“Well,” said Marchare, “I’m not quite certain. Carbon, you see,
occurs in two allotropic crystalline forms--diamonds and graphite.
I’ve prepared a third allotrope that I call cabbagite. It is a
twinned crystal with peculiar properties, to say the least. When an
electromotive force is impressed at one end of it the other end emits
energy of varying wave lengths. The bombardment of this energy seems to
nullify the cohesive forces between the molecules of matter.
“Up until now the only use I could find for it was in transforming
oxygen to ozone. When you plug it into the wall socket, you have a
wonderful cabbage-cooking deodorizer, Spardleton filed a case on that
use a couple of years ago. A few weeks ago I discovered the crystal
had other possibilities. I’ve now discovered that it works on solid
matter as well as oxygen. The solid matter yields and flows when pushed
on by a conductive object that is connected to an activated cabbagite
crystal.”
I asked, “But how does the cabbagite crystal allow the diving suit to
move around underground--through solid earth?”
Out of the corner of my eye I noticed that Eskew was shaking his head
in sneering compassion for my slow-witted grasp of the technical
details. But Marchare didn’t mind a bit, having had long experience
with patent attorneys.
“Well,” he said, “the energy from the crystal goes first to a selector
unit. From there it passes to the surface of the suit by means of
thousands of tiny wire leads. These leads connect to a wire fabric
imbedded in the thin rubber from which the suit is made. Is that clear?”
“Of course,” I assured him loftily, ignoring Eskew’s subdued snicker.
“The control dials work this way,” continued Marchare. “Once the diver
is underground he can cut off the energy field beneath the soles of his
feet. Thus he will have something solid to stand on. When he walks,
though, he will have to keep the soles of his feet pointed away from
the direction of his advance, or retreat, because only the ground under
his soles will always be solid. Either that, or he can adjust the
controls each time he moves his foot.
“The control built into the right hand will control the right half of
the suit; the left-hand one will control the left, The energy field
over the rest of the suit isn’t so important as long as it is strong
enough to soften the surrounding earth. But even so we’re going to make
it possible for the diver to control the energy field on the entire
surface. That way he could even lie down if he wanted to.”
“Since you haven’t finished the suit yet,” I said, “how do you know it
will work?”
Eskew looked up at me as though I had just taken a dime from a
five-year-old.
Marchare never turned a hair. “Oh, it will work all right. We’ve
already made a great many tests. We’ve thrust objects through walls and
rocks and metals. Hamilton hasn’t actually finished the diving suit.
But when he does, you can rest assured it will come up to expectations.”
“What,” I asked, “happens to the diver if the crystal stops functioning
while he’s underground?”
“Now there’s a disturbing thought,” mused Marchare. “I guess the suit
would be lost. Gravity would pull it down to the center of the earth.”
Eskew cackled mirthlessly. “And would the diver be burned up.”
Marchare smiled indulgently. “A card, that Hamilton. Actually, there’d
be no pain. Ham has timed the air supply to fail long before the diver
can reach the center of the earth.”
* * * * *
The hair on the back of my neck relaxed a little. I forced myself to
consider only the legal aspects of the subject at hand. “When will the
suit be ready?” I asked.
“In about four months,” grunted Eskew. “Possibly a little sooner.”
“That’s good,” I told him. “I think the Patent Office may want a
demonstration. If I can prepare and file the application within the
next two weeks, the Office will probably take it up just about the time
the suit is ready.”
“What I don’t understand,” said Marchare, “is how we can file a patent
application on something that doesn’t yet exist. Won’t it be perjury
for me to sign the inventor’s oath?”
“That would depend on what oath you sign,” I told him. “Fortunately
there are two kinds. In one you swear that everything in the
application is true. In the second you merely swear that the object
described in the specifications is your invention. I never heard of any
inventor using the first kind. You don’t think Selden ever actually
_made_ the automobile he patented, do you?”
“I see,” he said, with an expression that said he didn’t at all.
I looked over my notes. Mr. Spardleton had previously explained that
it was useless to take notes on a new invention because the attorney’s
version never agreed with the inventor’s. What was even worse, neither
bore any resemblance to the hash the patent examiners would inevitably
make of it. My notes were sufficiently confused to gladden the heart of
any practicing patent attorney.
“Well, I guess that’s it,” I said.
I shook hands with Marchare, returned Eskew’s sneer cordially, and
headed back to town. Plans for the coming tussle with the Patent
Office were beginning to take shape in my head. But I foresaw no great
difficulty. This was _real_ invention. Imagine. A diving suit that
went underground. Even the Examiner would have to admit that this was
creative originality of the highest order. He couldn’t turn me down. He
wouldn’t dare.
When I got back to the office I went in and explained the whole thing
to Spardleton. He heard me all the way through without an interruption.
When I had exhausted my vocabulary of superlatives he sat quietly for a
moment thinking. Then he said, “Yes, it seems straightforward enough.
I’ll tell you what. Make a search and pull a couple of patents that
describe the usual diving suits. You will be able to use large portions
of the specifications.”
“How can I?” I asked. “Those patents will only describe diving suits
that go underwater. They won’t--”
He cut me off with an airy wave of his hand. “Whenever you hit the word
‘underwater,’ change it to ‘underground.’ When you hit the word ‘sea,’
change it to ‘ground’ or ‘earth.’ You’ll save a lot of time that way.
