by Leonard Lockhard
_Leonard Lockhard is an experienced patents attorney who can slip the
glovelike surfaces of an inventor’s nightmare on his writing hand
with a dexterity glorious to behold. We suspect he even does so in
his dreams, chuckling right merrily until the dawn breaks through.
You’ll chuckle too, we think, at one of the most uproariously funny
SF yarns it has ever been our privilege to publish._
=Krome was Mr. Patent Office in person--and a hard man to needle. But
Marchare’s underground diving suit had a very sharp point to it.=
The interoffice buzzer on my phone rang. It was Helix Spardleton,
patent attorney extraordinary--and my boss.
“Saddle?” Helix said. “Marchare is on the phone. Take care of him, will
you?” And he hung up.
For a moment I just sat there, phone in hand. Marchare! My palms were
suddenly moist. Other patent lawyers had nice normal scientists to work
with--people who invented new and patentable plastics, pharmaceuticals,
and insecticides.
I had Marchare. My mind ran back over some of his inventions--synthetic
babies, supersonic washing machines, hair-growing chemicals.
Collectively they had netted him a small fortune, but they had brought
nothing but headaches to me. Now he was on the phone again. Another
invention undoubtedly.
My forefinger shook a little as I stabbed it at the lighted button on
the phone. “Saddle speaking,” I said.
“Good morning, Carl!” came cheerily. “This is Marchare. You sound a
little weak. You’re not ill, I hope?”
“Well, I’m not feeling exactly--”
“Glad to hear it. Look, I wonder if you could drop over at my lab. I’ve
run across something interesting, and I think we ought to investigate
the patent possibilities.”