Текст книги "Bouncing Off the Moon"

Автор книги: David Gerrold

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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

I couldn't speak. I didn't try. I didn't care. I didn't have any feelings left. Later on, I might have feelings again. But if they were going to hurt, I didn't want them. I'd had enough of feelings, thankewvery-muchnext. But I wanted him to go away. I knew he wasn't good for us anymore, even if I couldn't remember why. I tried to tell him that. I struggled against the restraints and twisted my head back and forth, trying to shake the air mask loose, so I could speak, but that didn't accomplish anything, and a minute later I felt something cold on my arm and I went away again.

This time when I came to, the room was silent and dark and I was all alone. I was still in a cargo pod. We'd spent our entire time on Luna going from one used cargo pod to another, missing sleep, missing meals, trying to breathe everything from vacuum to ammonia—

At least the air smelled clean and wet here. It smelled like flowers. Hawaiian flowers. Plumeria, I think that's what they were called. That was nice. What was even nicer was that I could smell them at all.

I couldn't open my eyes. Something moist was taped in place over them. I wondered if I'd been blinded. That was going to be a nuisance. But at least I could I still hear. The music was Samuel Barber's Adagio for Strings, which struck some people as plaintive and annoying, or just plain desolate. I always liked it for its thoughtful quality. It was Dad's recording, and I think I knew which one. It was the first time I ever got to see him conduct. He conducted with his eyes closed. At least it looked that way from where I was sitting. He was lost in the music. And his hands were like living creatures—he didn't use a baton; he just stroked the air and the music poured forth. He coaxed the Adagio into life and let it fill the auditorium. I don't think I took a breath for the entire ten minutes. I'd never heard anything like that before in myv'ife. I hadn't known such sounds were possible. And afterward, I kept playing it over and over again, always trying to recapture that same initial wunderstorm … 

I wished I could tell him how much I loved his music. That would be nice. Somebody took my hand in his. It felt like Dad's hand. Large and warm and safely enveloping. I knew it had to be Douglas holding my hand, but it was nice to pretend it was Dad for a while.

And then Dad spoke. "I was so scared, Chigger. For a while, I thought I was going to lose you. All of you, forever. I didn't get a chance to say any of the stuff I wanted to say. And I was afraid that even if I could say it, you wouldn't want to hear it. And now that I have the chance to tell you, all I really need you to know is how important you are to me and how sorry I am everything got so screwed up. I wish I could have done better. The music—do you remember this? You were always asking to come see me conduct, and I was sure it would bore you to death, but I took you anyway, and you sat there totally entranced and captivated. You were listening to the music as deeply as anyone I've ever seen. I was so happy for you that day—because you'd discovered something all your own. And I was so glad it was something I could give to you. I remember the look in your eyes of total awe and admiration, and how proud I was to be your dad; the person who'd brought that look to your face. I wish I could have made that moment last forever." He kissed my hand and replaced it on the bed, and then he got up and went away, and the dream ended. But it was really a nice dream while it lasted.

And then I had a dream about Mom too. Her and that Sykes woman. But I didn't remember what they said. And that bothered me for a while—because it didn't seem fair for Dad to have a whole vivid dream and not Mom too. But it was kind of like Mom had stepped out of my life for a while and I guess I wasn't ready to let her back in, not even in my dreams.

That reminded me of something Douglas said once, about moms. He said that nothing gets in the way of a good fantasy like a mom. That's why most guys try to put Mom aside for a while—while they try to figure out who they are, I guess. It didn't matter anymore. We were all going to jail soon enough. If we weren't there already.

And then, one morning, I opened my eyes to the smell of hot chocolate, eggs, toast, and strawberry jam. And I sat up in bed and looked around. Except for a slightly sleepy feeling of confusion, I felt better than I had in days. I could even talk. My voice was still dusky-scratchy like my throat was lined with cockleburs and foxtails, but I could actually make understandable words. "Hello? Is anyone there?" I was in a room that was notpart of a cargo pod. It actually had a real floor and real walls and a real ceiling. It was spooky. Everything looked soft and gentle and flowery, that's how I knew it was a hospital; it smelled like a hospital too, with the air just a little too fresh and clean.

