"My Object All Sublime"
(1942)
Future, February 1942
Robert A. Heinlein
(as by Lyle Monroe)

	The city editor tells me to go to Seventh and Spring.

	"There's a story there," he says. "Go down and check it."

	"What kind?"

	"They say it smells."

	"Why shouldn't it?" I told him. "Columbia Bank on once corner, Fidelity-First National on the other, and the City Hall and the Daily Tide building just down the street."

	"Wise guy," he answers. "I mean a real smell—like yourself."

	Dobbs is all right—with him it's stomach ulcers and matrimony. "What's the sketch?" I asked, ignoring the crack.

	"Seems like it ain't safe to drive a car through that intersection," he answered seriously. "You come out smelling like a telephone booth. Find out why."

	I eased down there and looked the situation over. Nothing I could put my finger on, but a general air of nervousness and uncertainty. Now and then I'd catch a whiff of something, some ancient rottenness. It put me in mind of the morgue, again it was more like a Chinese river boat. When something happened that gave me a lead—

	A truck came charging through as the lights were changing. He had time to stop, but didn't—and just missed a feeble old gal in the crosswalk. There was a sharp "fsss"; the truck driver got a look of agonized surprise, and wipes at his eyes. As he passed me I smelled it.

	No mistake this time—it stunk like a convention of pole kitties, with prizes for range and distance. 

	The truck wobbled along for a few yards, then double-parked on the car tracks. I came alongside. "What happened, Buddy?" I asked the driver, but he is too far gone with choking and gasping. I left, not wanting the perfume to soak into my clothes.

	I went back to the corner, having an idea and wanting to check it. In the next thirty minutes seventeen drivers did things I didn't like, bulling their way through left turns, jumping signals, ignoring pedestrians, and the like. And every one of them gets dosed with eau de cologne. Usually with the sound of a hiss just before it happened.

	I was beginning to plot a curve, as it were, when I leaned up against a postal storage box on the corner. "Oh, excuse me!" comes this polite voice in my ear.

	"No harm done, chum," I answered, and looked around. Nobody near me, nobody at all.

	The stuff a leg-man drinks has to be cheap, but I was sure I hadn't gotten any quite that green. I considered it, then moved my hand toward the box. I encountered something in the air about a foot over the box and grabbed. There was a smothered gasp, then silence.

	I waited, then said very soft, "Well, Cagliostro, it seems to be your move." No answer. I clamped down on the chunk of breeze and twisted it. "Well?"

	"Oh, dear!" comes this same mild little voice. "You seem to have captured me. What shall I do?"

	I thought. "We can't stand here playing statues. People would talk. There's a beer joint just around the corner. If I let you go, will you meet me there?"

	"Oh, yes, indeed," I'm answered, "anything to get out of this predicament."

	"No tricks now," I warned. "Fail to show up and I'll have them search for you with a paint spray gun. That'll put a stop to your fun games."

	"Oh, no!" empty air assures me, and I let go.

	I had killed a bottle of suds in the joint in question when this mousy little bird shows up. He glanced nervously around, came up to my booth and gulped at me.

	"Are you," I asked incredulously, "Cagliostro?"

	He gulped again and nodded.

	"Well, I'll be a—skip it. Draw up a chair. Beer?"

	He fidgeted. "Uh, might I have a little Bourbon whiskey?"

	"You know best, Pop." I fingered the waiter. "Joe, bring this gentleman some eight-year-old Kentucky." When Joe got back Caspar Milquetoast took a tumbler, poured four fingers in it, and drank it, swallowing steadily. Then he sighed.

	"I feel better," he announced. "My heart, you know."

	"Yes, I know," I agreed. "I hated to upset you, but it's in the interest of science."

	His face lit up. "You are a student of science, too? In what field, pray tell?"

	"Mob psychology," I told him. "I'm a reporter for the Graphic."

	He seemed upset at once, so I calmed him. "Take it easy. We'll make it off the record for the moment and talk about a story later." He relaxes a little and I continued, "Right now I'm curios on my own account. I figure you had something to do with the gymkhana around the corner on Spring—not to mention finding you holed up in a slice of air. Come clean, professor."

