The Potter of Firsk and Other Stories

by Jack Vance

  “Oh.” Aiken looked at Martinon. “Some of your stuff?”

  Martinon nodded. “In a way. The films are, well, experimental. I’m not sure we want anyone checking them just yet.”

  “Here’s Dr. Krebius,” said the nurse placidly, and Martinon frowned.

  Dr. Krebius was stocky, red-faced, forthright. His hair was whiter than Martinon’s and rose from his scalp like a whisk-broom. He wore a white smock, and gave off a faint odor of clean laundry and iodoform.

  The nurse said, “This gentleman heard about the films; he wants to see them.”

  “Ah.” Dr. Krebius looked at Aiken with eyes like little blue ball-bearings. “The little stories.” He spoke in a heavy accent, gruff and deep in his throat. “You are who?”

  “My name is James Aiken. My sister saw the films yesterday and told me about them.”

  “Ah ha,” growled Krebius, turning to Martinon as if he would clap him on the back. “Maybe we charge admission, hey? Make money for the hospital!”

  Martinon said in a measured voice, “Aiken here works in a film laboratory. His interest is professional.”

  “Sure! What of it? Let him look! He does no harm!”

  Martinon shrugged, moved off down the hall.

  Krebius turned back to Aiken. “We show not much. Just a few little stories to please the children.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “In six minutes, at two o’clock precisely. That is the way we work here, precise on the second. That way we cure the sick little legs, the blind eyes.”

  “Oh,” said Aiken. “Blind children too?”

  “My specialty! You know of the Krebius Klinik in Leipzig?”

  Aiken shook his head. “Sorry.”

  “For ten years we do tremendous work. Far ahead of what you do here. Why? There is more to do, we must be bold!” He tapped Aiken on the chest with a hard forefinger. “Two years ago I give up my wonderful hospital. There is no living with the Communists. They order me to make lenses, soldiers to see better down the guns. My work is to heal the eyes, not putting them out. I come here.”

  “I see your point,” said Aiken. He hesitated. Martinon’s attitude had given him the uncomfortable sense of interloping.

  Krebius looked at him under bristly eyebrows.

  “Incidentally,” said Aiken, “as Martinon says, I’m in the special effects business. Part of my work is keeping up with what’s going on.”

  “Of course. Why not? I have no interest in the film; it is not mine. Look as you please. Martinon is the cautious one. Fear is caution. I have no fear. I am cautious only with the tools of my work. Then!” He held up his blunt hands. “I am like a vise. The eye is a delicate organ!”

  He bowed, walked off down the corridor. Aiken and the nurse watched him go. Aiken, grinning a little, looked at the nurse, who was grinning too.

  “You should see him when he’s excited. And then—well! I was raised on a farm. The old kitchen range used to get red hot. When water spilled on it…”

  “I’m a farm boy myself,” said Aiken.

  “That’s Dr. Krebius. You’d better go. He wasn’t fooling. We work by the split-second around here. Right down the end of the hall, that’s the ward for today’s films.”

  Aiken walked down the corridor, pushed through the swinging door into a large room with curtained windows. Crippled children occupied beds along the walls, wheel-chairs down the center of the room. Aiken looked around for Bunny, but saw him nowhere. A table near the door supported a sixteen millimeter projector; on the far wall a screen hung. Martinon stood by the projector threading in the film. He nodded curtly at Aiken.

  The clock on the wall read half a minute to two. Martinon flicked on the projector’s lamp and motor, focussed the image. A nurse went to sit under the screen with a big red book.

  The minute hand touched twelve.

  Two P.M.

  “Today,” said the nurse, “we watch another chapter from the life of Ulysses. Last time, you’ll remember, they were trapped by a terrible one-eyed giant called Polyphemus, on the island that we call Sicily today. Polyphemus is a horrible creature that’s been eating up the Greeks.” A delighted shudder and buzz ran around the room. “Today we find Ulysses and his men plotting an escape.” She nodded. The lights went out. Martinon started the projector.

  There was a chattering sound. The white rectangle on the screen quivered, shook. Martinon switched off the projector. The lights went on. Martinon bent over the projector with a worried frown. He banged it with his knuckles, shook it, tried the switch again. The same chatter. He looked up, shook his head despondently. “Don’t think we’re going to make it today.”

