The Enhancement
I wrote this one less than a year ago. Tom Easton was editing an anthology called IMPOSSIBLE FUTURES. I agreed to write a story for it, totally forgot about it, and then was reminded when the deadline was about four hours away—and I beat it by an hour and a half.
You want to know why the courts are more overcrowded than ever? I’ll tell you why. It’s all Arturo Rubichenko’s fault, but he’s too damned busy basking in the public’s adoration to know or care about it.
I remember how the media was so thrilled with him and his breakthrough. They covered it daily for almost two years, and of course Rubichenko won the Nobel Prize and damned near every other prize and award a grateful world could devise. Word is that he actually pulled down almost two billion dollars in prize money.
I never understood exactly how it worked. I still don’t. I probably have that in common with everyone in the world except six or seven scientists. All we knew was that somehow he injected something—I can’t even spell the word, let alone pronounce it—into a Bonobo chimpanzee, and six months later, in a series of carefully regulated lab tests, it had an IQ of 93. We all thought it was truly remarkable.
Then he injected the same damned thing into a cat, and the cat’s attendants—PhD’s all—actually taught it how to read and to manipulate a specially-made computer keyboard, and she had an IQ of 104.
That was fine too, and the chimp and the cat actually toured the world, showing off their enhanced IQs, and people were saying that all he had to do now was find out how to make it work on people, and the human race would take a quantum step ahead.
The first seven humans he injected died, and that was the end of our march toward an intellectual Valhalla.
But something else happened, something that no one predicted or expected. The chimpanzee and the cat both had offspring. The chimp’s firstborn had an IQ of 117 at four years of age, and the cat’s six kittens ranged from 101 to 124.
It wasn’t long before they started mass-producing the miracle. We were all in favor of having more brains in service of humanity. After all, we didn’t care who came up with scientific and medical breakthroughs, as long as somebody or something did.
We’re still waiting for the breakthroughs—after all, a 105 IQ isn’t more likely to cure cancer or Alzheimer’s just because it’s between a cat’s ears instead of a human’s—but that doesn’t mean the world hasn’t changed.
Especially my world. I’m the Judge of the Circuit Court.
Take last Tuesday, for example. My first case was brought by the 600-pound gorilla who sat down next to his attorney and glared sullenly at me.
“Harvey Kerchak versus MGM Pictures,” announced my bailiff.
“And who is representing Mr. Kerchak?” I asked, because while every animal you see these days can think, frequently better than the average man on the street, they still can’t speak.
“Bradley T. Driscoll,” said the well-dressed lawyer, getting to his feet.
“And the nature of his complaint?”
“My client wants all versions of all Tarzan movies immediately withdrawn from circulation,” answered Driscoll. “We would like them destroyed, but will settle for them being locked in a vault and never withdrawn without my client’s permission.”
“I assume you have a reason?” I said.
“The apes in the films are portrayed as cute, mindless chimpanzees, whereas in the novels they were much larger, quite intelligent, and totally verbal, able to articulate as well as you and I.”
“These films were made before what has become known as the Enhancement,” I noted.
“Nonetheless, the public showing of these motion pictures causes my client untold emotional pain.”
If it’s untold, I felt like asking, then why the hell are you in court telling me about it? Still, a conscientious judge always looks for a compromise that will satisfy both parties in a dispute.
“Would it cause untold pain if it were shown only in theatres, so that members of Mr. Kerchak’s species could easily avoid it and not encounter it accidentally on television?”
“You might ask if a film from the same era portraying members of the Negro race as slow-witted ‘darkies’, or a film showing women as nothing more than mindless and willing sex objects would be acceptable to blacks and females who do not set foot in the theatre but must deal with the subsequent behavior of those who do attend.”
“All right,” I said. “Let me just be sure about this. Your client has no objection to the source material?”
“He strongly approves of the books,” replied Driscoll. “And the comic strips and comic books as well.”
“There are comic books?” I asked.
“Certainly, Your Honor.”
“And Mr. Kerchak approves of them?” I continued with the vague feeling that parts of my literary education had been sadly lacking
“Yes, Your Honor. The apes in the comic books are, if anything, even more intelligent and articulate than the apes in the books.”
I turned to the opposing attorney. “Has MGM any rebuttal?”
“You have made it yourself, Your Honor,” she replied. “The films were created prior to the Enhancement.”
Both sides presented more arguments, while I tried to concentrate on what they were saying but found myself thinking about the weather, and my garden, and even the girl in the short skirt in the third row.
Finally they finished, and I told them I’d consider their arguments and would deliver a verdict in two days.
Then the bailiff declared a fifteen-minute break and I retired to my chambers. I sat down, lit a totally-illegal cigar, leaned back, and tried to remember why I went to law school and what kind of cases I hoped I’d be deciding when I became a judge. Finally I sighed and shook my head sadly. Who the hell ever thought that saying “Sit, goddamn it!” would become a serious First Amendment case? Or that a trio of Clydesdales could bring a suit claiming that the constitutional negation of the Dred Scott decision applied to them as well? Did I really become a judge to rule on the antiquated legality of “Once a plow horse, always a plow horse”?
After I finished the cigar I nodded to the bailiff, who went out ahead of me to tell everyone to rise when I entered and that court was back in session.
I sat down and looked out at the plaintiff’s table, where a collie sat perched on a cushion atop a stool.
“Fluffy versus Columbia Broadcasting System,” announced the bailiff.
“Has the plaintiff a surname?” I asked.
“No, Your Honor,” said the plaintiff’s lawyer.
“All right,” I said. “What is the nature of his complaint?”
“Her complaint, Your Honor,” the lawyer corrected me.
Big deal, I thought. “All right,” I amended. “Her complaint.”
“It seems that the popular television show, Lassie, is using a male collie in the title role. This is clearly a case of sex discrimination, and my client seeks redress.”
I rolled my eyes, cursed Arturo Rubichenko for the thousandth time, and began counting the minutes to my retirement.