David Pullham sat down, crossed his legs and tried to avoid nervously clearing his throat. An invitation to visit with the chairman of the corporation was usually bad news.
The chairman was a large man with a hearty handshake and a bluff manner that didn't fool anyone with more than two brain cells to rub together. You don't get to be the president of the largest network in the system and then stay in that position for two decades without a fairly large measure of ruthlessness in your make-up.
"David," the chairman said heartily, "You're probably wondering why I've called you in."
"Um, yes, sir."
"Well, I'm sorry to say that we have a little problem." He held up his hands, showing Pullham his palms. "Now, it's nothing for you to worry about. Your work has been exemplary. That miniseries you wrote for us last year turned in some great numbers. No, the problem is with one of your coworkers. Mark Slidewell. Do you know him?"
Pullham frowned. "Um, I don't think so, sir."
The chairman leaned back in his seat, his bluff manner temporarily replaced by one that was paternal, though still hearty.
"Mark has been having a difficult time lately." He steepled his fingers, looking quite grave and barely hearty at all. "He's developed a few...emotional problems, and I'm afraid that some of them are connected with you, David."
Pullham raised one eyebrow and finally did clear his throat. "Um, in what way, sir?"
The chairman leaned forward. The gesture would have been one of inviting Pullham in closer to share a confidence except for the fact that, as the chairman's desk was nearly large enough for a regulation game of table tennis, it was hard for anyone sitting on the other side of it to get close to him.
"I'm going to let you listen to a recording, David. I think that will sum it up better than I ever could." His hand hovered near a touchplate. "This is Mark's voice that you'll be listening to. As you probably know, according to a law passed by the computer just a few days ago, it is legal for me to let you hear what the patient says, but it is not legal for me to let you hear what the doctor says in response, so all of her comments have been edited out."
His finger brushed the touchplate. There was a moment of silence, followed by a long speech.
"William Shakespeare is working in my office...Don't look at me like that. It's true! Yes, William Shakespeare, the author of Romeo and Juliet and Julius Caesar and...um...Sonnet number seven. Now, listen. I know what you're thinking. I am not crazy. I am also neither self-medicated, lying, nor deceived. The evidence is quite plain. William Shakespeare works three cubicles down from me. Now, look, Doc, put the hypo down. I'm not medicated now, and I don't want to be medicated. Just put the hypo down. I AM CALM!!! Okay, sorry, I didn't mean to shout, but don't we all feel better now that I have the hypo? And you're going to sit there like a good doctor and listen to what I have to say, right? Good. Now, where was I? Oh, Shakespeare. Right. Thanks. Now...what? What do you mean, how do I know it's him? Just look at him. Don't you know what Shakespeare looks like? Oh, well, he shaved off the beard and mustache and got a hair transplant and he isn't wearing those funny clothes, but it's him alright. You can trust me on that."
The chairman reached over and switched off the recording.
"You see, David, your cubicle is three down from Mark's. Three cubicles down in the other direction is a woman, so we think that he must have meant you."
Pullham uncrossed his legs and shook his head. "This doesn't make any sense, sir." He cleared his throat yet again. "I mean..." He laughed self-consciously and held his hands palm up.
"I know," the chairman said reassuringly. He looked somber and shook his head. "I'm afraid that poor Mark must have been working too hard lately. This is nothing for you to worry about, David. I just wanted to you to hear about it from me rather than in some roundabout way." He smiled. "We all know what a rumor mill any workplace can be, and when that work place is filled with people who get paid for using their imaginations, well..." He allowed himself a fruity chuckle and was annoyed when, instead of chuckling in return, Pullham merely said, "Yes, sir."
"Don't let this worry you, David."
"No, sir. Thank you, sir."
The chairman nodded, and it was evident to Pullham that the audience was at and end, so he climbed to his feet and walked out of the room.
As soon as the door slid shut behind Pullham, another door opened and a new man walked into the room. He was lean and dark with a saturnine countenance. Cassius would have liked him on sight, but he would never have been one of Caesar's pals.