	"But I am not a professor," he protests in that same diffident voice, after tucking away another four fingers of corn. "I am a private research student in spectroscopy. My name is Cuthbert Higgins."

	"Okay, Cuthbert. Mine's Carter. Call me Cleve. Let's get to it. What is it? Mirrors?"

	"Not precisely. It may be hard to explain to a layman. Are you versed in advanced mathematics? The use of tensors, for example?"

	"I was doing all right," I said, "up to improper fractions. Do they come after that?"

	"I am, uh, afraid so."

	"Okay," I told him, "I'll hang on where I can."

	"Very well," he agreed, "you are familiar with the gross phenomena associated with seeing. Light strikes an object, is reflected or refracted by it to the eye, where it is interpreted as sight. The only ordinary substance which reflects or refracts so little as to be invisible is air."

	"Sure."

	"For a number of reasons it is difficult to change the optical characteristics of the human body to the point where it would match air and be invisible. But there remains two possibilities: To bend the light rays around the body is one way. The other is psychological invisibility."

	"Huh?" I demanded. "Come again. Do you mean hypnosis?"

	"Not at all," he told me. "Invisibility by suggestion is a common phenomenon … a stock in trade of stage magicians. They suggest that an object in plain sight is not in plain sight, and surely enough, it is not."

	I nodded. "I catch. Thurston used to do that in his levitation stunt. The frame that supports the gal is in plain sight, but the audience never sees it. I never saw it until it was pointed out to me, then I couldn't see why in the hell I hadn't seen it."

	Higgins nodded happily. "Exactly. The eye ignores what is actually there and the brain fills in the background. Lots of people have that quality. Good detectives. Pickpockets. I have it myself—that is what got me interested in the problem of invisibility."

	"Slow up!" I said. "Don't sit there and tell me that I didn't see you a while ago simply because you are inconspicuous. Dammit, I looked through you."

	"Not quite," he corrected. "You looked around me."

	"How?"

	"By application of the laws of optics."

	"Listen," I said, slightly irked, "I'm not quite as ignorant as I made out. I never heard of any optical laws that would fit."

	"It does," he conceded, "involve certain advances of my own. The principle is similar to total reflection. I throw a prolate ellipsoid field around my body. Light strikes the screen at any point, runs on the surface of the field for a hundred and eight degrees, and departs at the antipodal point with its direction and intensity unchanged. In effect, it makes a detour around me."

	"It sounds simple," I commented, "but I don't think I could build one."

	"It is hard to make it clearer without recourse to higher mathematics," he apologized, "but perhaps I can give a somewhat analogous example with prisms and mirrors. When a ray of light strikes a surface, it may be reflected through twice the angle of incidence or refracted through the angle of refraction, thusly—" and he started to sketch on the menu. "When an optical system in arranged in this fashion—" He sketched a sort of daisy chain of mirrors and prisms "—a beam of light striking the system at any point 'A' and at any angle 'theta,' will be reflected and refracted around the system to point 'A prime,; and exit at angle theta. So you see—"

	"Skip it," I cut in. "I can see that it gallops half way around and heads out in the same direction; the rest is over my head. All right, that clears up half the mystery, but how about that reign of terror in the traffic?"

	"Oh, that." He gives me a silly grin and hauls out a gat as long as my foot.

	I don't like that look in his eyes. "Put that thing down!" I yelled.

	He does so reluctantly. "I don't see why you should make such a fuss," he protests. "It's not dangerous—not very. It's just a squirt gun."

	"Huh?" I looked at it more closely. "Pardon My I.Q., Cuthbert. I begin to see the sketch. What's it got in it?"

	His face lit up. "Synthetic essence mephitis—skunk juice!"

	"Mmm …"

	"Hmmm!"

	"It was a by-product of an attempt to find a synthetic base for perfume," he explained. "No real use, but I had made up quite a supply for experimental purposes—"

	"And squirting it on traffic is our idea of a joke."