"Oh, good, you're up. Right on schedule." The woman wore a purple-gray dress and a thing like a pink apron over it. I guessed it was supposed to be cheery, and it wasn't too hard to look at, but I was never big on industrial cheerfulness before and as good as I felt, I wasn't ready to start now.

She was just uncovering a tray of food—that was what I'd smelled. She put it across my bed and tied a bib around my neck. "Just in case," she said. "You might still be a little weak."

"What is this place?"

"Tranquility Medical Center at Armstrong."

"How long was I out?"

"Three days. No, four. It doesn't matter. You're fine now. You'll just have to take it easy for a bit. I'll leave you alone to eat. The shower is through there. There are fresh clothes in the closet. Try not to take too long. You have to be in court in two hours—"

" Say what?"

But she was already gone.

IN COURT

Judge Cavanaugh was the largest human being I had ever seen. He looked like the Hindenburg.He was huge and round, and when he entered the room, it took a while for all of him to arrive at the same place. He moved like a human bubble suit, with all of his blubbery mass flubbering and bouncing around like an animated caricature of a fat man. In Lunar low gee, he didn't lumber, he floated.He took his seat at the bench, and all the various parts of him arrived one after the other, settling into place like latecomers at a concert.

Judge Cavanaugh took roll, made sure all his separate body sections had sorted themselves out, looked out over the room, looked to the display in front of him, rubbed his nose, and waved a go-ahead gesture at the clerk, a skinny black woman. "Case number 40032, in the matter of Douglas, Charles, and Robert Dingillian, custody of, blah blah blah."

Custody?Again?

Judge Cavanaugh was scanning through his notes. He finally found the page he was looking for and looked out at us again. He cleared his throat. "Most court cases are a two-body problem. A plaintiff and a defendant. Those are relatively simple to resolve. You listen to the facts, you look for a balance. Somehow you find a Lagrange point."

He looked out over the room. "But just as the laws of physics start to get complex and unmanageable when you introduce a third body to the problem, so do the laws of human beings become complex and unmanageable when there are three participants orbiting around a claim.

We have here, a seven-body problem. Or a twelve-body problem. Or more. I've lost count of the number of litigants who have stepped forward to lodge a claim or file a brief as a friend of the court. I know that most of you recognize that you do not have a hope in hell of winning your claim, but it hasn't stopped you from adding bodies to the problem in the hope of making it so unmanageable that it can never be resolved. I applaud your various successes in making this case a colossal nightmare. I promise to reward each and every one of you appropriately."

He smiled. For some reason, it didn't look friendly.

"Let me explain something to those of you who've just arrived here in the last few days. I know a lot of you are suddenly out of work and vaguely troubled by the fact that we don't have ambulances to chase here on Luna. And, of course, as we all know, there's nothing as dangerous as an unemployed lawyer—unless it's one who is employed. But for the record, I want to explain to you how things work here in this courtroom, and on most of Luna.

"This is a small town. There are only three million of us. And we're spread across a landmass equal to that of Earth. So we're spread pretty thin. We've only got a few major settlements. The largest still has less than a hundred thousand folks. So we run our courts with a lot less formality than you might be used to back home. That doesn't mean we take our lawyering any less seriously. It just means that we don't bother with wigs and robes and funny hats. They make us look silly and we start giggling—and that's a little disconcerting when we're sentencing someone to the nearest airlock because he refused to pay his air tax. And yes, I'm not joking.

"So we're just going to cut through a lot of the crap that you guys love so much and see if we can sort things out without using up too much oxygen. Those of you who are representing clients with money, this probably doesn't worry you—but take my word for it, it doesn't matter how much money your clients have back on Earth or on the Line. It can't buy more oxygen if there isn't any left. We want you to represent your client's claims fairly, we want to hear the facts. We do notwant a lot of extraneous noise. Nothing pisses off this court more than a low signal-to-noise ratio. I assume I'm making myself perfectly clear? Thank you."

