The Professional Approach by Charles L. Harness and Theodore L. Thomas (reading fiction TXT) 📗

tell me about Dr. Callahan. He is usually a pretty conservative fellow. How does he feel about this completely untried product?"

I sat up straighter. "This is not an untried product, Mr. Spardleton. It has been made and duplicated. It has all the properties that the application says it has. And Dr. Callahan has just as much faith in it as I have."

Mr. Spardleton looked at me, and smiled, and slowly handed over the draft. "Mr. Saddle, I wish you all the best in your prosecution of this case. Please call on me if there is anything I can do to help. In any way, don't hesitate to call on me."

I stood up and took the draft and turned to go, but Mr. Spardleton thrust his hand out. I shook it and said, "Is anything wrong with it?"

"Not that I am able to see, Mr. Saddle. It is a most remarkable job, and bespeaks of ingenuity, resourcefulness, and skill. You have come a long way to be able to write such an application."

I didn't know what to say, so I smiled and bobbed my head and walked out still looking at him and smiling, which made it necessary for me to walk sideways, and thus made me look, I suppose, somewhat like a crab.

Susan put the case in final form. We sent the papers to California for Callahan's signature, then we filed the case, and things got back to normal with me. It was a great relief not to have the strain on me night and day. That's the trouble with an important case. You live with it too much.

It was seven months before I got the first Office Action in the Case. I read the first few paragraphs and they were quite normal. They rejected the Case in the usual manner by citing prior patents that had nothing to do with my application. This kind of thing was just part of the game of prosecution in which the Patent Examiner makes rejections because that is what he is supposed to do no matter what the invention; they don't have to make much sense. But then came a paragraph that went way beyond good sense and proper rejection technique. It said:

The specification is objected to as containing large portions that are merely laudatory. See Ex parte Grieg, 181 OG 266, and Ex parte Wellington 113 OG 2218. These portions are superfluous and should be deleted, Ex parte Ball, 1902 CD 326. The specification is unnecessarily prolix throughout and contains an unduly large number of embodiments, Ex parte Blakemen, 98 OG 791. Shortening is required.

I didn't wait. I grabbed the file of the Case and almost ran over to the Patent Office to straighten out the Examiner on a few things. As usual, Herbert Krome was the Examiner, so I charged up to his desk and immediately began explaining to him the importance of the Tearproof Paper Case. He seemed to pay no attention to me, but I knew him; he was listening. When I finally paused to let him say something, he looked at me quizzically and said, "Mr. Saddle, aren't you aware of the Notice of October 11, 1955?"

I looked at him blankly and said, "What's that?"

"It says that interviews with Examiners are not to be held on Fridays except in exceptional circumstances."

I gulped and said, "Is today Friday?"

He pushed his desk calendar toward me. It was Friday all right, and the thirteenth at that. I was too embarrassed to speak, and I got up and began to walk out. Mr. Krome called after me. "This must be an important case, Mr. Saddle. I'll expect to see you the first thing Monday." I nodded, and left.

By Monday, my embarrassment had not diminished. I had really done an unheard-of thing in patent prosecution. In patent prosecution, the patent attorney has six months to respond to an Office Action. Since attorneys carry a docket of cases adapted to fill all their time, an attorney in most instances requires the full six months to respond to an outstanding Office Action. Industrious attorneys with relatively light dockets might respond in five months' time. This may also happen when the attorney is trying to get a little ahead so he can go on a vacation. There are rare instances of record when an attorney had taken some action in three or four months. But here, in the Tearproof Paper Case, I had actually gone for an interview on the very first day. I couldn't possibly go back on the following Monday; my pride would not allow me. I waited until Tuesday.

By that time I had gone over the entire rejection and planned my complete response to the Examiner. I sat down with Mr. Krome on Tuesday morning and talked steadily for fifteen minutes before I realized he was watching me instead of paying attention to the case. I said, "What's the matter."

He said wonderingly, "I've never seen you like this before. You are acting almost as unreasonably as an inventor. You don't even want to hear what I have to say about this case. You should relax, Mr. Saddle. You are here as an advocate, not as a midwife."

"I don't think that's very funny, Mr. Krome," I proceeded to explain the high merit of the case, and he seemed to listen then. Before I left he promised to give the case careful consideration. This was all he ever promised, so I thanked him and went back to my office. I filed my amendment in the case the next day. It was eight months before I got the next Office Action.

Callahan returned in six months and immediately opened a project on the Tearproof Paper. The two of us sat down together to determine the best way to handle the research.

I said, "Henry, we have already drawn up a complete research program. All we have to do is follow it."

"We have?" Callahan was surprised.

"Sure." And I laid out in front of him a copy of our patent application, and riffled through its pages. "All we have to do is go through all the examples here to make certain they all work. If they do, the program will be complete, except for the product itself and commercial production. Our patent application will make the best research guide we could get."

"Why certainly," said Callahan. "We have already spent a great deal of time working out all kinds of substitute and equivalent reactions. It's all here. Good. I'll set it up."

