Although it suffered from the usual red-tape asphyxiation, the Mad Scientists Patent Office was a typical cookie-cutter government bureaucracy, despite its unusual and provocative name.
After Sheyenne tracked down the address, Robin and I drove off in her battered, rusty old Ford Maverick, which we affectionately called the “Pro Bono Mobile.” By now the deteriorating muffler was loud enough to announce our presence to all passersby, drawing attention, but not in a good way.
Robin had owned the car since her law-school days, and she viewed the Maverick as a family member. “Once you’ve rolled over an odometer once or twice, you’re invested in a car,” she had told me.
Every month or so, when we brought the car in for yet another round of repairs, we talked about buying a more professional-looking business vehicle for Chambeaux & Deyer Investigations. Somehow that never went beyond talk.
In order to get a handle on Jody Caligari’s case and the real worth of his confiscated items, we wanted a clearer picture of who he was and just how important his research might be. For a boy of twelve to have filed five separate patent applications said good things about him. The kid had an endearing personality and enough confidence that he could always become a pint-sized motivational speaker if the junior supervillain gig didn’t work out.
The Mad Scientists Patent Office was a squarish building on the outskirts of the Quarter, located in a nondescript business park. The companies in adjacent buildings had likewise nondescript names such as Bovar, Inc., or AlbyTech, or Smith Associates, all of which offered indefinable services or products. The patent office occupied one of the larger units. Robin parked the Pro Bono Mobile in a spot marked, “Visitors Only. Violators will be violated and then processed.”
We entered the office together. One entire wall was a white project board with magnets in different columns to indicate the progress of numerous patent applications. Three secretaries sat at desks, typing forms in triplicate on actual manual typewriters. Apparently, the patent office hadn’t yet approved the use of desktop computers.
Deeper in the building, I saw cubicle after cubicle after cubicle, each one occupied by a quiet civil servant, displaying a demographically appropriate mix of humans, vampires, werewolves, mummies, ghosts, ghouls, and various demons, as well as a smattering of underrepresented unnatural minorities. The Bureau of Unnatural Labor Relations had imposed strict quotas, especially for government offices inside the Quarter.
A loud explosion came from the testing labs in the far back, accompanied by the hissing jets of a fire-suppression system. The clerks in the cubicles continued their work without even flinching.
We went up to the front desk where the human receptionist ignored us as she filed paper cards in an actual Rolodex. We waited. Robin cleared her throat. The receptionist testily pointed to a bell on the countertop, where a sign said, “Ring Bell for Service.” When I rang the bell, the receptionist smiled and greeted us. “How may I help you?”
With government agencies, every step of every process had to be done in a particular approved way.
“We’re here to inquire about some patents,” Robin said.
“Are you scientists?” She reached toward a rack of pigeonhole shelves next to her typewriter, ready to withdraw an appropriate form.
“I’m a detective,” I said, “and a zombie.”
“And I’m an attorney,” Robin answered.
“A patent attorney?”
“Just an attorney seeking justice for unnaturals.”
The receptionist frowned at her selection of forms, drew one out, then slid it back in. She seemed at a loss. “I don’t appear to have a form for unnatural detective and natural attorney with queries regarding patent oversight and office questions.”
“We’re here to inquire about the status of pending patents for a client of ours,” I added.
When the receptionist continued to dither, Robin suggested, “Could we speak to your supervisor?”
That did the trick, providing the receptionist with an alternative she could embrace. “Yes, I’ll call the DAMP.” She pressed a buzzer button on her desk, and a woman in her late fifties emerged from one of the front offices. She was solid and hefty in a matronly sort of way, gray-brown hair in a no-nonsense perm, sensible glasses, a pantsuit. She might have been a zombie, but if so she was even more well-preserved than I am. Or maybe she’d been in her job for so long she had fossilized into the part.
“I am Miz Mellivar, Deputy Assistant Manager of Patents. How may I help you?”
