The Potter of Firsk and Other Stories

by Jack Vance

  “Good-day, Mr. Boek. Good-day, sir.”

  “Hello, Fritz,” said Boek. “Just passing through, showing my friend the town.”

  The amphibian lay back in his trough-shaped seat. The flippers passed along his barrel, the first message having faded.

  “Anything I can show you?”

  “I’m trying to find McInch,” said Magnus Ridolph. “Can you help me?”

  The flippers hesitated, fluttered across the barrel. “I know nothing. I will assist you in every official manner.”

  Magnus Ridolph nodded, turned slowly away. “I’ll let you know when and if I discover anything.”

  “Now,” said Boek, coughing, clearing his throat of dust, “there’s the post-office.” He turned, looked back toward the Export Warehouse. “I think it’s about as short to walk as it is to return for the car.”

  Magnus Ridolph glanced up at the two suns in the sea-green sky. “Does it cool off during the evening?”

  “To some extent,” said Boek, stepping forward doggedly. “We want to be back at the Mission by sunset. I never feel quite easy out after dark. Especially now, with McInch.” He pursed his plump mouth.

  Their path took them between the rickety shacks toward the waterfront. Life swarmed everywhere, life of the most disparate sorts. Through the windows and doors they saw quiet unnamed bulks, other shapes, agile and quick. Eyes of a dozen different kinds watched them, sounds never heard on Earth met their ears, smells never intended for earthly nostrils drifted across the roadway.

  The scene around them gradually assumed a redder tone, as the blue sun sank lower toward the horizon. As they reached the post-office—a slate shed adjacent to the spaceport—it dropped below the horizon and vanished.

  If Magnus Ridolph expected interest and enthusiasm for his mission from the Postmaster, a Portmar centipede, he was disappointed. They found him sorting mail—standing on half his legs, rhythmically pigeon-holing letters with those remaining.

  He paused in his work while Boek introduced Magnus Ridolph, stared at the detective with the impersonal uninterested gaze to which Magnus Ridolph was becoming accustomed, and disavowed any knowledge of McInch.

  Magnus Ridolph glanced at Boek, said, “Excuse me, Mr. Boek, I’d like to ask the Postmaster one or two confidential questions.”

  “Certainly,” sniffed Boek, and moved away.

  Magnus Ridolph presently rejoined him.

  “I wanted to find out what type of mail the civic officers received, and also any other circumstances he might have noted which would help me.”

  “And did he help you?”

  “Very much,” said Magnus Ridolph.

  The two men skirted the waterfront, where giant seaweed barges loomed dark at their moorings, then back toward the Export Warehouse. The red sun was close to the horizon when they finally reached the car, and blood-colored light gave the town an aspect of fabled antiquity, softening the clutter and squalor. Silently they drove up the bumpy road to the Mission at the top of the ridge.

  As they alighted, Magnus Ridolph turned to Boek.

  “Have you a microscope conveniently at hand?”

  “Three,” said Boek shortly. “Visual, electronic, gamma-beta.”

  “I’d like to use one of them tonight,” said Magnus Ridolph.

  “As you wish.”

  “Tomorrow I believe that, one way or another, we shall clear up the affair.”

  Boek stared at him curiously. “You think you know who McInch is?”

  “It was immediately obvious,” said Magnus Ridolph, “in the light of my special knowledge.”

  Boek clamped his jaw. “I’d bolt my door tonight, if I were you. Whoever he is—he’s a murderer.”

  Magnus Ridolph nodded. “I believe you’re right.”

  Sclerotto night was long at this season—fourteen hours—and Magnus Ridolph arose, bathed, dressed himself in a clean white and blue tunic, all before dawn.

  From the windows of the reception hall he stood watching for the sunrise, the sky as yet holding only a blue electric glare, when he heard a tread behind him.

  Turning he found Klemmer Boek watching him, the round head twisted to one side, the blue eyes full of brittle speculation.

  “Sleep well?” was Boek’s greeting.

  “Indeed I did,” said Magnus Ridolph. “I hope you slept as soundly.”

  Boek grunted. “Ready for breakfast?”

  “Quite ready,” said Magnus Ridolph. They passed into the dining room, and Boek ordered breakfast from his lone servant.

