The Star Page 9

  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 ultraviolet 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 practising in the neighbourhood. 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 exciseman, 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 defence, 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 our 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 realised 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 with anything that put the excisemen’s noses out of joint.

  The charge was read by the Clerk of the Court, and the somewhat damning evidence produced. Pieces of copper tubing were solemnly inspected by the justices, each of whom in turn looked severely at Uncle Homer. Harry began to see his hypothetical inheritance becoming even more doubtful.

  When the case for the prosecution was completed, Major Fotheringham turned to Homer.

  ‘This appears to be a serious matter, Mr Ferguson. I hope you have a satisfactory explanation.’

  ‘I have your Honour,’ replied the defendant in a tone that practically reeked of injured innocence. It was amusing to see his Honour’s look of relief, and the momentary frown, quickly replaced by calm confidence, that passed across the face of H.M. Customs and Excise.

  ‘Do you wish to have a legal representative? I notice that you have not brought one with you.’

  ‘It won’t be necessary. The whole case is founded on such a trivial misunderstanding that it can be cleared up without complications like that. I don’t wish to incur the prosecution in unnecessary costs.’

  This frontal onslaught brought a murmur from the body of the Court, and a flush to the cheeks of the Customs man. For the first time he began to look a little unsure of himself. If Ferguson thought the Crown would be paying costs, he must have a pretty good case. Of course, he might only be bluffing.

  Homer waited until the mild stir had died away before creating a considerably greater one.

  ‘I have called a scientific expert to explain what happened at the Vicarage,’ he said. ‘And owing to the nature of the evidence, I must ask, for security reasons, that the rest of the proceedings be in camera.’

  ‘You want me to clear the Court?’ said the Chairman incredulously.

  ‘I am afraid so, sir. My colleague, Dr Purvis, feels that the fewer people concerned in this case, the better. When you have heard the evidence, I think you will agree with him. If I might say so, it is a great pity that it has already attracted so much publicity. I am afraid it may bring certain—ah—confidential matters to the wrong ears.’

  Homer glared at the Customs officer, who fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat.

  ‘Oh, very well,’ said Major Fotheringham. ‘This is all very irregular, but we live in irregular times. Mr Clerk, clear the Court.’

  After some grumbling and confusion, and an overruled protest from the prosecution, the order was carried out. Then, under the interested gaze of the dozen people left in the room, Harry Purvis uncovered the apparatus he had unloaded from the baby Austin. After his qualifications had been presented to the court, he took the witness stand.

  ‘I wish to explain, your Honour,’ he began, ‘that I have been engaged on explosives research, and that is why I happen to be acquainted with the defendant’s work.’ The opening part of this statement was perfectly true. It was about the last thing said that day that was.

  ‘You mean—bombs and so forth?’

  ‘Precisely, but on a fundamental level. We are always looking for new and better types of explosives, as you can imagine. Moreover, we in government research and the academic world are continually on the lookout for good ideas from outside sources. And quite recently, Unc—er, Mr Ferguson, wrote to us with a most interesting suggestion for a completely new type of explosive. The interesting thing about it was that it employed nonexplosive materials such as sugar, starch and so on.’

  ‘Eh?’ said the Chairman. ‘A non-explosive explosive? That’s impossible.’

  Harry smiled sweetly.

  ‘I know, sir—that is one’s immediate reaction. But like most great ideas, this has the simplicity of genius. I am afraid, however, that I shall have to do a little explaining to make my point.’

  The Bench looked very attentive, and also a little alarmed. Harry surmised that it had probably encountered expert witnesses before. He walked over to a table that had been set up in the middle of the courtroom, and which was now covered with flasks, piping, and bottles of liquids.

  ‘I hope, Dr Purvis,’ said the Chairman nervously, ‘that you’re not going to do anything dangerous.’

  ‘Of course not, sir. I merely wish to demonstrate some basic scientific principles. Once again, I wish to stress the importance of keeping this between these four walls.’ He paused solemnly and everyone looked duly impressed.

  ‘Mr Ferguson,’ he began, ‘is proposing to tap one of the fundamental forces of Nature. It is a force on which every living thing depends—a force, gentlemen, which keeps you alive even though you, may never have heard of it.’

  He moved over to the table and took up his position beside the fl
asks and bottles.

  ‘Have you ever stopped to consider,’ he said, ‘how the sap manages to reach the highest leaf of a tall tree? It takes a lot of force to pump water a hundred—sometimes over three hundred—feet from the ground. Where does that force come from? I’ll show you with this practical example.

