TO THE SPACE COUNCIL, ASTEROID 4722
WAS JUST ANOTHER ROADBLOCK IN THE
WAY OF INTERPLANETARY TRAFFIC. BUT
TO THE USELESS BUGBREEDERS IT WAS HOME!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1961.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The previous case was a Weeper, and he lost. So the Space Zoning
Commissioners were damp and irritable before I opened pleadings for my
client. I tried not to squelch as I approached the bench.
"Not the Flammables again, Mr. Jones?" the fat Commissioner asked
nastily, sponging his suit with a sodden handkerchief.
"This was last week, Your Honor."
The thin dark Commissioner stared pointedly at the charred end of the
bench nearest the witness seat.
"Indeed it was, Mr. Jones."
The middle Commissioner poised his fingers and looked at the court
ceiling; moisture gleamed diamond like on his bald head.
"Now let me see," he intoned. "Correct me if I err, Mr. Jones, but I
seem to observe you have a habit of representing somewhat spectacular
aliens. Including, in the past six months alone, the Drillers, Whirling
Tombs, Fragile Glasses, Erupters, Vibrational Men, Transparent
Women--and of course let us not forget the Flammables."
"I assure Your Honor, my present clients will be found to be sober,
hardworking, desirable members of the Galactic Community, seeking only
to live on their own asteroid in peace under a democratic system,
which...."
"Thank you, Mr. Jones. Shall we proceed?"
"And perhaps," added the fat Commissioner, "you may be good enough to
leave us with most of our courtroom intact on this occasion."
The thin Commissioner sighed and shuffled his papers.
"You appear, Mr. Jones, to contest a Space Council ruling for the
elimination of Asteroid Four Thousand Seven Hundred and Twenty-Two on
the grounds, which you allege, that it is a peaceful dwelling of an
adult and responsible alien race."
"Yes, Your Honor."
"Then let us see your adult, um, Bugbreeder."
I shuffled uncomfortably and splashed the court stenographer who gave
me a dirty look.
"A space tramp's name given in the early days of Space, Your Honor.
More properly, my clients are the Selective Culturists of Bacteria and
Lesser Life."
The fat Commissioner sniffed.
"Bugbreeders will do," he said. "Produce one."
My client hopped off the table and ran nimbly up to the witness seat.
He sat there like a small green snowball with large and pointed ears.
"Happy, happy to be here, I'm sure," he said.
Fortunately he had a hand to raise and looked reasonably humanoid as
he was sworn in. The caterpillar and semi-jelly cultures make a less
favorable first impression, and at this point the Driller had gone
excitedly through the floor.
"You are a representative member of your race?" I asked formally.
"Oh, yus. Much."
"And you reside on Asteroid Four Thousand Seven Hundred and Twenty-Two,
the permanent dwelling of your race?"
"Oh, yus. Home."
"And although your home presents certain technical difficulties for
interplanetary vehicles on the spacerun to the greater planets, you
maintain it should be preserved because of your contribution to the
culture of the Galactic Community?" I asked.
"Oh, yus."
"Does he understand a word you're saying, Mr. Jones?" asked the bald
Commissioner.
"Oh, yus. Not much," said my client cheerfully.
"Hurrmph," I said, and coughed.
"Perhaps I may assist," suggested the thin Commissioner, with a nasty
look at me. "What exactly does your race do?"
"Breed bugs, I'm sure. Am head bacteriophysicist name of Lood. Am good
scientist."
"And what exactly do you do with these bugs you raise?"
"Most everything."
* * * * *
"Your Honors," I interrupted. "At this point I propose a few simple
demonstrations of what Mr. Lood and his people can do."
"May I inquire if either of my learned brethren know any way in which
we can charge Mr. Jones with rebuilding costs, if necessary?" asked the
bald Commissioner.
"Your Honors, I assure you...."
"Proceed at your peril, Mr. Jones."