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!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1961.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The previous case was a Weeper, and he lost. So the Space ZoningCommissioners were damp and irritable before I opened pleadings for myclient. I tried not to squelch as I approached the bench.
"Not the Flammables again, Mr. Jones?" the fat Commissioner askednastily, sponging his suit with a sodden handkerchief.
"This was last week, Your Honor."
The thin dark Commissioner stared pointedly at the charred end of thebench nearest the witness seat.
"Indeed it was, Mr. Jones."
The middle Commissioner poised his fingers and looked at the courtceiling; moisture gleamed diamond like on his bald head.
"Now let me see," he intoned. "Correct me if I err, Mr. Jones, but Iseem to observe you have a habit of representing somewhat spectacularaliens. Including, in the past six months alone, the Drillers, WhirlingTombs, Fragile Glasses, Erupters, Vibrational Men, TransparentWomen—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 onlyto 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 toleave 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 theelimination of Asteroid Four Thousand Seven Hundred and Twenty-Two onthe grounds, which you allege, that it is a peaceful dwelling of anadult and responsible alien race."
"Yes, Your Honor."
"Then let us see your adult, um, Bugbreeder."
I shuffled uncomfortably and splashed the court stenographer who gaveme 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 andLesser 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 ashe was sworn in. The caterpillar and semi-jelly cultures make a lessfavorable first impression, and at this point the Driller had goneexcitedly 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 forinterplanetary vehicles on the spacerun to the greater planets, youmaintain it should be preserved because of your contribution to theculture of the Galactic Community?" I asked.
"Oh, yus."
"Does he understand a word you're saying, Mr. Jones?" asked the baldCommissioner.
"Oh, yus. Not much," said my client cheerfully