  ‘Here I have a strong container divided into two parts by a porous membrane. On one side of the membrane is pure water—on the other, a concentrated solution of sugar and other chemicals which I do not propose to specify. Under these condition, a pressure is set up, known as osmotic pressure. The pure water tries to pass through the membrane, as if to dilute the solution on the other side. I’ve now sealed the container, and you’ll notice the pressure gauge here on the right—see how the pointer’s going up. That’s osmotic pressure for you. This same force acts through the cell walls in our bodies, causing fluid movement. It drives the sap up the trunks of trees, from the roots to the topmost branches. It’s a universal force, and a powerful one. To Mr Ferguson must go the credit of first attempting to harness it.’

  Harry paused impressively and looked round the court.

  ‘Mr Ferguson,’ he said, ‘was attempting to develop the Osmotic Bomb.’

  It took some time for this to sink in. Then Major Fotheringham leaned forward and said in a hushed voice, ‘Are we to presume that he had succeeded in manufacturing this bomb, and that it exploded in his workshop?’

  ‘Precisely, your Honour. It is a pleasure—an unusual pleasure, I might say—to present a case to so perspicacious a court. Mr Ferguson had succeeded, and he was preparing to report his method to us when, owing to an unfortunate oversight, a safety device attached to the bomb failed to operate. The results, you all know. I think you will need no further evidence of the power of this weapon—and you will realise its importance when I point out that the solutions it contains are all extremely common chemicals.’

  Major Fotheringham, looking a little puzzled, turned to the prosecution lawyer.

  ‘Mr Whiting,’ he said, ‘have you any questions to ask the witness?’

  ‘I certainly have, your Honour. I’ve never heard such a ridiculous—’

  ‘You will please confine yourself to questions of fact.’

  ‘Very good, your Honour. May I ask the witness how he accounts for the large quantity of alcohol vapour immediately after the explosion?’

  ‘I rather doubt if the inspector’s nose was capable of accurate quantitative analysis. But admittedly there was some alcohol vapour released. The solution used in the bomb contained about twenty-five per cent. By employing dilute alcohol, the mobility of the inorganic ions is restricted and the osmotic pressure raised—a desirable effect, of course.’

  That should hold them for a while, thought Harry. He was right. It was a good couple of minutes before the second question. Then the prosecution’s spokeman waved one of the pieces of copper tubing in the air.

  ‘What function did these carry out?’ he said, in as nasty a tone of voice as he could manage. Harry affected not to notice the sneer.

  ‘Manometer tubing for the pressure gauges,’ he replied promptly.

  The Bench, it was clear, was already far out of its depth. This was just where Harry wanted it to be. But the prosecution still had one card up its sleeve. There was a furtive whispering between the excisemen and his legal eagle. Harry looked nervously at Uncle Homer, who shrugged his shoulders with a ‘Don’t ask me!’ gesture.

  ‘I have some additional evidence I wish to present to the Court,’ said the Customs lawyer briskly, as a bulky brown paper parcel was hoisted onto the table.

  ‘Is this in order, your Honour?’ protested Harry. ‘All evidence against my—ah—colleague should already have been presented.’

  ‘I withdraw my statement,’ the lawyer interjected swiftly. ‘Let us say that this is not evidence for this case, but material for later proceedings.’ He paused ominously to let that sink in. ‘Nevertheless, if Mr Ferguson can give a satisfactory answer to our question now, this whole business can be cleared up right away.’ It was obvious that the last thing the speaker expected—or hoped for—was such a satisfactory explanation.

  He unwrapped the brown paper, and there were three bottles of a famous brand of whisky.

  ‘Uh-huh,’ said Uncle Homer. ‘I was wondering—’

  ‘Mr Ferguson,’ said the Chairman of the Bench. ‘There is no need for you to make any statement unless you wish.’

  Harry Purvis shot Major Fotheringham a grateful glance. He guessed what had happened. The prosecution had, when prowling through the ruins of Uncle’s laboratory, acquired some bottles of his home-brew. Their action was probably illegal, since they would not have had a search warrant—hence the reluctance in producing the evidence. The case had seemed sufficiently clear-cut without it.

  It certainly appeared pretty clear-cut now….

