Moving Spirit - Arthur C. Clarke, ebook, Temp
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Moving SpiritWe were discussing a sensational trial at the Old Bailey when Harry Purvis, whose talent for twisting the conversation to his own ends is really unbelievable, remarked casually: “I was once an expert witness in a rather interesting case.”“Only a witness?” said Drew, as he deftly filled two glasses of Bass at once.“Yes—but it was a rather close thing. It was hi the early part of the war, about the time we were expecting the invasion. That’s why you never heard about it at the time.”“What makes you assume,” said Charles Willis suspiciously, “that we never did hear of it?”It was one of the few times I’d ever seen Harry caught trying to cover up his tracks. “Qui s’excuse s’accuse,” I thought to myself, and waited to see what evading action he’d take.“It was such a peculiar case,” he replied with dignity, “that I’m sure you’d have reminded me of it if you ever saw the reports. My name was featured quite prominently. It all happened hi an out-of-the-way part of Cornwall, and it concerned the best example of that rare species, the genuine mad scientist, that I’ve ever met.”Perhaps that wasn’t really a fair description, Purvis amended hastily. Homer Ferguson was eccentric and had little foibles like keeping a pet boa constrictor to catch the mice, and never wearing shoes around the house. But he was so rich that no one noticed things like this.Homer was also a competent scientist. Many years ago he had graduated from Edinburgh University, but having plenty of money he had never done a stroke of real work in his life. Instead, he pottered round the old vicarage he’d bought not far from Newquay and amused himself building gadgets. In the last forty years he’d invented television, ball-point pens, jet propulsion, and a few other trifles. However, as he had never bothered to take out any patents, other people had got the credit. This didn’t worry him in the least as he was of a singularly generous disposition, except with money.It seemed that, in some complicated way, Purvis was one of his few living relatives. Consequently when Harry received a telegram one day requesting his assistance at once, he knew better than to refuse. No one knew exactly how much money Homer had, or what he intended to do with it. Harry thought he had as good a chance as anyone, and he didn’t intend to jeopardize it. At some inconvenience he made the journey down to Cornwall and turned up at the rectory.He saw what was wrong as soon as he entered the grounds. Uncle Homer (he wasn’t really an uncle, but he’d been called that as long as Harry could remember) had a shed beside the main building which he used for his experiments. That shed was now minus roof and windows, and a sickly odor hovered around it. There had obviously been an explosion, and Harry wondered, in a disinterested sort of way, if Uncle had been badly injured and wanted advice on drawing up a new will.He ceased day-dreaming when the old man, looking the picture of health (apart from some sticking plaster on his face) opened the door for bun.“Good of you to come so quickly,” he boomed. He seemed genuinely pleased to see Harry. Then his face clouded over. “Fact is, my boy, I’m in a bit of a jam and I want you to help. My case comes up before tie local Bench tomorrow.”This was a considerable shock. Homer had been as law-abiding a citizen as any motorist in petrol-rationed Britain could be expected to be. And if it was the usual black-market business, Harry didn’t see how he could be expected to help.“Sorry to hear about this, Uncle. What’s the trouble?”“It’s a long story. Come into the library and we’ll talk it over.”Homer Ferguson’s library occupied the entire west wing of the somewhat decrepit building. Harry believed that bats nested in the rafters, but had never been able to prove it. When Homer had cleared a table by the simple expedient of tilting all the books off on to the floor, he whistled three times, a voice-operated relay tripped somewhere, and a gloomy Cornish voice drifted out of a concealed loudspeaker.“Yes, Mr. Ferguson?”“Maida, send across a bottle of the new whiskey.”There was no reply except an audible sniff. But a moment later there came a creaking and clanking, and a couple of square feet of library shelving slid aside to reveal a conveyor belt.“I can’t get Maida to come into the library,” complained Homer, lifting out a loaded tray. “She’s afraid of Boanerges, though he’s perfectly harmless.”Harry found it hard not to feel some sympathy for the invisible Maida. All six feet of Boanerges was draped over the case holding the “Encyclopedia Britannica”, and a bulge amidships indicated that he had dined recently.“What do you think of the whiskey?” asked Homer when Harry had sampled some and started to gasp for breath.