“35 U.S.C. 112,” I murmured.
“So back in 1945 when you published your article it would have been impossible for you to meet the requirements of the patent law. Let me see that Wireless World article again, please. I seem to remember your saying something to that effect.”
Mr. Clarke handed him the article, and Mr. Spardleton scanned it. “Yes. Here in the first column of page 305 you say, ‘Many may consider the solution proposed in this discussion too far-fetched to be taken seriously.’ Then on page 306 you use the phrase ‘seem fantastic.’ You also point out that your concept needs for its fulfillment rockets twice as fast as those in the design stage.” Mr. Spardleton handed the article back to Mr. Clarke saying, “There’s no doubt of it, Mr. Clarke. You could not have got a patent back in those days.”
Mr. Clarke said, “As I understand it then, if a man is way ahead, he cannot obtain a patent because he cannot carry out the invention. Then, at the time he is able to carry out the invention, it is too late to obtain a patent.”
“That’s about the size of it. Maybe Abraham Lincoln was wrong when he said, ‘The patent system adds the fuel of interest to the fire of genius.’” He stopped and shook his head and said, “There’s a case on this point somewhere, but I can’t—”
I was surprised. This was one of the few times I had seen Mr. Spardleton at a loss to remember a case.
Mr. Clarke said, “Well, if you could patent all these untried ideas, there would be a lot of crackpot patents coming out all the time.”
“Undoubtedly,” said Mr. Spardleton. “But today’s crackpot is sometimes tomorrow’s genius. Besides, crackpot patents would do no harm; we have them now. The good ones, if any, would reap the usual rewards. The whole situation would stimulate people to invent for the future. Nothing but good would come of it.”
We all sat quietly and thought about it. I said to Mr. Clarke, “There is one consolation. Even if you had patented your communication system back in—oh, say 1947, the patent would expire in 1964. That’s only four years from now, so you probably would not have made any money on the patent anyway.”
Mr. Clarke looked at me in surprise and said, “That’s right at that. It will probably take just about the remaining four years to set it up.”
Mr. Spardleton smiled and said, “I’ve seen this many times. Seventeen years, the life of a patent, seems like a long time to you young fellows. But it goes by awfully fast.”
“I suppose it does,” said Mr. Clarke.
“You know,” said Mr. Spardleton, “we would not be out of the woods even today in getting this patent for you if we could properly apply for it. Could you—even now— give us all the details necessary to put a satellite in orbit? Or is all that kind of information locked up in a government vault somewhere?”
“I see what you mean. I think we could work something out that would satisfy the Patent Office. It would take a lot of work, though. I—”
“Moffett versus Fiske,” Mr. Spardleton shouted. “Please forgive me, Mr. Clarke; I just remembered that case. Moffett against Fiske. Mr. Saddle, will you pull the case, please? It’s a Court of Appeals case, decided in the early thirties, about Volume 50 of the Second Series, I think.”
* * * *
I stepped into the library and had the case in less than one minute. It was in Volume 51. I returned and handed the book to Mr. Spardleton. He scanned the case, extracting from it all the pertinent points at an unbelievable speed. He glanced up and said, “Yes, Bradley A. Fiske, a graduate of the United States Naval Academy at Annapolis in 1874, worked his way up to become an admiral. He became concerned about the ability of the United States to defend the Philippines, and in 1910-1911 devised many plans to recapture the Philippines if they should be captured by an enemy. Then he made his invention—a weapon—so that an enemy couldn’t capture the Philippines in the first place. He filed his patent application, and the patent was issued in July of 1912. Know what the invention was?”
We shook our heads.
“The torpedo-carrying airplane. Admiral Fiske was the inventor of the torpedo-carrying airplane, but he was too far ahead of his time. He tried to enforce his patent by suing the navy later on. The District Court that tried the case added some nice fuel to the fire by giving the admiral a judgment of $198,500, a large judgment for those days, but then the Court of Appeals put the fire out; it reversed the District Court. For one thing, the Court of Appeals held that the government was entitled to a license under the patent. Admiral Fiske was known to have inventive ingenuity, and his invention was really a war plan, so the government was entitled to use it.” Mr. Spardleton looked up and said, “You know, I can’t really quarrel with that part of the decision.”
Mr. Clarke nodded. “It makes sense that a weapon invented by a naval officer in the line of duty could be used by the navy.”
Mr. Spardleton said, “Yes, although the admiral tried to interest the naval authorities in his invention, and they would have none of it. Well, the Court went on to state the law that now keeps far-sighted men from getting patents. It said there was no airplane in existence capable of carrying the torpedo required, and no torpedo able to sustain the shock of being dropped from an airplane. The admiral said he felt sure the airplanes would rapidly grow bigger and stronger, but the Court said, ‘... at a time when airplanes were hardly capable of rising from the ground, Admiral Fiske presumes a plane capable of carrying and discharging a torpedo weighing a ton.’ To summarize the whole affair, the Court says here on page 872 that the admiral’s invention required a plane then unknown to the world, and a torpedo equally unknown. So they threw him out. And there, Mr. Clarke, you have it. You could not have obtained a patent on your communication system when you invented it back in 1945; your rockets and satellites did not exist. The patent system lags behind technology.”