	"Oh, no! For years I have been incensed—as who hadn't?—at the reckless drivers that infest our city. It would never have occurred to me that I might do anything about it myself, had I not heard a less inhibited victim refer to one of these loutish persons as 'stinking'—along with less repeatable things. It brought a whimsical thought to mind—would it not be a capital jest to make dangerous drivers smell physically the way they already smelled spiritually. At first the project seemed impractical; then I recalled the invisibility apparatus which had been gathering dust in my laboratory for ten years."

	"What!" I demanded. "You mean to say you've had this gadget for years and have not used it?"

	He gave me a big-eyed stare. "Why, certainly. Obviously there was no use for it. In the hands of an irresponsible person it could be the source of much wrong doing."

	"But—Hell, you could turn it over to the government."

	He shook his head.

	"All right, then," I persisted. "You could use it yourself. Think of the things you could do. You could start out by cleaning up that mess down at the City Hall. Sit in on the crooked deals and expose them."

	He shook his head again. "I am force to regard your viewpoint as naïve. Good government grows out of the people, it cannot be handed to them."

	"Oh, well," I shrugged. "You're probably right. Still, think of the fun you could have—" I was thinking about backstage at the Follies.

	But he shook his head again. "Uses for amusement only would almost certainly involve some violation of the right of privacy."

	I gave up. "Go on with your story, Cuthbert."

	"Having determined to try the jest, I made my preparations. They were simple. A water gun suggested itself as the applicator and a hot water bottle served as a source of supply. Earlier today I sought an outlying intersection and experimented. The results exceeded by fondest hopes—there are at least a dozen drivers who regret having jumped the light.

	"Then I came down here where the hunting is better. I was just warming up when you apprehended me."

	I stood up. "Cuthbert Higgins," I said, "you are a public benefactor. Long may you squirt!"

	He was pleased as a kid. "Would you like to try it?"

	"Would I! Half a sec while I phone in my story."

	His face fell. "Oh dear!" he moaned. "I had forgotten you were connected with the press."

	" 'Chained' is the word, Cuthbert. But don't give it a thought. I'll cover you like a grave."

	Dobbs was difficult as usual, but I convinced him, gave my story to a rewrite man, along with the license numbers of the cars I had seen sprayed, and rang off.

	Cuthbert's car was a couple of streets away. I wanted to drive, but he managed to convince me that he was sober, in spite of the $6.40 worth of liquor in him, by balancing a pencil by its point. Besides, I really wanted to try the invisibility gadget.

	It fit like a knapsack between the shoulders, with a switch on the straps in front. I threw the switch.

	It was as dark as the inside of a dog. "Get me out of here, Cuthbert!" I demanded.

	He flipped the switch, and came the dawn. "Naturally you were in darkness," he said. "Try these."

	"These" were a pair of trick spectacles. "Rectifiers," he explained. "The shield bypasses visible light but not ultra-violet. With these you can see by ultra-violet."

	"I get it," I announced, feeling smug. " 'Black light.' I've read about it."

	"Not exactly," he said. "but that will do. Try them."

	I did. They worked. No color, black-and-white like a movie peep show, but I could see with the shield up.

	From then on it was "Tallyho!" and "Yoicks! Yoicks!" More fun than a Legion Convention. We penalized everything from cutting in and out to jaywalking. But a guy had to be doing something actually stupid and dangerous before we court-martialed him.

	All but one. We got a horn-tooter behind us at a signal change. One of those lugs who wants the driver ahead to jump the lights so he can hurry on about his all-important business. You've met 'em.

	Well, when this item pulled in behind us and started his serenade, I glanced at Cuthbert. "It's a moot point," he said, "but I think there is justification."

	I slipped out of the car and sprayed him just as he was leaning out to cuss Cuthbert. So I sprayed the upholstery too, just to teach him not to use naughty words.

	But the high point of the day was a motorcycle cop. He had a meek little citizen backed up to the curb and was bawling the bejasus out of him for a little technicality not actually dangerous—failing to signal a right-hand turn on a clear street.