“It’s—well, I don’t know what to say. It’s—phew— rather strong. I never thought—”“Oh, don’t take any notice of the label on the bottle. This brand never saw Scotland. And that’s what all the trouble’s about. I made it right here on the premises.”“Uncle!”“Yes, I know it’s against the law, and all that sort of nonsense. But you can’t get any good whiskey these days —it all goes for export. It seemed to me that I was being patriotic making my own, so that there was more left over for the dollar drive. But the Excise people don’t see it that way.”“I think you’d better let me have the whole story,” said Harry. He was gloomily sure that there was nothing he could do to get his uncle out of this scrape.Homer had always been fond of the bottle, and wartime shortages had hit him badly. He was also, as has been hinted, disinclined to give away money, and for a long time he had resented the fact that he had to pay a tax of several hundred percent on a bottle of whiskey. When he couldn’t get his own supply any more, he had decided it was time to act.The district he was living in probably had a good deal to do with his decision. For some centuries, the Customs and Excise had waged a never-ending battle with the Cornish fisherfolk. It was rumored that the last incumbent of the old vicarage had possessed the finest cellar in the district next to that of the Bishop himself—and had never paid a penny in duty on it. So Uncle Homer merely felt he was carrying on an old and noble tradition.There was little doubt, moreover, that the spirit of pure scientific enquiry also inspired him. He felt sure that this business about being aged in the wood for seven years was all rubbish, and was confident that he could do a better job with ultrasonics and ultra-violet rays.The experiment went well for a few weeks. But late one evening there was one of those unfortunate accidents that will happen even in the best-conducted laboratories, and before Uncle knew what had happened, he was draped over a beam, while the grounds of the vicarage’ were littered with pieces of copper tubing.Even then it would not have mattered much had not the local Home Guard been practicing in the neighborhood. As soon as they heard the explosion, they immediately went into action, Sten guns at the ready. Had the invasion started? If so, they’d soon fix it.They were a little disappointed to discover that it was only Uncle, but as they were used to his experiments they weren’t in the least surprised at what had happened. Unfortunately for Uncle, the Lieutenant in charge of the squad happened to be the local excise man, and the combined evidence of his nose and his eyes told him the story in a flash.“So tomorrow,” said Uncle Homer, looking rather like a small boy who had been caught stealing candy, “I have to go up before the Bench, charged with possessing an illegal still.”“I should have thought,” replied Harry, “that was a matter for the Assizes, not the local magistrates.”“We do things our own way here,” answered Homer, with more than a touch of pride. Harry was soon to discover how true this was.They got little sleep that night, as Homer outlined his defense, overcame Harry’s objections, and hastily assembled the apparatus he intended to produce in court.“A Bench like this,” he explained, “is always impressed by experts. If we dared, I’d like to say you were someone from the War Office, but they could check up on that. So we’ll just tell them the truth—about your qualifications, that is.”“Thank you,” said Harry. “And suppose my college finds out what I’m doing?”“Well, you won’t claim to be acting for anyone except yourself. The whole thing is a private venture.”“I’ll say it is,” said Harry.The next morning they loaded their gear into Homer’s ancient Austin, and drove into the village. The Bench was sitting in one of the classrooms of the local school, and Harry felt that time had rolled back a few years and he was about to have an unpleasant interview with his old headmaster.“We’re in luck,” whispered Homer, as they were ushered into their cramped seats. “Major Fotheringham is in the Chair. He’s a good friend of mine.”That would help a lot, Harry agreed. But there were two other justices on the Bench as well, and one friend in court would hardly be sufficient. Eloquence, not influence, was the only thing that could save the day.The courtroom was crowded, and Harry found it surprising that so many people had managed to get away from work long enough to watch the case. Then he realized the local interest that it would have aroused, in view of the fact that—in normal times, at least—smuggling was a major industry in these parts. He was not sure] whether that would mean a sympathetic audience. The; natives might well regard Homer’s form of private enterprise as unfair competition. On the other hand, they probably approved on general principles ...
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