  ‘These bottles,’ said the representative of the Crown, ‘do not contain the brand advertised on the label. They have obviously been used as convenient receptacles for the defendant’s—shall we say—chemical solutions.’ He gave Harry Purvis an unsympathetic glance. ‘We have had these solutions analysed, with most interesting results. Apart from an abnormally high alcohol concentration, the contents of these bottles are virtually indistinguishable from—’

  He never had time to finish his unsolicited and certainly unwanted testimonial to Uncle Homer’s skill. For at that moment, Harry Purvis became aware of an ominous whistling sound. At first he thought it was a falling bomb—but that seemed unlikely, as there had been no air-raid warning. Then he realised that the whistling came from close at hand; from the courtroom table, in fact….

  ‘Take cover!’ he yelled.

  The Court went into recess with a speed never matched in the annals of British law. The three justices disappeared behind the dais; those in the body of the room burrowed into the floor or sheltered under desks. For a protracted, anguished moment nothing happened, and Harry wondered if he had given a false alarm. Then there was a dull, peculiarly muffled explosion, a great tinkling of glass—and a smell like a blitzed brewery. Slowly, the court emerged from shelter.

  The Osmotic Bomb had proved its power. More important still, it had destroyed the evidence for the prosecution.

  The Bench was none too happy about dismissing the case; it felt, with good reason, that its dignity had been assailed. Moreover, each one of the justices would have to do some fast talking when he got home: the mist of alcohol had penetrated everything. Though the Clerk of the Court rushed round opening windows (none of which, oddly enough, had been broken) the fumes seemed reluctant to disperse. Harry Purvis, as he removed pieces of bottle glass from his hair, wondered if there would be some intoxicated pupils in class tomorrow.

  Major Fotheringham, however, was undoubtedly a real sport, and as they filed out of the devastated courtroom, Harry heard him say to his uncle: ‘Look here, Ferguson—it’ll be ages before we can get those Molotov cocktails we’ve been promised by the War Office. What about making some of these bombs of yours for the Home Guard? If they don’t knock out a tank, at least they’ll make the crew drunk and incapable.’

  ‘I’ll certainly think about it, Major,’ replied Uncle Homer, who still seemed a little dazed by the turn of events.

  He recovered somewhat as they drove back to the Vicarage along the narrow, winding lanes with their high walls of unmortared stone.

  ‘I hope, Uncle,’ remarked Harry, when they had reached a relatively straight stretch and it seemed safe to talk to the driver, ‘That you don’t intend to rebuild that still. They’ll be watching you like hawks and you won’t get away with it again.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Uncle, a little sulkily. ‘Confound these brakes! I had them fixed only just before the war!’

  ‘Hey!’ cried Harry. ‘Watch out!’

  It was too late. They had come to a crossroads at which a brand new HALT sign had been erected. Uncle braked hard, but for a moment nothing happened. Then the whe
els on the left seized up, while those on the right continued gaily spinning. The car did a hairpin bend, luckily without turning over, and ended in the ditch pointing in the direction from which it had come.

  Harry looked reproachfully at his uncle. He was about to frame a suitable reprimand when a motorcycle came out of the side-turning and drew up to them.

  It was not going to be their lucky day, after all. The village police sergeant had been lurking in ambush, waiting to catch motorists at the new sign. He parked his machine by the roadside and leaned in through the window of the Austin.

  ‘You all right, Mr Ferguson?’ he said. Then his nose wrinkled up, and he looked like Jove about to deliver a thunderbolt. ‘This won’t do,’ he said. ‘I’ll have to put you on a charge. Driving under the influence is a very serious business.’

  ‘But I’ve not touched a drop all day!’ protested Uncle, waving an alcohol-sodden sleeve under the sergeant’s twitching nose.

  ‘Do you expect me to believe that?’ snorted the irate policeman, pulling out his notebook. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to come to the station with me. Is your friend sober enough to drive?’

  Harry Purvis didn’t answer for a moment. He was too busy beating his head against the dashboard.

  ‘Well,’ we asked Harry. ‘What did they do to your uncle?’

  ‘Oh, he got fined five pounds and had his licence endorsed for drunken driving. Major Fotheringham wasn’t in the Chair, unfortunately, when the case came up, but the other two justices were still on the Bench. I guess they felt that even if he was innocent this time, there was a limit to everything.’

  ‘And did you ever get any of his money?’

  ‘No fear! He was very grateful, of course, and he’s told me that I’m mentioned in his will. But when I saw him last, what do you think he was doing? He was searching for the Elixir of Life.’