He paused to note something on the pad in front of him, then said, "So, let's get to it. This hearing is projected to cost the Lunar Authority fifty thousand water-dollars. Therefore, the court chooses to exercise local privilege and will assess a nonrefundable processing fee of five thousand liters of water or ten thousand liters of nitrogen on all claimants in this matter to cover the judicial expenses. Anyone choosing to withdraw his or her claim, please see the court clerk now—"

Several people I didn't recognize bounced up out of their seats and over to the clerk at the side of the room. I was sitting in a wheelchair with a mask on my face, concentrating on one breath at a time. I'd been wheeled in at the last minute and I hadn't really gotten a good look at anything; besides, my vision was still too blurry to make out details. And strapped in as I was, I couldn't even turn around to see how many people were in the room or who else was here. Next to me, the shape that looked like Douglas was grim. The shape that looked like Bobby was sitting quietly on his lap. I didn't see anything shaped like a monkey.

"Thank you," said Judge Cavanaugh. "That will simplify matters a little bit—but even with fewer litigants, the court costs will remain the same. This means that the assessment will now have to be increased by 50 percent to seventy-five hundred liters of water per claimant—" This time, six more people headed for the clerk's desk.

The judge smiled. "I like the way this is going. By the way, I should note that this fee will also apply to those filing briefs of amicus curiae. This court does not need any more friends. We already have the best friends money can buy. So if you intend to be our friend today, we will expect you to pay for your fair share of justice too. You can buy as much justice as you can afford on Luna. Cash payments only, please. We do not accept checks drawn on Earth banks. This will be your last opportunity to reconsider … " Four more people.

Judge Cavanaugh waited until the bustle in the courtroom died down. He studied some papers, some material on his display, and conferred with his clerk. Finally, he looked up again. "All right, that helped. Now let's see what kind of progress we can make. We're here, all of us, to decide what to do with these three young men. The issue revolves on whether or not Judge Griffith was justified in granting the divorce of Charles Dingillian from his parents and whether Douglas and Charles are fit custodians of Robert Dingillian." For the first time, Judge Cavanaugh looked at us. "Charles Dingillian, how are you feeling?"

My voice crackled like I was walking through a field of shredded wheat. "I never felt better in my life." I said it deadpan.

Judge Cavanaugh raised an eyebrow at me. "Are you feeling well enough to proceed?"

I nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Thank you." He turned his attention back to the rest of the court. "I want to mention here that Lunar Authority is a signatory to the Star-side Covenant as well as the Covenant of Rights. As such, we give full faith and credit to the legal processes of all other signatories to these covenants. We recognize marriages, adoptions, divorces, and other legal contracts, entered into willingly by the participants. For those of you who are notlawyers, and I think there are only three of you in this room who are not"—he glanced at us when he said that—"this means that Luna will acknowledge and recognize all legal decisions of the Line Authority. We are not obligated to recognize the legal authority of some Earth courts because they are notsignatory. For the record, the Republic of Texas is a nonsignatory jurisdiction.

"I want to make this very clear at the outset, because it affects what this court has the authority to do. Those of you who are preparing to argue that Judge Griffith's decision has no weight in this courtroom are wrong, and this court will not entertain any claims based on that line of reasoning at all. You would be asking this court to create a conditional nullification of the articles of full faith and credit among covenant signatories. In plain old-fashioned English, it ain't gonna happen. Not in this court.

"However … those of you who are asking me to set asideJudge Griffith's decision as a bad ruling, had better be prepared to argue that claim with facts and logic that demonstrate an overwhelming and compelling necessity. And please, remember the unofficial motto of this court. Bore me and die.

"Today's hearing is relatively informal, even for Luna. It is an evidentiary hearing—an inquiry into the facts—which may or may not resolve the matter. If we do not resolve the matter here, we will refer it for trial. If the investigation does not uncover a compelling interest on the part of the state—or on the part of any of the claimants, the whole thing will end here. And let me say again, everyone's cooperation in achieving a speedy resolution to this business will be particularly appreciated. I hope I make myself clear."

He turned back to his display for a moment, frowning. He clicked through several pages. Judge Cavanaugh looked like he was having a wonderful time. I decided to like him—at least until he pissed me off.