	I gave the overgrown ape a liberal dose, not neglecting his pretty uniform and his shy motorcycle.

	The Graphic played it big: "STENCH STALKS STREETS; POLICE PUZZLED" and "WAR WAGED ON DANGEROUS DRIVERS." The other papers copied in the later editions—all except the Tide. The Tide waited to the final, then let forth a blast that would curl your teeth, demanding immediate apprehension of "the lawless terror prowling the city streets." Poor old Cuthbert was made out to be something between Jack the Ripper and Dracula, with a dash of Nero.

	When I looked over the list of victims in the Graphic, I understood. On it was Felix Harris, owner-publisher of the Tide.

	Felix Harris arrived in this town riding the rods. He got a job on the Tide, married the boss's daughter, and has looked down on the common peepul ever since. He owns a pew in the right church, chairmans all the stuffed-shirt committees, and takes his cut on every racket in town. And he and his fat-headed son are notoriously bad drivers.

	But heaven help the cop silly enough to give one of them a ticket!

	I could smell trouble, but saw no way for Cuthbert to be nabbed, if we were cautious. Dobbs kept me on the story; Cuthbert and I spent four colossal days, taking turns driving and squirting the stinkum.

	Then I got a call from the jailhouse; Cuthbert is on ice.

	They had gotten him through me—seems I had been tailed for three days. They had nothing against him but suspicion, but a dick had snooped around his house and had smelled him cooking up a fresh batch of stink juice. They nabbed him.

	I ducked out to see a lawyer pal of mine. He thought it was a cinch for habeas corpus, but he was mistaken. There wasn't a judge in town who would issue a writ—we knew the squeeze was on. And Cuthbert was booked for everything from malicious mischief to criminal syndicalism. Maximum bail on each offense. total seventy thousand dollars!

	The paper would go bail for a story. I knew—but not that much.

	Cuthbert was unperturbed, though I did my best to explain what a jam he was in. "I know I have a loyal friend in you," he said, talking soft so the turnkey would not hear. "Can you go to my home and get the invisibility apparatus?"

	"What?" I almost shouted. Then I lowered my voice in a hurry. "Didn't they grab it?"

	"I think not, else they would have questioned me about it."

	It was there when I looked for it, right where we always hid it. I locked it into the trunk of my car and started back downtown, thinking that I would have Cuthbert out of clink with its help in less time than it takes to buy a hat. When it suddenly occurs to me that I have no way to use it.

	Here was the hitch: If I carried it down to the jail, they would never let me hand it to him. If I wore it in, invisible myself, how would I get to his cell with it? Supposing I managed to take advantage of doors as they were opened to get into the cell blocks, and managed to find his cell—another unlikely point—how would I get out after slipping him the gear? I'd be left in the cell myself. I was already connected with the case; I had a dirty suspicion that they would throw away the key and pipe me fresh air and sunlight on alternate Wednesdays.

	I pulled up to the curb.

	A half hour later I had a headache and a plan, but it called for an accomplice. The plan, I mean. The headache I could manage alone.

	There is a little actress, name o' Dorothy Dardou, with whom I've had many a swell time. There isn't a mean streak in her—however, she would blow up the County Courthouse if it appealed to her imagination. I phoned her, found she was in, told her to stay that way, and drove over.

	I brought her up to date and then broke my plan, "You see, Dotty," I told her, trying to make it both reasonable and intriguing, "all you do is wear the shield and follow me. I do all the explaining. When we get to his cell, you slip him the shield, and out he walks, a free man."

	"Leaving Dorothy in the Bastille," she adds coldly. "Had you thought of that, Cleve—or didn't it seem to matter?"

	"Yes, darling," I said, "but that is the whole point in you doing it instead of me. You aren't connected with the case, they've got no excuse to hold you, they don't dare sweat you, and the whole thing is a mystery. Think of the publicity."

	She did not answer right away; I could see the idea had taken hold. I relaxed.

	Presently she said, "I'd better dress my smartest for this. The nearer I come to looking Junior League, the better I can put over the part."