Okay, you’re on your own. But let me see the spec before you file it.”
I left and went over to the Patent Office to make the search. I flipped
through the patents in Class 2, Subclass 2.1, and selected two patents
to serve as models. I realized almost immediately that I’d be able to
use large portions of them. It seemed like a good idea at the time.
During the next ten days I wrote and re-wrote. I consulted with
Marchare on several occasions, and I worked closely with Eskew to make
sure that his drawings would be comprehensible to a man from Mars--or
a patent examiner. Even at lunch Susan, our secretary, and I talked
about the diving suit and hardly anything else. I ate, slept, and
breathed the suit. I became convinced that it was going to be a perfect
application. The Patent Office wouldn’t get to first base with its
exotic logic this time.
Susan was a gem. She never even frowned when I changed my mind several
times about how best to drive home a telling point. She just tore up
the old copy and made a new one from my dictation. Sometimes, though,
she had a funny little half-smile on her face as though she knew
something which I didn’t. I asked her about it once. She didn’t say a
word, just reached over and patted me on top of the head. Somehow it
made me feel like a Pekinese. But I refused to let it worry me. I was
too busy creating a perfect patent specification.
The opening paragraph in my specification read:
* * * * *
_This invention relates to a suit of apparel, particularly designed for
the protection of a diver, and has for its object to provide a diving
suit of novel construction that may be comfortably worn by a person,
be capable of yielding at all the joints of the wearer’s body, be
earthproof and airtight, be self-contained as to air supply, be light,
strong, and durable, afford means for the descent of a diver in various
depths of dirt, and enable the deepground diver to move around freely
through rock, stone, and earth of varying composition._
The final draft consisted of seven pages of drawings, ten pages of
spec, and twenty-eight claims. I sat at my desk for a good thirty
minutes pridefully staring at the lovely stack of papers. I read over
some of the more brilliant passages, rolling the words on my tongue,
amazed at what a clear picture they painted. Convinced that it was
now a masterpiece of logic and persuasiveness, I took it in for
Spardleton’s approval.
He picked it up and began to read. I waited confidently, convinced that
he could hardly fail to see in it the sure hand of genius. He finished
it far more rapidly than I would have thought possible. “_Um_,” he
said, tossing it back to me, “It’ll do. File it.”
Susan made out a check for thirty-eight dollars and I mailed the whole
mess to the Patent Office.
The next couple of months passed swiftly. Under Spardleton’s expert
tutelage my working fund of patent knowledge blossomed and grew. I
learned how to write page after page of patent specification without
actually saying anything. I achieved an amazing degree of tonal control
over my voice. By simply saying to an Examiner, “I don’t quite agree
with you there,” I was able to suggest by the tone of my voice alone
that I knew he had received his scientific education by the rudimentary
osmotic process of sitting on his text books. Sometimes it worked.
Then one day Spardleton sent for me.
He was evidently busy trying to decipher an Office Action when I
entered. Webster’s Unabridged stood open on its stand beside his desk
and at least six volumes of the Britannica were scattered about on the
floor. The desk itself was littered with thesauruses and handbooks
and I noticed particularly Partridge’s _Dictionary of Slang and
Unconventional English_.
As soon as I walked in he asked, “Did you ever hear of the word
‘sludutiferous?’”
“I’m afraid not,” I said.
“Well, there is such a word. I found it here.” He waved vaguely at the
forest of books on his desk. “And I must say I’m a little disappointed
in the Examiner. I don’t know what the Patent Office is coming to when
they begin using words that are actually in existence.” He looked
at the initials in the upper left-hand corner of the Office Action.
“Oh,” he said, brightening considerably. “Maybe that explains it. Old
Nailgood. He’s just allowed several claims in Marchare’s cabbagite
deodorizer case. He must be slipping fast.”
His smile vanished and his brows drew together. “Still, there’s
something phony here. Cabbagite is a real invention. It’s a money maker
for Marchare, and a boon to the housewife. There’s something remotely
similar in the prior art. It’s very odd, therefore, that the office is
willing to give us a patent on it. Unless--”
“Unless what?”
“Unless they want to allow it, in order to use the allowed claims to
reject Marchare on some other application of even greater importance.
Does he have any co-pending applications relating to cabbagite?”
“None that I know of,” I said.
“How about that diving suit?” I stared at him, startled, “Surely you
don’t mean they’d reject a diving suit on a deodorizer? What kind of
sanity is that?”
He gave me a puzzled look. “Sanity? What’s sanity got to do with it?”
I hadn’t got around to answering him when Susan walked in and handed
Spardleton a letter--clearly a communication from an Examiner. He tore
it open and scanned it quickly.
“Ah, hah,” he said. “Look here. This explains everything.”
I circled around behind him. It was an Office Action, all right. And it
was in reference to the diving suit application.
The first thing I noticed were the initials in the upper left-hand
corner: H. K. _Herbert Krome_! Mister Patent Office himself--the evil
genius who handled patent lawyers the way an animal trainer handles big
cats. A single glance showed me how serious--and nasty--it was.
“This application has been examined
Art cited: