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Read Ebook: The Useless Bugbreeders by Stamers James
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Ebook has 204 lines and 6848 words, and 5 pages
THE USELESS BUGBREEDERS
BY JAMES STAMERS
TO THE SPACE COUNCIL, ASTEROID 4722 WAS JUST ANOTHER ROADBLOCK IN THE WAY OF INTERPLANETARY TRAFFIC. BUT TO THE USELESS BUGBREEDERS IT WAS HOME!
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."
I walked over to the exhibit table and pointed to a row of jars.
"Exhibits A through G, Your Honors. Samples of food and beverages produced by my clients without raw materials and from the expert culture of bacteria."
I held up a jar full of mauve fungus. It was the most attractive example.
"I would hardly call feeding on funguses a sign of a responsible humanoid race, Mr. Jones."
"Perhaps Your Honor will recall the part played by bacteria in making milk, cheese, wine, beer, bread."
The Commissioners looked at each other and nodded reluctantly. So I passed the jars up to them, secure in the knowledge they had been tested by the Alien Foods Bureau. I watched the Commissioners unscrew the lids and taste the contents somewhat hesitantly.
"Not bad," confessed the fat Commissioner eventually.
"Quite palatable."
"Of course we already have honey and similar foodstuffs, Mr. Jones."
"Naturally, Your Honor. But Mr. Lood's race can survive without extraplanetary aid. Provided they have sunshine and water, they can breed their spores and bacteria with no other resources."
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