THE USELESS BUGBREEDERS BY JAMES STAMERS TO THE SPACE COUNCIL, ASTEROID 4722 WAS JUST ANOTHER ROADBLOCK IN THE WAY OF INTERPLANETARY TRAFFIC. BUT TO THE USELESS BUGBREEDERS IT WAS HOME! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The previous case was a Weeper, and he lost. So the Space Zoning Commissioners were damp and irritable before I opened pleadings for my client. I tried not to squelch as I approached the bench. "Not the Flammables again, Mr. Jones?" the fat Commissioner asked nastily, sponging his suit with a sodden handkerchief. "This was last week, Your Honor." The thin dark Commissioner stared pointedly at the charred end of the bench nearest the witness seat. "Indeed it was, Mr. Jones." The middle Commissioner poised his fingers and looked at the court ceiling; moisture gleamed diamond like on his bald head. "Now let me see," he intoned. "Correct me if I err, Mr. Jones, but I seem to observe you have a habit of representing somewhat spectacular aliens. Including, in the past six months alone, the Drillers, Whirling Tombs, Fragile Glasses, Erupters, Vibrational Men, Transparent Women--and of course let us not forget the Flammables." "I assure Your Honor, my present clients will be found to be sober, hardworking, desirable members of the Galactic Community, seeking only to live on their own asteroid in peace under a democratic system, which...." "Thank you, Mr. Jones. Shall we proceed?" "And perhaps," added the fat Commissioner, "you may be good enough to leave us with most of our courtroom intact on this occasion." The thin Commissioner sighed and shuffled his papers. "You appear, Mr. Jones, to contest a Space Council ruling for the elimination of Asteroid Four Thousand Seven Hundred and Twenty-Two on the grounds, which you allege, that it is a peaceful dwelling of an adult and responsible alien race." "Yes, Your Honor." "Then let us see your adult, um, Bugbreeder." I shuffled uncomfortably and splashed the court stenographer who gave me a dirty look. "A space tramp's name given in the early days of Space, Your Honor. More properly, my clients are the Selective Culturists of Bacteria and Lesser Life." The fat Commissioner sniffed. "Bugbreeders will do," he said. "Produce one." My client hopped off the table and ran nimbly up to the witness seat. He sat there like a small green snowball with large and pointed ears. "Happy, happy to be here, I'm sure," he said. Fortunately he had a hand to raise and looked reasonably humanoid as he was sworn in. The caterpillar and semi-jelly cultures make a less favorable first impression, and at this point the Driller had gone excitedly through the floor.