  “Aw,” sighed the children.

  Aiken went over to the projector. “What’s the trouble?”

  “It’s been coming on a long time,” said Martinon. “Something in the sprockets. I’ll have to take it to the repairman.”

  “Let me take a look. I’ve got the same model; I know it inside out.”

  “Oh, don’t bother,” said Martinon, but Aiken was already investigating the mechanism. He opened a blade of his pocket knife, worked ten seconds. “She’ll go now. The screw holding the sprocket to the drive gear was loose.”

  “Much obliged,” muttered Martinon.

  Aiken took his seat. Martinon caught the nurse’s eye. She bent over the book, began to read aloud. The lights went out.

  The Odyssey! Aiken was looking into a vast cave, dim-lit by firelight. Hoary walls rose to fade into high murk. Off to one side lay a great manlike hulk. At his back a dozen men worked feverishly, and in the vast smoky volume of the cavern they were miniatures, manikins. They held a great pointed pole into the flames, and the red firelight played and danced on their sweating bodies.

  The camera drew closer. The features of the men became visible—young, clean-limbed warriors moving with passionate determination, heroic despair. Ulysses stood forth, a man with a face of the Sistine Jehovah. He signalled. The warriors heaved the spear to their shoulders. Crouching under the weight, they ran forward against the face half-seen in the dimness.

  It was a lax, idiotic face, with one eye in the middle of the forehead. The camera drew away showing the length of Polyphemus’ body. The Greeks came running with the flaming pike; the eye snapped open, stared in wonder, and the pike bored into the center—deep, deep, deep.

  Polyphemus jerked his head, the spear flung up, the Greeks scuttled into the shadows, disappeared. Polyphemus tore in agony at his face, wrenched loose the spear. He lunged around the cave, groping with one hand, clasping his bloody face with the other.

  The camera went to the Greeks pressing back against the walls. The squat, bulging legs tramped past them. A great hand swept close, scraped, grabbed. The Greeks held their breaths, and the sweat gleamed on their chests.

  Polyphemus stumbled away, into the fire; the logs scattered, embers flew. Polyphemus bellowed in frustration.

  The camera shifted to the Greeks, tying themselves under monster sheep.

  Polyphemus stood at the mouth of the cave. He pushed the great barrier rock aside and, straddling the opening, felt of the back of each sheep as it passed between his legs.

  The Greeks ran down to the golden beach, launched their galley over the wine-dark sea. They hoisted the sail and the wind drove them off-shore.

  Polyphemus came down to the beach. He picked up a boulder, flung it. Slow through the air it flew, slanting down toward the Greeks. It crashed into the sea, and the galley was tossed high on a fountain of water and bright white foam. Polyphemus stooped for another boulder. The scene faded.

  “And that’s all for today,” said the nurse.

  The children sighed in disappointment, began to chatter.

  Martinon looked at Aiken with a peculiar sidelong grin. “What do you think?”

  “Not bad,” said Aiken. “Not bad at all. A little rough in spots. You could use better research. That wasn’t any Greek galley—more like a Viking longboat.”

  Martinon nodded carelessly. �
��It’s not my film; I’m on the outside looking in. But I agree with you. All brains and no technique, like a lot of this avant garde stuff.”

  “I don’t recognize any of the actors. Who made it?”

  “Merlin Studios.”

  “Never heard of them.”

  “They’ve just organized. One of my friends is involved. He asked me to show the film to some kids, get the reaction.”

  “They like it,” said Aiken.

  Martinon shrugged. “Kids are easy to please.”

  Aiken turned to go. “So long, and thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  In the hall, Aiken met Dr. Krebius, standing with a pretty blonde girl of sixteen or seventeen. Krebius gave him a genial salute. “And the film, you liked it?”

  “Very much,” said Aiken. “But I’m puzzled.”

  “Ah ha,” said Krebius with a foxy wink at the girl. “The little secrets that we must keep.”

  “Secrets?” she murmured. “What secrets?”

  “I forget,” said Krebius. “You know none of the secrets.”

  Aiken looked intently at the girl, glanced quickly at the doctor, and Krebius nodded. “This is little Carol Bannister. She’s blind.”

  “That’s too bad,” said Aiken. Her eyes turned in his direction. They were a wide, deep Dutch blue, mild and tranquil. He saw that she might be a year or two older than he had first imagined.