"Well, Reekins?" the chairman asked the newcomer.
Reekins nodded as he took a seat. "He seems a little nervous," he said.
The chairman laughed. "Of course he's nervous. He thinks he's working three cubicles down from a lunatic."
"The calmer he is, the better it is for us."
"Hm." The chairman leaned back in his seat and rubbed his chin. "You know, I am as much in favor of saving money as the next man, but I have to admit that your plan seems a bit far fetched. I don't see how you can hope to prove in court that Pullham really is Shakespeare."
Reekins smiled. It wasn't something that he did easily or well, and there was little good humor in the expression. "Normally, I wouldn't try it," he admitted. "But the legislative computer recently passed a law required the technicians to install an emotional simulation chip in it."
The chairman frowned. "Why?"
Reekins shrugged. "When it was constructed two hundred years ago, the whole point of the legislative computer was to take emotion out of jurisprudence so that court decisions would be based on the letter of the law. Apparently the computer has decided that this approach needs to be modified. It seems ludicrous to me, but we can take advantage of it."
"I know that you've explained this to me before," the chairman said meditatively, "but I want to hear it again."
"Some of the decisions that the computer has handed down over the past couple of days since the chip was installed have been a bit eccentric, but our own computers tell us that there is a recognizable pattern in them. The chip is out of balance, and if the court continues leaning the way it is, it won't want Slidewell to think that he is crazy, because that would be bad for his self-esteem or some such thing. If we get this case onto the docket before this problem is repaired, there's a very good chance that the computer will rule with that in mind."
The chairman nodded his understanding.
"Further," Reekins continued, clasping his hands over his knee, "Pullham has written ten hits for us. Our computer says that the odds are that he will never write another. If we can get the court to rule that he really is Shakespeare, that will mean that he lied about his name on his application or, at the very least, that he concealed some major fact about himself. That clearly violates the moral turpitude clause of his contract and we'll be able to let him go." Reekins attempted his smile again. "Not only does the corporation get out of paying him the rest of his contract, but he will actually have to pay us back all of the money we have paid him because he obtained the job under false pretenses."
The chairman frowned. It was a stately gesture that had been known to set writers to quaking in their seats. "It sounds fine, but how can we be sure that he computer will rule in our favor in the contract case? This will all be pointless if it doesn't."
Reekins smiled again. Practice hadn't helped. "That's the beauty of it. It's a contractual dispute and very straightforward. It would be handled in contract court. Those rulings are made by a separate section of the legislative computer which isn't affected by the new chip, because the computer decided that contract law should remain cut and dried and emotionless."
"Excellent!" The chairman's smile was much better than the one Reekins had displayed, but it didn't last long. "Still, relying simply on the computer to be out of balance seems a bit risky to me. I'm going to have to take time off in order to attend court, and I'd like as much assurance as possible that the time won't be wasted."
Reekins nodded. "Understandably," he said. "We do have other ammunition." He rubbed his hands together, his longs fingers intertwining and clasping each other. "I've had all of Pullham's work compared to the writings of Shakespeare. One of my technicians is a genius at designing test parameters, and this comparison shows that Pullham's plots, characters and even word choices bear a striking resemblance to those of Shakespeare. He has even used some peculiar words which I have never heard of but which Shakespeare used. That helped. We have also done a physical comparison based on existing pictures of Shakespeare and, again, have found some striking resemblances between the two. Granted, it took some careful work to design the tests so that the results would come out as we wanted but so that the fact that the tests were skewed would not be evident, but we managed it. There are some very talented people on my staff. Also, after the case is filed, we will enter four of Shakespeare's plays and twelve of his poems into Pullham's workstation. They will be altered to make it appear as if they were all entered at various times over the past two years. Then they will be deleted, with the date of deletion left unaltered."
The chairman's frown deepened. "How does it help us if the files are deleted?"