Robin explained, “We’re researching the background on patent applications filed by a client of ours, an ambitious young mad scientist named Jody Caligari.”
The woman gave a small smile, which was no doubt the extent of her cordiality as a civil servant. “Ah, Jody! That boy shows great potential.” She clucked her tongue. “He’s not quite there yet, more ideas than follow-through, but he does have the imagination … and mechanics can be learned.” She gestured us into her office. “Let’s have a look. We’re a busy office here, as you might expect. The Unnatural Quarter being what it is, every evil half-wit and his sub-genius brother thinks he can be a mad scientist. Someone has to impose standards. These days there’s just too much mad and not enough scientist to go around.”
Robin and I took seats in front of Miz Mellivar’s too-neat desk. She swiveled in her office chair to reach a credenza behind her and pulled a rectangular file box onto her desktop. “People don’t understand that a patent can only be issued for something truly new and innovative. We had one particularly clueless man in here last week trying to patent his evil laugh.”
“You can’t patent a laugh,” Robin said.
Miz Mellivar rolled her eyes behind her glasses. “I know! We sent him over to the Mad Scientists Trademark Office, where he might have better luck.”
She took the lid off the rectangular box and ran her fingers through a long line of index cards. She couldn’t seem to find what she was looking for, flipped back and forth among the cards. “Please excuse the inconvenience. This is a very outdated system, but we’re undergoing an upgrade. Within six to twelve months, we’ll be using uniform manila file folders.”
She had an idea and looked in a different section of the box. “Ah, I thought so! I filed under ‘J’ for ‘Jody’ instead of ‘C’ for ‘Caligari, Jody.’ Since he’s only twelve, I think of him on a first-name basis.”
The Deputy Assistant Manager of Patents looked at the reference number stamped on the index cards, got up from her desk, went to a large metal filing cabinet, found the correct drawer, and pulled out his patent applications.
“That young man has some very interesting ideas.” She held up a legal-sized form. “This is for an Evilness Sieve, and this one is a Dark Powers Magnet. And this one”—she smiled gently—“X-ray Spex specifically tuned to see through the walls of girls’ locker rooms. He even built and submitted a working prototype.” DAMP Mellivar shook her head. “Denied, of course—nothing original in that patent.”
Oddly, the X-ray Spex made me think that Jody was more normal than I had first imagined. “He is twelve,” I pointed out.
Mellivar looked at the other cards and forms. “A Glove of Destiny, and finally a cape that flutters dramatically even indoors without wind.”
“What was it all for?” Robin asked.
“Jody was trying to build a complete do-it-yourself supervillain kit, but couldn’t find ideas that weren’t covered at least peripherally by other existing patents. Villain territory is pretty well trampled here in the Unnatural Quarter, you know.”
“So you declined his patents, then?” I asked.
“I didn’t want to break the kid’s heart, so I filed them under Pending Further Review. Now that his ideas are safely nestled in the bureaucracy, it could be a very long time before anything makes it through the red tape.”
Robin frowned in disapproval. “How does any patent ever get through the system?”
“Sheer momentum.” The Deputy Assistant Manager of Patents’ voice took on a scolding tone. “But if a mad scientist tries to circumvent the system and create a monster or test a superpower or immortality treatment without going through proper channels, he’ll find himself in deep slime. All new discoveries must be certified with our office’s Mad Scientist Seal of Approval. Don’t underestimate the power of this office. You’ve heard about the laws of physics—even they have to follow the laws of patents.”
Robin got back to business. “Jody hired us, ma’am, because his work was confiscated by his landlord, who evicted him from his lab in the sewers. Before we begin legal proceedings and pressure the landlord, we wanted to know the merits of the young man’s work, objectively speaking.”
“He is only twelve,” I said again, “and it’s a pro bono case.”
Miz Mellivar flashed that maternal smile again. “Oh, make no mistake, there’s plenty of merit. The boy shows promise. I’d keep my eye on him. Give Jody a chance, and he could be truly evil someday.”