Callahan began distributing the work to various groups, and I went back to my office. Every Friday afternoon thereafter I went out to the laboratories to see how things were coming along. They came along well. From the beginning the actual results reached by the research teams matched the predictions we had made in our patent application. At the Friday afternoon meetings Callahan and I got into the habit of tossing pleased and knowing glances at each other as the streams of data continued to confirm our work. Several months rolled happily by. Then came a letter from the Lafe Rude Consultants, Inc., up in Boston. The letter said that their people understood that the Marchare Laboratories had under development a remarkably strong paper, and they would be very much interested in discussing licensing possibilities with us. I grabbed the letter and stormed into Mr. Spardleton's office.

"Just read this," I almost yelled as I handed him the letter. "This is the outfit that hired Callahan's technician. Now they know all about the Tearproof Paper. That technician has told them everything. I think we ought to sue them—inducing disclosure of trade secrets, or something." I added a great deal more as Mr. Spardleton finished the letter and sat holding it looking up at me as I paced back and forth in front of his desk. As I walked and talked, I finally became conscious of the fact that Mr. Spardleton was waiting for me to finish; I could tell by the expression on his face. I pulled up in front of him and fell quiet.

He said, "Don't you feel it is significant that this letter was sent to us, lawyers for Marchare Laboratories, rather than direct to the Laboratories?"

I thought about it, and he continued, "Furthermore, as I understand it, the Lafe Rude people have a good reputation."

That was right, too, and I saw what he was driving at. People of good reputation don't try to pull a fast one by immediately alerting the lawyers for the other side. In fact, when I stopped to think about it, I could see that they were bending over backwards to be careful in this situation.

Mr. Spardleton said, as he handed back the letter, "I suggest you clear with Dr. Marchare, and then make arrangements to talk to these people and see if you can negotiate some kind of profitable license. Marchare is pretty fully committed right now, and I don't think he has time to exploit this paper, even if it turns out to amount to something."

I looked at him, aghast that he should still be doubtful of the paper at this late stage of the game. He saw my look and said, "Oops, I mean this milestone in paper technology once it is announced to the world."

That seemed better, more to the point. I called Dr. Marchare and found that Mr. Spardleton was right, as usual. Dr. Marchare would welcome a beneficial licensing arrangement. I then called the Rude Associates on the phone; it seemed more expeditious than writing. I set up a meeting date as soon as possible, one week away.

The day before I left for Boston I checked in with Callahan to make certain all of our data were correct. We went over every aspect of the Tearproof Paper Case. I picked out a dozen good samples of the paper of varying composition and thickness and put them in my briefcase along with a copy of the patent application. I had decided that I might even show them a copy of the application if it might help show what a marvelous discovery we had made. Callahan and I shook hands solemnly, and he wished me the best of luck. I went back to my office for a final quick check, got interested in Zabell's book, and went home without my briefcase. There was no harm done. My plane did not leave until ten in the morning and I had planned to go back to the office anyway. I said good-by to Susan and Mr. Spardleton, retrieved my briefcase from over by the radiator where Susan had put it the night before, and caught the plane.

It was a cold damp day, and the threat of rain was in the air. In Boston I caught a cab for the Massachusetts Avenue laboratories of Rude Associates. Dr. Rude himself was at the meeting, along with half a dozen of his associates. Dr. Rude was a small man, dapper, totally unlike a research chemist, and his speech and manner were as impeccable as his dress. Only his hands were a giveaway; they were stained with yellow and black stains that looked completely out of place on the man. Dr. Rude opened the meeting with an explanation concerning the technician he had hired from the Marchare Laboratories two years earlier. "Just a week ago," said Dr. Rude, "we put him on a problem of paper chemistry. He told us that the properties we sought—and more—had already been found by your laboratory. He said no more, and we would not have allowed him to say any more, except that you were the patent lawyer who was working on the case. That is all we know about it. We hope you have something of mutual interest, but we don't know any more than what I have told you."

I said, "Thank you, Dr. Rude. I understand how it was. I assure you it never crossed our minds down in Washington that anything could have been out of line in any manner whatsoever."

The assembled group smiled, and I smiled back, and we all felt friendly with one another. Dr. Rude cleared his throat and said, "Well, is there anything you can tell us about this tearpr ... about a paper having some of these very interesting properties?"

I said, "There is a great deal I can tell you about the paper we have, but suppose I let you see some specimens before I say anything. There's nothing like the actual goods themselves to do most of the talking."

We all laughed as I took half a dozen twelve-by-twelve hand sheets out of my briefcase and passed them around the table. I watched the chemists finger the sheets, savoring their soft coolness, and I heard the whispered comments, "good hand," "excellent softness," "fine color," and a few others. Dr. Rude said, "Are these 'breaking samples', Mr. Saddle? Do you mind if we tear them?"

Well, you can see that this was the question I was waiting for. I sat back and allowed a slight smile to play over my face. I said, "Oh no, gentlemen. Go ahead and tear them."

I saw several of the people take the sheets between their thumbs and forefingers, and gently pull. I saw the sheets tighten momentarily, and then—as if the sheets were no more than ordinary cleansing tissue—I saw the fibers pull apart as each man easily tore the sheet in half.

I felt the blood drain from my face, and it seemed to me that my pounding heart must have been visible right through my clothes. I swallowed and tried to say something, although I had no clear idea of what I was going to say. Words would not come. I leaned over and took another sheet from my briefcase and tugged at it. It tore in half with practically no effort. I took another, same results, and still another. I dimly realized that all the people at the meeting were staring at me, but I