Mr. Clarke nodded and sat quietly staring at the floor. He said, “Then any scheme having in it some feature not yet in existence will not be patentable, and by the time it does become patentable, it may be too late. This is true even though one knows for certain that the nonexistent feature will be developed.” He looked up questioningly.
Mr. Spardleton and I nodded, and he continued, “People will be able to patent the hardware and the fuels and things like that, but they cannot patent any of the early, necessary plans and system relating to space.”
We nodded again.
Mr. Clarke stood up and said, “It appears that the patent system is not geared to the space age. Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I must send a telegram. There’s an article I wrote that... well, there’s no sense in letting it be published now. I’ll wait a few years.
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* * * *
THE DISTORTION
by Shel Silverstein
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* * * *
REPORT ON THE NATURE OF THE LUNAR SURFACE
by John Brunner
The confusions, complexities, and internal contradictions of man’s fumbling first steps off Earth are by no means confined to legal or political aspects. (Perhaps there are some readers, in other countries, who have not yet heard the one about the little boy in first grade at the Canaveral school who was asked to count backwards. “Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one ... Back to the drawing board, men!”)
While the rocket men struggle toward mechanical perfection, a whole new field of applied biology called “Space Medicine” is working feverishly to reduce the margin of human error to a reasonable risk by tho time the man-carrying ships are ready to launch. I rather wonder, though, how much thought they’ve given at White Sands to the sort of human failure Mr. Brunner suggests?
John Brunner is one of the growing group of young British writers who have developed primarily in association with the consistently surprising Nova magazines—New Worlds and Science Fantasy—edited by Ted Cornell. (Both magazines, I am happy to say, are now being distributed in this country.) This selection is not from either of the British pu
blications, but from Astounding (now Analog)--representing the increasing trend toward the exchange of material on both sides of the Pond.
* * * *
From: Officer commanding Moonbase One.
To: Officer commanding Project Diana.
Subject: Experimental verification of composition of Moon’s surface:
As a result of our successful attempt to establish a manned post on the surface of the Moon, we are now in a position to give a definite answer to a problem which has long occupied the minds of astronomers: viz., the composition of the surface of our satellite.
Prior to our recent landing there were three hypotheses current. The two generally accepted among experts were, first, that the surface of the Moon consisted of a substance not unlike the ash and lava poured out by terrestrial volcanoes; or, second, that much of the Moon was covered in fine dust, the result of a continual bombardment by meteoric particles, and consequently similar in its chemical composition to the dust existing in interplanetary space.
It is, however, the third hypothesis—even more widely held than the preceding two—which has been strikingly confirmed by our on-the-spot investigations.
Before going into precise details, it is necessary to refer briefly to two other points. To start with, according to current theories about the formation of the solar system, the Earth and the Moon were not—as formerly held—originally balls of hot gas. They are presumed to have condensed out of a rotating cloud of comparatively cold gases and dust particles. It is suspected that the complex organic molecules which later gave rise to life, as we know it, may already have been in existence when the planets formed.
Scientists gave it as their considered opinion that, although they were unable to detect any living creatures on our satellite, nonetheless the raw material, so to speak, from which life developed on Earth,. might exist here. It will be recalled that every possible care was taken to sterilize all rockets launched toward the Moon, for fear that the presence of terrestrial bacteria might contaminate and perhaps catalyze the stockpile of pre-organic molecules, depriving us of valuable clues to the origin of life.
Second, it will be recalled that, during the reconnaissance which preceded our successful landing, one of the TV scanner missiles searching for a suitable landing place went off course and crashed not far from the site which was eventually chosen for our base. Since our arrival we have carefully inspected the wreckage. The difficulties under which we are now compelled to work have delayed the preparation of a full report on this inspection; that will follow.
The crucial point which emerged, however, was that the TV scanner missile went off course owing to foreign matter in its guidance system. It is requested that inquiries be instituted among the technicians at the launching base with a view to establishing responsibility for this—it should not in my submission be hard to discover which of the staff is so inordinately fond of his stomach that he takes sandwiches on the job, puts them down while at work and forgets about them. Because that was the nature of the foreign matter we found: a large sandwich with one bite taken out of it. The impact, naturally, had broken the rocket wide open, and the sandwich was in fact found a short distance away where it had been thrown by the violence of the crash. It is now, I am afraid, purely a matter for speculation whether the content of the sandwich had a uniquely determinant effect; speaking for myself, I’m pretty sure it did.