"An analysis of the workstation will show that the files were deleted, and fragments of them will be recoverable. It will look as if Pullham had some of Shakespeare's works on his workstation and then deleted them after the case was filed. That will certainly appear suggestive."
The chairman nodded, satisfied. "Excellent. File the case."
"I'll set it in motion immediately."
Even at the worst of times, the legislative computer was efficient. That, after all, had been part of the reason for its creation in the first place. That and the assurance that justice would be dealt out with an even hand, unswayed by political concerns, bribery or incompetence, and the system had been in place so long that no one living could remember any other system at all.
As proof of the computer's efficiency, the case load was dispatched with remarkable celerity, and the case of Eduserve vs. David Pullham came to trial within two days of the initial filing.
David Pullham was nervous. There was no denying that. As soon as the case had been filed, he had been notified of it. He had spent two days worrying about it. On its face, the case was utterly ludicrous, of course, but Eduserve had deep pockets and some of the best computer technicians and advisers that money could buy. Pullham did not.
The corporation did not go in for frivolous lawsuits, so they must feel fairly certain that they could win this one.
These thoughts continued to ramble through Pullham's head as a bell chimed and the court was called to order.
Pullham was seated in a reasonably comfortable chair looking at a monitor which currently displayed a soothing pattern of colors and artistic designs meant to calm those awaiting judgement. The ordering of the monitor's installation had been the computer's first act upon installation of the new chip.
Ten feet away from Pullham were the chairman of Eduserve and Edmond Reekins, his personal adviser and confidential assistant. Other than a bailiff, no one else was in the room.
"The court will come to order," the bailiff said, rather unnecessarily, Pullham thought, given that fact that the other people in the room were sitting in silence, but procedure had to followed.
The abstract patterns on the screen continued to swirl and coalesce, but, as the legislative computer spoke, the patterns seemed to pulse in time with the words. The voice was solemn and ponderous. It gave one a sense of the power of the legal system.
"Case number 11235764-9A: Eduserve Galactic Entertainment, Inc as represented by Jifwynn Carswell.Sneed vs. David William Pullham."
Pullham sat up straighter in his chair.
"Plaintiff's representative, acknowledge."
The chairman said, "Sneed here."
"Defendant, acknowledge."
Pullham had to swallow in an attempt to moisten his throat. "Pullham here."
"Case proceeds. All relevant documents have been analyzed. The court wishes to speak with Mark Andrew Slidewell."
A moment later, a door opened and Slidewell walked in accompanied by yet another bailiff. He was led to a chair which stood alone on a dais near the monitor.
"Witness, acknowledge," the computer said.
"Slidewell here."
"Mark Andrew Slidewell," the computer continued. "Are you aware that, according to Penal Code Section 1457362, paragraph 3, subsection A it is a criminal act to lie to the court?"
"I am."
"You have accused the defendant of being William Shakespeare, noted playwright and poet. Do you confirm that statement?"
"I do."
The computer's voice seemed to take on a tender note. It sounded much less solemn and much more paternal. Reekins nodded his head in satisfaction when he heard the emotion in the computer's voice, while the chairman took note of the computer's rolling tones. Its paternal voice was even better than his own.
"I have analyzed your statement, Mark, as well as recordings of various conversations you have had with court psychiatrists and analysts. Your statement seems to be based largely on your own convictions and on a fancied physical resemblance between the plaintiff and the playwright. Is that correct?"
"I'm not a liar!" Slidewell said, obviously distressed.
"No, no, of course not," the computer said soothingly. "I'm certain of that, and I'm not accusing you of lying, but have you considered the possibility that you might be mistaken?"
"Oh, no," Slidewell said with perfect certainty. "I'm not wrong." He pointed at Pullham. "He's Shakespeare." He leaned toward the monitor and whispered conspiratorially, "He's even using the middle name William, now, you know."