  Krebius stroked her silken-blonde head as he might pat a spaniel. “It’s a pity when lovely young girls can’t see to look and flirt and watch the boys’ hearts go bumping. But with Carol—well, we work and we hope, and who knows? Someday she may see as well as you or I.”

  “I sure hope so,” said Aiken.

  “Thank you,” the girl said softly, and Aiken took his leave.

  In an unaccountably gloomy mood, he returned to his lab and found himself unable to work. For an hour he sat musing and smoking, then, on a sudden inspiration, called a friend, who was legman for a famous Hollywood columnist.

  “Hello, Larry. This is Aiken.”

  “What’s on the fire?”

  “I want some dope on Merlin Studios. Got any?”

  “Nothing. Never heard of ’em. What do they do?”

  Aiken felt like dropping the whole thing. “Oh, they’ve made a few snatches of film. Fairy tales, things like that.”

  “Any good?”

  Aiken thought back over the film, and his wonder revived. “Yeah,” he said. “Very good. In fact—magnificent.”

  “You don’t say. Merlin Studios?”

  “Right. And I think—just think, mind you—that Victor Martinon is in on it.”

  “Martinon, eh? I’ll ask Fidelia.” Fidelia was Larry’s boss. “She might know. If it’s a tip, thanks.”

  “Not at all.”

  An hour later Larry called back. “I’ve learned three things. First, nobody in the trade knows anything about Merlin Studios. It’s a vacuum. Second, Vic Martinon’s been doing some fancy finagling, and he has been heard to use the words ‘Merlin Studios’. Third, they’re arranging a sneak preview tonight.”

  “Tonight? Where?”

  “Garden City Theater, Pomona.”

  “Okay, Larry. Thanks.”

  Aiken watched five minutes of feature film, which was immediately followed by a slide reading:

  Please do not leave the theater.

  You are about to witness a

  SNEAK PREVIEW

  Your comments will be appreciated.

  The slide dissolved into a title: a montage of colored letters on a silver-green background:

  VASILLISSA THE

  ENCHANTED PRINCESS.

  A fantasy based on an ancient

  Russian fairy tale.

  THE MERLIN STUDIOS.

  The silver-green background dissolved into orange; bold gray letters read: Produced by Victor Martinon.

  There were no further credits. The orange dissolved into a blur of gray mist, with wandering hints of pink and green.

  A voice spoke. “We go far away and long ago—to old Russia where once upon a time a young woodcutter named Ivan, returning from the woods, found a dove lying under a tree. The dove had a broken wing, and looked at Ivan so sorrowfully that he took pity on it…”

  The mist broke open, into the world of fairyland, a landscape swimming in radiance, richness, color. It was real and it was unreal, a land everyone hoped for but knew never could be. There was a forest of antique trees, banks of ferns with the sun shining through the leaves, moist white flowers, beds of violets. The foliage was brown, gold, rust, lime and dark green, and down through the leaves came shafts of sunshine. Beyond the forest was a green meadow sprinkled with daisies, buttercups, cowslips, cornflowers, and far away down the valley the dark wooden gables of a village, the onion dome of a church could be seen.

  The story proceeded, narrated by the voice. “Ivan nursed the dove back to health, and received a malachite casket for a reward. When he opened the casket a magnificent palace appeared on the meadow, surrounded by beautiful gardens, terraces of ivory, statues of jade and jet and cinnabar.

  “The Czar of the Sea, riding past, saw the palace. Angry at Ivan’s presumption he set Ivan impossible tasks—cutting down a forest overnight, building a flying ship, breaking an iron stallion to the saddle.

  “The dove came to aid Ivan. She was Vasillissa, a beautiful maiden with long honey-blonde hair…”

  The fable vaulted from miracle to miracle, through battles, sorcery, quests to the end of the earth, the final defeat of the Czar.

  There was no sound from the audience. Every eye stared as if seeing the most precious part of their lives. The landscapes glowed with marvelous light: pink, blue, black, gold. The scenes were rich with imagery; real with the truth of poetry. The Czar, a great swarthy man, wore a scarlet robe and over this a black iron corselet embossed with jade. Chumichka, his steward, hopped around on malformed legs, glaring wildly from a pallid sidelong face.