  They ate silently, the blue pre-dawn light growing ever stronger. Only after coffee did Magnus Ridolph lean back, expansively light a small cigar.

  “Still think you can settle the case today?” asked Boek.

  “Yes,” said Magnus Ridolph. “I think it’s very possible.”

  “Er—you know who McInch is?”

  “Beyond a doubt.”

  “And you can prove it?”

  Magnus Ridolph let a plume of cigar smoke curl up through his fingers into the first watery ray from the sapphire-blue sun. “After a fashion—yes.”

  “You don’t sound very assured.”

  “Well—I have a stratagem in mind which will save a great deal of time.”

  “Yes?” Boek said, with heavy sarcasm, drumming his fingers.

  “I would like you to have Mayor—ah, Juju?…call a meeting this afternoon of the city officials. The city hall would be a satisfactory place. And at the meeting we will discuss McInch.”

  As they plowed through the dust to the city hall, Boek snapped, “This seems a little melodramatic.”

  “Possibly, possibly,” said Magnus Ridolph. “Possibly dangerous also.”

  Boek hesitated in midstride. “Are you sure—”

  “Nothing is a certainty,” said Magnus Ridolph. “Not even the continued rotation of this planet on its axis. And the least predictable phenomenon I know of is the duration of life.”

  Boek looked straight ahead, said nothing.

  They entered the city hall, paused in the ante-room a moment to let their eyes adapt to the dimness. Ahead of them to right and left, bulks of different masses and shapes began to form, splotched here and there by the rays of red and blue which entered through the matting.

  “The garbage collector is here,” said Magnus Ridolph behind his hand to Boek. “I can smell him.”

  They had advanced into the central room. The Mayor had been pacing solemnly back and forth, red fez perched slantwise, in the center of a rough circle formed by the Golespod garbage collector, the multipede postmaster, Joe Bertrand the fire-chief, the Tau Gemini warehouse manager, and the amphibian Chief of Police.

  “Gentlemen,” said Magnus Ridolph, “I won’t take up much of your time. As you all know, I have been investigating that entity known as McInch.”

  There was a movement about the room—a twinkling of the multipede postmaster’s legs, a quiver on the police-chief’s rubbery hide, a twist of the Mayor’s neck. There were slight nervous sounds—a soft hiss from the skatelike Golespod, the Negro fire-chief clearing his throat.

  The warehouse manager—the antlike creature of Tau Gemini—spoke in his toneless voice. “Exactly why are we here? Make your purpose clear.”

  Magnus Ridolph serenely stroked his beard, glanced from creature to creature. “I have learned McInch’s identity. I have estimated the sum he costs Sclerotto every day. I can prove that this creature is a murderer, or at the very least that he attempted to murder me. Yes, me—Magnus Ridolph!” and Magnus Ridolph stood stiff and stern as he spoke.

  Again there was the guarded movement, the near-silent eddy of sound, as each of the creatures took itself into the familiar places of its own brain.

  Magnus Ridolph said gravely, “As the governing body of the community I would value your advice on what course of action I should follow. Mr. Mayor, have you a suggestion?”

  The Yellowbird wove its neck in a series of quick darts and plunges, piped a shrill series of exc
ited unintelligible tones. The head came to a stand-still, the purple eye stared craftily at Magnus Ridolph. “McInch might kill us all.”

  Boek cleared his throat, muttered uncomfortably, “Do you think it’s a good idea for us to…”

  Fire-chief Joe Bertrand said, “I’m sick of all this pussyfooting. We have a jail. We have a legal code. Let’s judge McInch by what he’s done. If he’s a thief, put him in jail. If he’s a murderer, and if he can take mental surgery, let’s give it to him. If he can’t, let’s execute him!”

  Magnus Ridolph nodded. “I can prove McInch is a thief. Several years in jail might prove a salutary experience. You have a clean sanitary jail, with germicidal air-filters, compulsory bathing, pure, sanitary food—”

  “Why do you emphasize the wholesomeness of the jail?” buzzed the warehouse manager.