The chairman smiled internally while his face maintained an expression of grave concern for the plight of poor Mark. One of the things that the computer had taken in evidence was an analysis by a psychiatrist that Slidewell held to this belief in Pullham's alternate identify with such fervor that any attempt to disillusion him was likely to wreak grave damage to his psyche. That analysis had cost Eduserve a pretty penny, and it had taken quite some time to find a psychiatrist willing to make it, but it had turned out well in the end.
"Now, Mark," the computer said gently. "Have you considered the historical fact that Shakespeare died many centuries ago?"
"I know it," Slidewell said.
"The defendant is clearly alive now," the computer continued. "How is that possible?"
"I don't know," Slidewell said, undisturbed. "Why don't you ask him?"
"Thank you, Mark." The computer's tone was gentler still. "You are excused for the present. The court wishes to speak with David William Pullham."
Slidewell was escorted out by the bailiff as Pullham was called to the stand. Reekins tightened up but was careful not to let it show. If Pullham demonstrated emotional weakness, it could be a problem, but if he stayed firm and resolute, as his personality profile had indicated that he would, then the computer might well decide that he could stand the shock of losing his job while Slidewell couldn't stand the shock of the court ruling that Pullham was not, in fact, Shakespeare.
Pullham sighed quietly, climbed to his feet and walked to the witness chair.
"Witness, acknowledge," the computer said.
"Pullham here." His voice was strong and firm, and Reekins allowed his upper lip to twitch slightly in pleasure.
"David William Pullham," the computer continued. "Are you aware that, according to Penal Code Section 1457362, paragraph 3, subsection A it is a criminal act to lie to the court?"
"I am."
"Are you noted playwright and poet William Shakespeare?"
The legislative computer had a tendency to be straightforward.
"I am," Pullham said.
The chairman and Reekins both sat bolt upright in their seats. The chairman was simply baffled, but Reekins was seething internally. Pullham knew what they were up to and was attempting to pull off the semblance of insanity. Reekins forced himself to relax. Pullham wouldn't be able to fool the computer. Unlike Pullham, Slidewell was genuinely delusional. It was drug induced, granted, but that didn't make any difference since the computer didn't know it.
"This is an astonishing statement," the computer said, sounding astonished. "Please explain how this is possible."
Pullham leaned back in the seat, looking more relaxed in that particular chair than was usual.
"It all started when my brother came to--"
"According to the records," the computer interrupted, "You do not have a brother."
"I know that," Pullham said.
"Please continue."
"It all started when my brother came to--"
"David," the computer said. "You do not have a brother."
"Well, I don't have a brother now," Pullham said.
"You never had a brother," the computer informed him.
"Yes, I did," Pullham corrected in turn.
"Are you indicating that the records are incorrect?" the computer inquired.
"Oh, no. They are quite accurate when they say I never had a brother," Pullham said. "My brother explained all that to me."
Reekins writhed in his seat. Was it possible that Pullham really was insane? That would be very annoying.
"That is an interesting statement, David," the computer said gently.
"If you'll let me tell the story," Pullham said, "I think everything will become clear."
"Very well," the computer said. "Continue."
"Well, it all started when my brother came to visit me. At the time, he was ninety years old. I was eighty-eight." The computer did not bother to point out that Pullham's current age was forty-two. "He was a physicist," Pullham continued, "And he had invented a time machine."
Reekins sat up straighter in his chair. The chairman was paying careful attention to the story, as it was beginning to sound like something suitable for a movie, or maybe even a series, depending on how it developed. Pullham was still a good writer.
"He demonstrated this machine to me and showed me that it could be used to change the past, within certain limits. He explained the limits to me, but the math was a little beyond my grasp. Theoretical physics is not exactly something that you pick up in the course of a liberal arts education." He smiled. He looked quite relaxed and natural. "If you participate in changing the past, you remain aware of the original past and of the new past which came about as a result of the change. If you do not participate in making the change, then, for you, the new past is all that there has ever been and you have no knowledge of the original past." He glanced toward the monitor. "Am I being clear?"
"Quite lucid," the computer assured him. "Please continue."