"Now, then … " He looked up again. "Let's get to the specifics. This court has spent several days reviewing the transcript of Judge Griffith's divorce hearing. It is very interesting reading, but I find nothing in it to justify a set-aside. If there's anyone here who feels I've missed something,do feel free to point out any errors that Judge Griffith may have made in her ruling, or any mistakes I might have made in my review. I certainly won't be prejudiced against anyone who feels qualified to educate me in this matter. I might even thank you for the effort. But if there's no one here who wants to look for the light at the bottom of that particular tunnel … then let's just move on. Let's all stipulate in advance that any evidence that anyone has to present about the wisdom of thisruling must be based on circumstances that have developed in the last two weeks, sincethe ruling was made. You will have to demonstrate that Douglas, Charles, and Robert Dingillian have proven incapable of taking care of themselves. We will use thatas the deciding criterion in this chamber. Any questions? I thought not." He looked very pleased with himself. I wished I could see the expressions on the faces behind us; but I couldn't turn in my seat, and even if I could, it would all be a blur. But at least I wasn't coughing anymore.

"But before we can even deal with that, we have to deal with this othermatter first—which I consider an extremely minor and very annoying detail. So of course, that's why it will probably consume an inordinate amount of this court's time. But a number of you have aggressively argued that the property claim is an essential part of judging the Dingillians' behavior since they were granted independence, so there's no setting it aside. Is there? Bailiff, bring in the object,please."

While they were waiting for the bailiff, I leaned over to Douglas and managed to croak, "Don't we have a lawyer?"

Douglas shook his head. "Not yet."

"Why not?"

"The judge said we don't need one. Not unless we go to trial. He's acting as advocate on our behalf. No, that's not illegal here. Court costs are carried by the plaintiffs—unless they win. It's real different than on Earth. Plaintiffs have to prove they have a case just to get to trial."

The bailiff came back carrying a black box. He set it on a table in front of the room. He opened the box and removed the monkey. He placed it on the table and took the box away. The monkey looked lifeless. Bobby shouted, "That's my monkey! I want it back! It's mine!"

I tried to stifle a smile. There were times when I loved my brother becausehe was such a brat.

Judge Cavanaugh made a note on a pad. "So there we have the first claimant speaking up. Thank you. You are … Robert Dingillian, correct?"

"Yes! And I want my monkey back."

"And why do you say the monkey is yours?"

"Because my daddy gave it to me. And it's mine."

"All right, good." Judge Cavanaugh looked over the court. "Is there anyone who wants to contest this fact—that Max Dingillian gave this toy to his son? No? No one wants to argue that? Thank you. What a pleasant surprise. So we can all stipulate now that the toy was given to Robert Dingillian." He made a note on his pad.

"Now, Bobby—where did your daddy get this toy?"

"He bought it."

"You saw him buy it?"

"Uh-huh."

"Good, thank you." To the rest of the court, Judge Cavanaugh said, "We have other witnesses who can confirm this, of course, so let's just move ahead. Let's stipulate that Max Dingillian did indeed go through the motions of purchasing this toy. He paid cash value and received custody of the toy. His account was debited, and he was given a receipt. Therefore, paper was in place to demonstrate he was the legal owner of record. Is there anyone who wants to contest that? Is there anyone who wants to argue that these events did not happen? No? Thank you. All right, the court will now stipulate that Max Dingillian did indeed go through the motions, did appear to, and to all intents and purposes, believedthat he had legally obtained custody of this toy for the express purpose of presenting it to his son Robert Dingillian. Gracious—at this rate, we could be out of here in time for the return of Halley's Comet. That'll be when, Gloria? Another fifty-six years?"

He looked out over the courtroom. "Now,who wants to argue that Max Dingillian's purchase of the toy was in any way irregular? Who wants to argue that he had no right to the toy or that he came by it dishonestly or that the sale was invalid due to other circumstances?"

About six people stood up then, several of them shouting. I thought I recognized a couple of voices, but I didn't feel like trying to turn around to see. It would have been wasted effort.

"All right." Judge Cavanaugh pointed. "Everybody's going to get a turn. Just line up in the back there. In order of height, alphabetically, I don't care. You first. Come up front. State your name for the record. Remember, you're in court. Anything you say can and will be used against you."

A heavyset man came forward. He looked like a hockey player. "My name is David Cheifetz. Until three weeks ago, I was an attorney with Canadian-Interplanetary—"

I leaned over and whispered to Douglas. "That's not what J'mee said. She said her daddy sold electricity for the Line."

" And you believed her?"