  “Because McInch will be exposed to it,” said Magnus Ridolph solemnly. “He’ll be vaccinated and immunized, and live in a completely germ-free environment. And this will hurt McInch more than death. Now—” and he looked at the metal-tense figures around him “—who is McInch?”

  The garbage collector reared amazingly erect, leaning far back, revealing its pale under-body, its double row of pale short legs. It writhed, hunched. “Duck!” yelled Boek as the Golespod spat a stinking wash of liquid to all quarters of the room. From the depths of its body came a rumbling voice. “Now all die, all die…”

  “Quiet!” said Magnus Ridolph sharply. “Quiet everyone! Mayor, quiet please!”

  The Yellowbird’s crazed piping diminished. “There is no danger for anyone,” said Magnus Ridolph, coolly wiping his face, eyes upon the Golespod, who still reared back. “An ultra-sonic vibrator below the floor, a Hechtmann irradiator in the ceiling have been operating ever since we entered the room. The bacteria in McInch’s serum were dead as soon as they left his mouth, if not before.”

  The Golespod hissed, lowered himself, plunged for the door, little legs pumping like pistons. The chief of police lunged like a porpoise from a wave, landed on the Golespod’s flat writhing back. His clawed flippers hooked in the flesh, tore. The Golespod screamed, turned on its back, scraped the amphibian between its legs, folded itself around him, squeezed. Joe Bertrand sprang forward, kicking at the milk-blue eye. The Portmar centipede rippled into the mêlée, and with each of his slender feet seized one of the Golespod’s, strained to pull them aside from the constricted chief of police. The Mayor hopped up through the hole in the ceiling, hopped back with a skewer, stabbed, stabbed, stabbed…

  Boek staggered out to the car. Magnus Ridolph, throwing his stinking white and blue tunic into a ditch, joined him.

  Boek clung to the wheel, his pink face clabbered.

  “They—they tore him to pieces,” he whispered.

  “An unnerving spectacle,” said Magnus Ridolph, testing his clotted beard. “A sordid adventure in every respect.”

  Boek turned a round accusing eye at him. “I believe you planned it like that!”

  Magnus Ridolph said, gently, “My friend, may I suggest that we return to the Mission and bathe ourselves? I believe clean clothes would help restore our perspectives.”

  A sober Klemmer Boek sat across from Magnus Ridolph at the dinner table, a Klemmer Boek who barely looked at his food. Magnus Ridolph ate fastidiously, though substantially. Once again he wore crisp linen, and his white beard was soft, expertly trimmed.

  “But how,” blurted Boek, “did you know the garbage collector was McInch?”

  “A simple process,” said Magnus Ridolph, gesturing with his fork. “A perfectly straightforward sequence of logic; a framework of theory, the consulting of references—”

  “Yes, yes, yes,” muttered Boek. “Logic this, intelligence that…”

  Magnus Ridolph’s mouth twitched slightly. “Here, in the concrete, is my chain of thought. McInch is a grafter, a thief, stealing large sums of money. What does he do with his loot? Nothing very conspicuous, otherwise his identity would be common knowledge. Assuming that McInch spent some or all of his money—an assumption by no means sure—I considered each of the civic officials, the most likely suspects, from the viewpoint of one of his own race.

  “There was Joe Bertrand, the fire-chief. By this test, he was innocent. He lived frugally in an uncongenial environment.

  “I considered the Mayor. What was a Yellowbird’s definition of delight? I found it would include a field of a certain type of flower, the scent of which drugs and exalts the Yellowbirds. Nothing of this sort was evident on Sclerotto. The Mayor, in his own eyes, lived a meager life.

  “Next the warehouse manager, the Tau Gemini ant-creature. The wants of these individuals are very modest. The words ‘luxury’ and ‘leisure’ have no equivalents in their language. If for this reason alone I was tempted to drop him. I learned from the postmaster that he purchased a number of books every month—these were his only conspicuous indulgence—but their value was commensurate with his salary. Temporarily, at least, I dismissed the warehouse manager.

  “The chief of police—a decisive case. By nature he is an amphibian, accustomed to a diet of mollusks. His planet is marshy and dank. Contrast all this to his life here on Sclerotto. A wonder he is able to survive.