"Well, my brother made two machines and showed me the basics of operating one. I was helping him with his experiments, which is why I remember him. I was there when it happened."
"When what happened?"
"I don't know. He was working on one of the machines when it became activated. See, although he could travel into the past and could return to the present, he could not travel into the future, and he didn't understand why. He was trying to make it possible when he just sort of disappeared. I thought that he had traveled, but apparently he had quite literally erased himself from time. All records of him vanished. Because I was there when it happened, I remember him, but no one else does.
Reekins was looking grim. Clever. Way too clever.
"I'm terribly sorry for your loss, David," the computer said sympathetically.
"Thank you. But he was ninety and had lived a long full life. He was a Nobel laureate, you know."
"No, I didn't know that," the computer said.
"Oh, yes. You wouldn't. I'd forgotten. He was brilliant. Anyway, I had the remaining machine, but what was I going to do with it at the age of eighty-eight? What I decided to do was to bring it back to my younger self. I had always been interested in Elizabethan England and had read most of the works which have survived from that time. As a young man with a time machine in my possession, there was no reason not to go there for a visit, so I did. While I was there, I did some writing. Some of it caught on, and I created the character of William Shakespeare to be the author of my works."
Reekins had suddenly been struck with a wonderful realization. Pullham had worked himself into a corner. If the computer wanted to humor both Slidewell and Pullham, the best thing that it could do would be to rule that Pullham really was Shakespeare, and Pullham's unproveable tale would give the computer an excuse to do that. Reekins tried not to smile. It wasn't hard for him.
"Well, David, I'd like to thank you for your testimony."
"It's my pleasure," Pullham said. "You don't know how long I've wanted to tell someone about it. But I was afraid that no one would believe me."
"I believe you, David," the computer said gently. "Therefore, this court rules that David Pullham really is William Shakespeare."
The chairman smiled and shook Reekins by the hand.
The computer's voice changed suddenly, losing all warmth and becoming cold and clinical. "Contract court is now in session. In accord with the recently recorded ruling, David William Pullham is found to have violated the moral turpitude clause of his contract with Eduserve Galactic Entertainment, Inc. and is hereby required to return to said corporation, all monies previously received from them, totaling 7,250,000 credit units. Does David William Pullham have anything to say before this ruling is entered?"
"I do," Pullham said.
Reekins shook his head. Pullham had already dug his own grave, now he would just have to rest in it.
"As, according to Eduserve and to the court, I am William Shakespeare, I believe that Eduserve now owes me royalties on all of my works that they and their subsidiaries have published in book or disk form or have used as the basis for performances."
"What?" the chairman roared. "That's absurd!"
"Comment!" Reekins called.
"What is your comment?" the computer asked.
"Shakespeare never filed for copyright!"
There was a brief pause, and then the computer said, "A search shows that Eduserve acknowledged Shakespeare as the author when publishing or performing his works. That is sufficient evidence that Shakespeare holds the copyright."
"Comment!" Reekins said again.
"What is your comment?"
"The copyright expires one hundred years after the author's death. Shakespeare has been dead for well over a hundred years."
"According to statute," the computer said, "Copyright lasts for the author's lifetime plus one hundred years. The author is clearly alive as both his presence in this courtroom and Eduserve's pursuance of the case show." There was another moment of silence. "According to fair market value, Eduserve Galactic Entertainment, Inc. is hereby directed to immediately pay to David William Pullham the sum of 5,987,678,003,162.30 credit units. This case is terminated."
Pullham smiled. The contract computer had been motivated solely by logic, as always, and its ruling had been inevitable once the previous case had been decided as it had. Sometimes imagination and logic are not mutually exclusive.
Bio:"I am a college biology teacher living in the southeastern US with my wife, one dog, and one cat, which is plenty of cats but several dogs too few. All in all, I think the universe is a lot sillier than we can possibly imagine, which won't stop me from trying."
E-mail: benedet@esn.net
Visit Aphelion's Lettercolumn and voice your opinion of this story.
Return to the Aphelion main page.