The scientists responsible for predicting that terrestrial bacteria might contaminate pre-organic molecules on the Moon deserve congratulation for the accuracy of their guesswork. The man who left this sandwich in the scanner missile deserves to be hanged, drawn and quartered—but that’s up to you at base. An alternative suggestion is to bury him up to his neck in a barrel full of the nice ripe Limburger he likes in his sandwiches, till he won’t be able to look the stuff in the face again. Then he’ll know how we feel sitting up here, having to breathe the stink with every lungful of canned air.
In fact, you’ll probably notice the aroma on this memo.
I am in a position to state with authority that thanks to his damned sandwich the Moon is made of green cheese.
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* * * *
J. G.
by Roger Price
Best way to eliminate the human error factor is to dispense with the human? This excerpt—the first five chapters —from a book described on the jacket as “a novel about The Way Things Are, as discovered in the adventures of an innocent Hero . . .” tries (like NASA) using an ape instead.
It is hardly necessary to state that Roger Price is a funny man. (This is “Droodles” Price, “Mad Libs” Price and TV-comic Price we are talking about.) It is well worth staling, however, that his novel is not only funny, but very good satire indeed.
* * * *
1
J. G. weighed three hundred and fifty-four pounds; and, when he remembered not to walk round-shouldered, he was six feet one inch tall. He had large blue eyes, and he could see a caterpillar one hundred yards away and tell whether it was a boy caterpillar or a girl caterpillar. He could hear a leaf rustle at a distance of an eighth of a mile and tell whether it was a birch or a beech. And he had a Reflex-Reaction-Time of 9.6.
He also had a very small brain—being a primitive anthropoid, he had a cranial capacity of only five hundred cubic Centimeters—and a shy and modest disposition.
His whole name was J. Gorilla Gorilla Primate, which included his generic order, his species and a “J” for decorative purposes; but his family and friends and his beautiful wife, Lotus, called him J. G., and so shall we.
Until he met the Explorer, J. G. had never seen a human being. And until the Explorer met J. G., he had never seen a Gorilla like J. G.
In both physique and temperament, J. G. was unlike the two known types of Gorillas: the Plains Gorillas who lived in Darkestafrica at the foot of Mount Kallahili and were skittish and the Mountain Gorillas who lived right below Lake Kivu and were moody.
Many thousands of years ago, J. G.’s tribe had become annoyed by the vulgarity of their neighbors—principally the Plains Gorillas and Pithecanthropus Erectus—and had moved higher and higher up Mount Kallahili in search of Peace and Quiet.
They migrated upwards past Lake Kivu, past the impassable cliffs east of Lake Kivu, and eventually settled down only a few hundred yards below the point where the snows never melt.
Centuries of living in the cold, thin, mountain air of a land where food was scarce and the only shelter was to be found in caves had effected certain changes in their appearance. For one thing, they were covered with a fashionable silver-colored hair, except for their chests and faces, which were a healthy pink. And for another, their noses had evolved small, but noticeable, bridges.
Because of the scarcity of trees in that region, they had given up climbing and swinging from branches and, as a result, their arms were shorter and their legs longer and straighter than less isolated members of their species. And, because of their isolation, they were neither skittish nor moody.
Otherwise they were like other gorillas, in that their small brains were not complicated enough to deal with advanced intellectual concepts such as Purpose, Competition and Improvement. When they thought, it was only in the most simple and logical terms.
Their limited mental equipment had naturally reduced the Silver Gorillas to a savage existence. None of them ever did, or had ever done, anything without a Reason. They spent most of their time eating, sleeping and scratching. But only when they were hungry, sleepy or itchy.
Civil authority was non-existent; they practiced the atavistic institution of monogamy and their language was abysmally brutalized. They used no adverbs; their verbs did not agree in number; and there was no rule against splitting infinitives. Their vocabulary did not even contain words such as: “unsuitable,” “traffic,” “liar,” “hurry,” “psychosomatic,” “poverty,” or “work.” They were, to put it bluntly, inhuman.
And, until the events which I am about to relate occ
urred, J. G. was no exception.
These events began one day in the middle of supper— which, in J. G.’s case, lasted from lunch until bedtime. He was shaking the snow from a lilac bush on the north slope of the plateau, when the sun was suddenly obscured by a huge, black cloud that seemed to be rushing straight toward Mount Kallahili from the east. Within a matter of minutes, the cloud had enveloped the top of the mountain in the wildest, most formidable storm J. G. had ever seen.
Gathering up an armful of lilac branches and some conchi nuts, he trotted back to the cave that he shared with his beautiful wife, Lotus, to wait for the storm to pass. When he arrived, she was not there; so he sat down and began to eat the lilac branches, saving the tenderest leaves and ends for Lotus.
He finished eating and there was still no sign of Lotus. Outside, lightning flashed in the blackness, followed by great rolls of thunder; farther down the slope J. G. could hear, even over the terrible roaring of the wind, the splintering and crash of falling trees. He plunged into the storm and went from cave to cave looking for his wife.
The Year's Greatest Science Fiction & Fantasy 6 - [Anthology] Page 12