  “I wondered about the postmaster—the multipede from Portmar’s Planet. His concept of luxury is a deep tank of warm oil, massage by little animals captured and trained for that purpose. This treatment bleaches the skin to a sandy beige. The postmaster’s skin is horny and brick-red, a sign of poverty and neglect.

  “Consider the garbage collector. The human reaction to his way of life is disgust, contempt. We cannot believe that a creature wallowing in filth possesses subtle discriminations. However, I knew that the Golespods possess an internal sense of the most delicate precision. They exist by ingesting organic matter, allowing it to ferment under the action of bacteria in a series of stomachs, and the ensuing alcohol they oxidize for energy.

  “Now the composition or quality of the organic raw materials is of no concern to the Golespod—garbage, protein waste, carrion, it’s all one, just as we ignore slight variations in the air we breathe. They derive their enjoyment not from these raw materials, but from the internal products—and to these ends, the variety and blends of bacteria in their stomachs is all-important.

  “Over the course of thousands of years, the Golespods have become bacteriologists of an extremely high order. They have isolated millions of various types, created new strains, each invoking in them a different sensual response. The most prized strains are difficult to isolate and hence are expensive.

  “When I learned this, I knew that the garbage collector was McInch. In his own mind he was in a supremely enviable position—surrounded by unlimited quantities of organic materials, able to afford the rarest, most enticing blends of bacteria.

  “I learned from the postmaster that the Golespod indeed received a small parcel from every incoming mail-ship—these of course the bacteria he imported from his home planet, some fantastically expensive.”

  Magnus Ridolph leaned back now, sipped his coffee, watching his wan host over the rim. Boek stirred. “How—how did he kill the two investigators then?” he asked. “And you said he tried to kill you.”

  “Do you recall how he spat at me yesterday? When I returned to the Mission I examined the stain under your microscope. It was a thick blanket of dead bacteria. I could not identify them, but luckily my precautions had killed them.” He sipped his coffee, puffed his cigar. “Now, as for my fee, I believe you received instructions in that connection.”

  Boek rose heavily, walked to his desk, returned with a check.

  “Thank you,” said Magnus Ridolph, gazing at the figure. He tapped his fingers musingly on the table. “So Sclerotto City finds itself without a garbage collector…”

  Boek scowled. “And no prospect of finding one. The city’ll stink worse than ever.”

  Magnus Ridolph had been languidly stroking his beard, gazing thoughtfully into space. “No…I f
ancy that the profit would hardly repay the effort.”

  “How’s that?” inquired Boek, blinking.

  Magnus Ridolph roused himself from his reverie, dispassionately considered Boek, who was chewing his fingernails.

  “Your dilemma aroused a train of thought.”

  “Well?”

  “In order to make money,” said Magnus Ridolph, “you must provide something that someone is willing to pay for. A self-evident statement? Not so. A surprising number of people are occupied selling objects and services no one wants. Very few are successful.”

  “Yes,” said Boek patiently. “What’s that got to do with collecting garbage? Do you want the job? If you do, say so, and I’ll recommend you to the Mayor.”

  Magnus Ridolph turned him a glance of mild reproach. “It occurred to me that 1012 Aurigae teems with Golespods any one of whom would pay for the privilege of filling the job.” He sighed, shook his head. “The profit of a single transaction would hardly justify the effort…A Commonwealth-wide employment service? It might be a venture of considerable profit.”

  THE HOWLING BOUNDERS

  My brain, otherwise a sound instrument, has a serious defect—a hypertrophied lobe of curiosity.

  —Magnus Ridolph.

  The afternoon breeze off Irremedial Ocean ruffling his beard, yellow Naos-light burnishing the side of his face, Magnus Ridolph gazed glumly across his newly-acquired plantation. So far, so good; in fact, too good to be true.

  He shook his head, frowned. All Blantham’s representations had been corroborated by the evidence of his own eyes: three thousand acres of prime ticholama, ready for harvest; a small cottage, native-style, but furnished adequately; the ocean at his doorstep, the mountains in his backyard. Why had the price been so low?

  “Is it possible,” mused Magnus Ridolph, “that Blantham is the philanthropist his acts suggest? Or does the ointment conceal a fly?” And Magnus Ridolph pulled at his beard with petulant fingers.