	We got her fur coat out of hock, which I charged to expense account, and I showed her how to use the gear. It all worked per plan, except that Dorothy sneezed in the elevator going up to the cell blocks and I had to cover with some fast pantomime.

	Cuthbert was stuffy about it, but I convinced him that no other caper would work, and he gave in. I left them to work it out.

	I had to get the details from Cuthbert later. "She is an intelligent and charming young lady," he opined, "as well as courageous."

	"You're cooking with gas, Cuthbert."

	"Assuredly. We had a most interesting conversation during the two hours we allowed you to establish an alibi. At the end of that time, she took off the pack, permitted me to assume it, and gave vent to the most startling outcry it has ever been my privilege to hear. The turnkey came most immediately. When he found my cubicle occupied by a beautiful young lady, his face was a study in conflicting emotions. He felt unequal to the situation and hurriedly fetched the jailer.

	"Miss Barbou gave that worthy no time to think. She demanded to be released at once, and met his request for an explanation by demanding one of him. When the jailer, sweating copiously, opened the door for her, I slipped out in the confusion.

	"She was not content to let well enough alone, but demanded to be taken to the Chief of Police at once. Having no choice in the matter of doors, I perforce, followed along. There were gentlemen of the press there—"

	"My work," I stuck in.

	"Excellent. She distressed the chief very much by propounding the theory that she had been drugged and kidnapped by his own men."

	"Good girl! Did the boys get pictures?"

	"In quantity."

	We hid Cuthbert, for the time being, with an aunt of mine, since he obviously could not stay at his place nor mine. The Tide was still howling for his blood. I wrote an opus for the Graphic which suggested, in a nice way of course, that he had been done away with in jail, and that the Dotty incident had been framed to cover it up.

	I told Cuthbert to keep indoors, and in particular not to play with his squirt gun as it would queer my "foul play" story. This irked him. He wanted especially to draw a bead on the judge of the traffic court, as I had inadvertently let him in on how the old fraud fixed tickets for the "right" people. Cuthbert's indignation you wouldn't believe. How a man could reach his age and still be that naïve I don't see.

	He sputtered about "equality before the law" and such matters. I had to calm him down and exact promises.

	He didn't keep the promises very well. I have to piece this part of the yarn together as I did not see all of it. It seems he was taking a walk, in the shield of course, which wasn't so bad, but carrying his squirt gun, which was strictly against contract.

	He had just crossed the intersection of two boulevards, when a big sedan, doing about sixty, goes through against the signals. It just misses two cars going with the lights, and one of them climbs the curb and crashes him into a store window.

	This is too much for Cuthbert. He steps off the curb, takes careful aim, and gets the driver of the sedan right in the eye. Then he jumps back, for they almost run him down. Filled with remorse, he went down to see if he could help. As he does, four men pile out of the car. One of them is wiping his eyes, two of them are carrying guns, and one is lugging a small child.

	"I felt instinctively," Cuthbert tells me later, "that they were malefactors of some sort. So I shouted for them to put up their hands, meanwhile brandishing my water pistol."

	I arrived on the scene right after this, in a police squad car. I had been at the station when the call came in and went along to cover it. For it's a kidnapping and a big one—old Felix Harris's grandson and probably the only person in the world he really cares about.

	We find a curious scene. One of the kidnappers is down, shot in the leg by Cuthbert with one of their own gats, two of them are wiping eyes and moaning, and one is very quiet. The kid is sitting on the grass, crying.

	When Cuthbert sees us, he crumples up at the knees.

	Cuthbert is not only a hero; the charges against him are quietly dropped. The secret of the shield is safe, as the police car ran over it there in the gutter, and crushed it beyond recognition. The boys are puzzled as to how he can have spread so much skunk juice with the entire town looking for him, and question him not a little before they let him go but he has an answer ready. "I'm naturally inconspicuous," he told them. "Nobody ever notices me. You just didn't see me."

	Which was true, as far as it went.

	I groaned so over the destruction of the shield that Cuthbert promised to build me a new one for my birthday. I'm looking forward to it. I've got some plans of my own.

The End