intelligences that it was really too early to tell which race would turn out to be the superior race in the Third Planet.
He had just begun to discuss how a truly superior race could be bred by combining the best features of anthropoids and men when he was hastily asked to “stand down.”
“May it please the Court,” said Pomfrey, “we have not advanced the theory; we have merely disposed of respondent’s contention that a particular shape and a particular degree of intelligence are necessary to manhood. I now ask that the petitioner be recalled to the stand that the Court may determine whether he is, in truth, human.”
“If the learned Court please—” The battery of lawyers had been in a huddle ever since B’na Kreeth’s travel tank had been removed from the room; the chief counsel now spoke.
“The object of the petition appears to be to protect the life of this chattel. There is no need to draw out these proceedings; respondent stipulates that this chattel will be allowed to die a natural death in the hands of its present custodian and moves that the action be dismissed.”
“What do you say to that?” the Court asked Pomfrey.
Pomfrey visibly gathered his toga about him. “We ask not for cold charity from this corporation, but for the justice of the Court. We ask that Jerry’s humanity be established as a matter of law. Not for him to vote, nor to hold property, nor to be relieved of special police regulations appropriate to his group—but we do ask that he be adjudged at least as human as that aquarium monstrosity just removed from this courtroom!”
The judge turned to Jerry. “Is that what you want, Jerry?”
Jerry looked uneasily at Pomfrey, then said, “Okay, Boss.”
“Come up to the chair.”
“One moment—” The opposition chief counsel seemed flurried. “I ask the Court to consider that a ruling in this matter may affect a long established commercial practice necessary to the economic life of—”
“Objection!” Pomfrey was on his feet, bristling. “Never have I heard a more outrageous attempt to prejudice a decision. My esteemed colleague might as well ask the Court to decide a murder case from political considerations. I protest—”
“Never mind,” said the Court. “The suggestion will be ignored. Proceed with your witness.”
Pomfrey bowed. “We are exploring the meaning of this strange thing called ‘manhood.’ We have seen that it is not a matter of shape, nor race, nor planet of birth, nor of acuteness of mind. Truly, it cannot be defined, yet it may be experienced. It can reach from heart to heart, from spirit to spirit.” He turned to Jerry. “Jerry—will you sing your new song for the judge?”
“Sure mike.” Jerry looked uneasily up at the whirring cameras, the mikes, and the ikes, then cleared his throat:
“Way down upon de Suwannee Ribber
Far, far away;
Dere’s where my heart is turning ebber—”
The applause scared him out of his wits; the banging of the gavel frightened him still more—but it mattered not; the issue was no longer in doubt. Jerry was a man.
THE END
AFTERWORD
* * *
THE EARLIER VERSION
BY THE TIME I WAS BORN IN 1945, Robert A Heinlein was the most important writer of Modern SF. (I’m using the term to differentiate what was being published currently in [mostly] American magazines from the work of Wells, Verne, and for that matter Stapledon.)
When I started reading adult SF in the late 1950s, virtually everybody in the SF world would have agreed about Heinlein’s overwhelming importance. The few who didn’t (Brian Aldiss comes to mind) found their voices overwhelmed by the general chorus of praise for Heinlein. Nothing has happened to change this assessment in the decades since Heinlein died in 1988.
Heinlein wasn’t always the Dean of Science Fiction, however, and he certainly wasn’t always treated with deference or even courtesy by the editors to whom he submitted stories. The backgrounds of the four stories in this collection are a useful reminder to SF readers—and especially to would-be SF writers—that the life of a professional writer has always been difficult, even if the writer happens to be uniquely gifted.
Not one of these four stories appeared under Heinlein’s own title on its original magazine publication. The apparent exception is Gulf, which appeared as a serial in the November-December 1949 issues of Astounding (later Analog) under the title in this collection. The title wasn’t Heinlein’s own, however: it had been handed him by the editor, John W Campbell, to write a story under.
In 1948 a fan had written a letter to Astounding discussing the contents of the November, 1949, issue. Campbell contacted the authors mentioned and arranged for the issue to appear pretty much as the fan had described it. Heinlein (under his pseudonym Anson MacDonald) was one of the listed authors, so he contributed a novelette under the fan’s title (which had nothing to do with the story; that was also true of other stories in the issue, in particular Lester Del Rey’s Over the Top).
Astounding was the top SF magazine of the day. For several years following World War II, Campbell paid two-cents/word for stories while other magazines paid one cent (or less). Gulf was Heinlein’s first story for Astounding in seven years—and more important
was the last story he would have in the magazine until 1956.
Street and Smith, Astounding’s publishers, bought all rights: that is, S&S could reprint the story afterwards without further payment, and the author could not himself reprint the story unless S&S released it. Heinlein had been doubtful about selling all rights, but Campbell had assured him that it was only a formality: S&S would release reprint rights upon the author’s request.
Heinlein had an opportunity to publish a reprint collection of his stories: S&S refused to permit him to do so. It doesn’t appear that Campbell had been lying to Heinlein; rather, S&S policy had changed, and the publisher saw no reason to grant an exemption to Heinlein either for his prominence as a writer or because S&S had bought the stories under false pretenses. Campbell’s promises weren’t in writing, so the company wasn’t bound.
This made Heinlein rightly angry. Furthermore, John Campbell defended the company’s policies, which caused a permanent coolness between him and Heinlein; they had been very close since Heinlein became an SF writer at about the same time as Campbell became editor of Astounding.
The second story in the collection, Elsewhen, first appeared in the September, 1941, issue of Astounding under the title Elsewhere. I don’t know of any evidence as to why Campbell changed Heinlein’s title. Two years later Campbell ran a story by Anthony Boucher titled Elsewhen, so he doesn’t seem to have disliked the title per se.
My best guess is that Campbell was simply indulging a momentary whim in changing the title; I suspect all professional writers can tell stories of similar things happening to them. (I certainly can.) Nothing about Heinlein’s name or stature seems to have prevented Campbell from pointless meddling.
And in fact Elsewhere was published as by Caleb Saunders, since the final third of Methuselah’s Children, a Robert Heinlein serial, was appearing in the same issue. The story was unlikely to arouse much comment under any title or byline, however, because the cover story of that issue was Nightfall, Isaac Asimov’s most famous and probably best (much as Asimov protested at the opinion) story.