  The story swarmed with monsters and creatures of fable: griffins, hedge-hounds, fish with legs, fiery birds.

  And Vasillissa! When Aiken saw Vasillissa, he muttered and stirred in his seat. Vasillissa was a beautiful golden-haired girl, swift as dandelion fluff, gay as any of the flowers. Vasillissa was as much a thing of magic as Ivan’s wonderful palace. Like the fairy landscapes, she awakened a yearning that could never be satisfied. In one scene she came down to the river to catch a witch who had taken the form of a carp. The pool was like bottle-glass, shadowed by black-green poplars. Vasillissa stood silent, looking over the water. The carp jumped up in a flurry of silver spray; she turned her head so suddenly that the blonde hair swung out to the side.

  “I must be completely mad,” said Aiken to himself.

  Vasillissa and Ivan finally escaped the raging Czar. “And they lived happily ever after, in the palace by the Dorogheny Woods,” said the voice. And the picture ended.

  Aiken drew a great breath. He joined the applause of the audience, rose to his feet, drove back to his apartment at breakneck pace.

  For several hours he lay awake thinking. Magic Vasillissa! Today he had seen her as a blind girl, with silky blonde hair; slight, thoughtful, rather shy. Carol Bannister—Vasillissa. She was and she wasn’t. Carol was blind. Vasillissa had bright blue eyes and could see very well indeed. What a strange situation, thought Aiken, and lay tossing and dozing and dreaming and thinking.

  James Aiken was hardly a handsome man, although he had an indefinable flair, the concentration of character that equals color. His mouth drooped at a harsh saturnine angle; he was thin and angular; he walked with a limp. He smoked and drank a good deal; he had few friends, and made no great play for women. He was clever, imaginative, quick with his hands, and the Aiken Special Effects Laboratory was doing good business. He aroused no great loyalty from his employees. They thought him cynical and morose. But a cynic is a disappointed idealist; and James Aiken was as tender, wistful an idealist as could be found in all Los
Angeles.

  Vasillissa the Enchanted Princess!

  He brooded about Carol Bannister. She had not acted Vasillissa, she was Vasillissa! And the magic longing rose in his throat like a sour taste, and he knew nothing else in life was as important.

  At quarter of ten next morning he drove north on Arroyo Seco Boulevard, up winding Lomita Way to the Krebius Children’s Clinic.

  At the desk he gave his name, asked to speak to Dr. Krebius, and after a ten minute wait was ushered into an austere office.

  Krebius rose to his feet, bowed stiffly. “Yes, Mr. Aiken.” No longer the bluff and genial doctor of yesterday, he seemed stubborn and suspicious.

  Aiken asked, “May I sit down?”

  “Certainly.” Krebius lowered himself into his own chair, erect as a post. “What do you wish?”

  “I’d like to talk to you about Carol Bannister.”

  Krebius raised his eyebrows inquiringly, as if the choice of topic had surprised him. “Very well.”

  “Has she ever done any acting? In the movies?”

  “Carol?” Krebius looked puzzled. “No. Never. I have known her many years. My sister is married to the cousin of her father. She has done no acting. Perhaps you are thinking of her mother. Marya Leone.”

  “Marya Leone? Carol’s mother?”

  Krebius indulged himself in a wintry smile. “Yes.”

  “I feel even sorrier for Carol.” Marya Leone, a long-faded soubrette, was known along Sunset Strip as a confirmed and unregenerate alcoholic. A fragment of long-dead gossip rose into his mind. “One of her husbands killed himself.”

  “That was Carol’s father. Four years ago. That very night Carol lost her vision. Her life has been clouded by great tragedy.”

  Krebius pushed himself back in his chair, his white eyebrows came lower down over his hard blue eyes.

  Aiken said in a conciliatory voice, “Do you think there’s a connection? Between the blindness and the suicide? Shock perhaps? Somewhere I’ve heard of things like that.”

  Krebius spread his hands in a non-committal gesture. “Who knows? They were high in the mountains, in a lodge that Marya Leone at that time still owned. Carol was fourteen. A thunderstorm came at night, bringing evil emotions. There was quarrelling. Howard Bannister shot himself, and in the next room a bolt of lightning struck through the window at little Carol. She has seen nothing since.”