" Oh,"I said, realizing again. Everybody had a secret agenda. Everybody lied.

Cheifetz was still talking. "—My family and I are emigrating out to the colonies. Seven weeks ago, we made arrangements to have Max Dingillian ferry some sensitive material for us."

"You mean smuggle."

"No, Your Honor. Smuggling is a crime. What we were doing was perfectly legal. My wife and my daughter and I are very visible people. We've already discovered this to our dismay when our daughter J'mee was accused of being Charles Dingillian in disguise." The judge made a hurry-up gesture. "The point is that we are clearly targets of opportunity. This is one of the reasons for emigrating. The safest way for us to transfer our wealth was to have it travel by an alternate route. Someone not as visible as we are. Max Dingillian was our courier." He glanced at me and Douglas and Bobby, looked annoyed. "While we don't contest the ownership of the toy, we do contest the ownership of the memory bars inside of it. They belong to us. We can prove it by direct examination of the serial numbers on the memory bars."

I nudged Douglas. "Dad paid for those memory bars—"

But Douglas was already standing up. "Your Honor, I think we have the purchase receipt. In fact, I know we do. Those memory bars were sold to us, and—"

Judge Cavanaugh held up his hand for silence. "Just relax, Douglas. This isn't the first time I've heard a case." He turned back to Cheifetz. "Young mister Dingillian challenges your claim. You acknowledge that the toy belongs to Robert Dingillian, but not the memory inside of it. So how did the memory get into the toy?"

Cheifetz looked like he'd swallowed a lemon without peeling it first. "I'd prefer not to discuss the details of that transfer, Your Honor—"

"You will if you want your claim considered."

"We signed over custody of the bars to an agency that provides transport services. They sold the bars to Max Dingillian."

"So the bars were legallysold to Max Dingillian?"

"Um. No. Not quite. Custody was legally transferred to Max Dingillian. His contract was to transport the bars and transfer custody back to an appointed representative of the agency here on Luna."

"But the bars were legally his."

"Technically … yes. That's how transport agencies work. That way there's no direct connection to the real owners—"

"Counselor"—Judge Cavanaugh held up a hand to stop him—"I know from smuggling. This is Luna. You're standing on a smuggled floor. That's genuine Brazilian hardwood. And no, I did not order it, my predecessor twice removed did—after he confiscated it from the person who tried to smuggle it. Never mind. The point is that while the memory bars were Max Dingillian's property, unless you had a written contract of agreement that he would sell them or transfer them back to you, they were his to dispose of as he saw fit, weren't they?"

"He had an agreement!"

"Do you have a signature?"

"Of course not! The whole point was notto leave a paper trail."

"So you have no evidence of such an agreement."

"Max Dingillian will confirm it."

"Belay that, Counselor. It's still yourturn in the bucket. What was Max Dingillian going to get in return for being your mule? Other than a free trip to Luna?"

"We were going to guarantee a colony contract for Mr. Dingillian and his family. So yes, there was a significant recompense promised. It was a contract."

"I see. So you transferred custody of your property to Max Dingillian with the understandingand even the obligationthat he would sell the property back to you at a more convenient time and place. Is that correct?"

"Yes, Your Honor."

"I got it. So your disagreement is with Max Dingillian, who disposed of property that was legally his, because he didn't dispose of it in the way that you wanted him to. Now, correct me if I'm wrong here—and I don't think I am—in order for you to have a claim on the memory bars, you should be suing Max Dingillian for breach of contract, shouldn't you? It seems like an open-and-shut case to me. You have an agreement that you can't prove he made, but you can certainly prove that he violated it. I'll be happy to rule on that right now."

"Your Honor, I can prove that the memory is mine."

"No. You can prove that the memory wasyours to sell to Max Dingillian. At least, I'm assuming that's what that sheaf of papers in your hand is all about."

"Your Honor, I want my property back."

"Mr. Cheifetz, you were smuggling. It was legal smuggling, to be sure, but it was still smuggling. You were taking advantage of the loopholes in the Emigration Act that allow tax exemptions for property purchased immediately before departure. Had you been carrying the memory all the way from Earth, you would have been taxed accordingly. By transferring custody, neither you nor Max Dingillian pays taxes on it and the memory gets a free ride. The flaw in that operation is that when the memory is Max Dingillian's property, it is his to dispose of as he sees fit, unless you can prove implied or assumed contract. And even if Max Dingillian himself comes forward to say that you and he had such a verbal agreement in place, this court is still not willing to overturn provable property rights in favor of unprovable ones. The kids have receipts. You have nothing but your assertions and your good looks. That's not a winning case, and I'm not prepared to open up that particular can of worms anyway– not even to stir the sauce."

I squirmed around in my wheelchair, looking for a water bottle. My throat was hurting again. For some reason, I glanced across to the back of the room. Despite my blurry vision, I thought I saw someone who looked like J'mee there. She looked angry and hurt. She saw me looking at her, made a face, and turned away. I turned forward again.

Judge Cavanaugh was saying, "I want to note something else here. If it's your argument that the memory was never really Max Dingillian's at all, that this whole thing was a charade—and that all of the paperwork being passed around to prove ownership was just a pretense for the purpose of avoiding export and duty fees, emigration taxes, and so on, then that indicates a pattern of deliberate criminal behavior on his part and yours as well. If you're prepared to pursue that line of argument, that the memory was never really Max Dingillian's, then this court has to regard you as a criminal defendant. You will be immediately liable for several hundred thousands of liters in importation and emigration fees, not to mention additional severe penalties—and they will be severe—for smuggling with intent to defraud."

Cheifetz was already reaching for his wallet. "I'll happily pay those fees, Your Honor, if it will get me my property back—"

Wrong answer. The judge's gavel stopped him cold. "Mr. Cheifetz, take your seat please. This court has to accept the existing evidence at face value. You wanted Luna to believe that you sold the memory and it isn't yours? Fine. Luna is convinced. You sold the memory. It isn't yours. You want to buy it back? That's fine too. Once this court determines who the legal owner is, you may make your offer."

Cheifetz started to sputter. In the back of the room, J'mee started to cry. Cavanaugh hammered again. "Next." He glanced up. "Who are you?"

A rumply little man stepped forward. "Howard Phroomis, representing Stellar-American Industries, Your Honor." Howard?The same lousy lawyer who'd chased us all over the Line with subpoenas from hell? What was he doing here? Had they dumped him in a cargo pod aimed at the moon as well?

"Your Honor, Stellar-American believes that the object contains property belonging to Stellar-American, stolen from Stellar-American, and passed into the hands of Canadian-Interplanetary, and from there into the hands of the Dingillian family, specifically for the purpose of smuggling it off-planet. We can demonstrate that the property inside the toy was manufactured by Stellar-American and was stolen from Stellar-American; therefore, despite the trail of paperwork that everyone else has carefully laid down, all of those claims are invalid because the property was stolen to begin with. In point of fact, Stellar-American believes that every member of this conspiracy should be apprehended and charged with receiving and transporting stolen property with intent to defraud."

"Ahh," said Judge Cavanaugh. "Stolen property, you say? Now this is getting interesting. You realize of course, that if you make this charge, this transforms this hearing from a simple arbitration of claims into a criminal matter—?"

"Yes, Your Honor. That's my intention."

PROCEEDINGS

During the recess, Mickey showed up. He was taking a chance; the judge had specifically instructed that nobody was to approach us for the purpose of making any offers at all. But Mickey wasn't there to negotiate. He just looked worried. He put his hand on mine. "How are you feeling, Charles?" I didn't answer. I had this very specific memory that he had done something pretty awful. When he saw I wasn't going to answer, he turned to Douglas. "If this goes into the criminal domain, you're going to need a lawyer. Let me help."

"Lawyers got us into this mess," Douglas said. "It's everybody wanting to help that keeps making things worse. Where does it stop? I told you to get away from us and leave us alone."

Mickey lowered his voice. "I didn't want to do it. I didn't plan to do it. I was going to keep my promise. But your brother looked like he was dying. And I figured keeping him alive was more important than anything else, so I did what I did to get him to the best hospital on Luna. We were lucky—he wasn't as badly burned as I was afraid. But I didn't know that at the time, and I wasn't going to take chances with his life or yours. And I can still keep my promise, if you'll let me. You're going to need a lawyer—maybe my mom can help."