The Potter of Firsk and Other Stories

by Jack Vance

  Bannister nodded sagely. “And why did all this take place?”

  “He said something about—” Smith knit his brows “—I believe it was jewels. Rather trite.” He chuckled. “He could at least have given us something bizarre for our trouble—energy from the air, a paradise of beautiful women, clairvoyant dragons. But no—just jewels.”

  Bannister nodded. “Drunk, eh?”

  “Drunk as a lord.”

  “Crazy to boot?”

  “Well, Mr. Bannister, you’ve heard his story. You can judge for yourself.”

  Bannister’s fury and contempt had taken him past the stage of invective. He said in a sibilant voice, “Smith, you’re a remarkable man.”

  Smith looked up in surprise. “Why, thank you, sir.”

  “A museum piece. A man with a head full of corn cobs.”

  Smith stared in confusion.

  “We’ve been exploring space a hundred and fifty years,” Bannister intoned. “We’ve found hot worlds and cold worlds, big ones and little ones. We’ve found dead planets and planets swarming with life, there’ve been insects and fish and lizards and dinosaurs and god-awful things you’d hate to see under a microscope. But never—not once, Smith—has there been the report of an intelligent race, a civilized people.”

  Smith nodded. “That’s why I was quick to see through the man.”

  “You ineffable damn fool,” roared Bannister, “you pitch out a man who claims first-hand information, and meanwhile you have the brass to sit here grinning like a cuckoo! Where’s your conscience? You feel no twinge when you accept your salary?”

  “Well,” said Smith hesitantly, “it still seems to me that you’re grasping at straws. I sized this man up when I first picked up the log book. I’m an excellent judge of character, Mr. Bannister. I can usually predict a man’s actions fairly well.”

  “Ah,” said Bannister. “Then in that case perhaps you can predict my next sentence?”

  Smith looked worried. “Is it ‘You’re fired’?”

  “Right. You’re fired.”

  Smith said in a weak voice, “I told you I was good at it.”

  All was not lost, thought Smith as he walked along Folger Avenue toward the space-port. If he were able to confront Bannister with the supercargo, Bannister could see for himself how completely addled was the man. No doubt there would be reinstatement, a handsome apology, promotion, a raise in pay…

  Smith returned to his surroundings. Folger Avenue presented a solid five-story front of ancient wooden houses, painted mud color. The ground levels housed saloons and eating-places in almost continuous succession; the few stores intervening were given to the sale of cheap clothing, second-hand goods, weapons, souvenirs of space, medicinal preparations and specifics against out-world ailments; in the upper stories were cheap hotels, warehouses, an occasional Class 12B brothel.

  In spite of much that was squalid, Folger Avenue was rich with a certain swashbuckling charm, and equally rich with odor: the musty scent of the warehouses, stale spirits from the taverns, garbage in the gutter, perfume from an oil adulterator.

  At last the wooden houses fell away, and Folger Avenue gave into the space-port, a great seared oval bordered by the Evan River. Three spaceships occupied the far end of the field; on the lapstrake of the nearest Smith read the silver letters: Messeraria.

  He trotted across the field, dodging crazy lenses of mottled green glass burnt into the soil by departing ships, mounted the ladder into the Messeraria.

  A quartermaster on the gangway sat reading a paper: a gray-skinned little man no more than five feet tall, thin as a heron. He put down his paper. “Yes, sir, what is it? If it’s bills, you’ll have to see either the captain or the supercargo, and neither one’s aboard.”

  Smith nodded carelessly. “Where can I find the supercargo?”

  “He’s liable to be any place. Might try the Bobolink in Rafferty Alley, off Folger Avenue.”

  “I’ll do that,” said Smith. “Er—were you aboard last trip?”

  The quartermaster squinted sharply. “What if I was?”

  “Just curious,” said Smith hastily. “I hear you made a pretty good trip.”

  “Fair. Chow was distasteful.”

  “May I ask, what planets did you close?”

  “Who wants to know?”

  “Just curiosity.”

  “Take it some other place.”

  Smith descended the ladder, started back across the field. A voice halted him. The quartermaster was looking down from the port. “This curiosity—don’t go taking it near Captain Plum. He’s a big rough man. Like to be unhealthy. I’m telling you out of kindness.”

  II

  Smith returned to Folger Avenue to search for Rafferty Alley. Every twenty steps revealed another little side-street. After wandering a hundred yards Smith came to a standstill, looking around helplessly.

  A fat man wearing a remarkable green- and white-striped garment stood by the wall, observing him with speculative interest. Smith approached, made a polite inquiry.

  “Rafferty Alley?” said the fat man. “Directly behind you, young fellow.”

  Smith turned, noted the street marker, and, a hundred feet down the alley, a bird outlined in green fluorescent tubing. “That must be the Bobolink.”

  The fat man was inspecting him, Smith thought, with more than ordinary interest.

  “New to these parts, young fellow?”

  Smith cleared his throat. “Well, yes and no.”

  “Gotta be careful along in here. There’s strange characters watching and waiting for patsies.” He laid a soft hand on Smith’s arm. “Come along, I’ll take you down to the Bobolink, we’ll have a drink, and maybe I can do you a good turn.”

  It occurred to Smith that the fat man would provide him with protective coloration; he would be less conspicuous with someone known to the district. He nodded. “Very well. It’s only fair to warn you, I’m not a drinking man.”

  “Well, well,” said the fat man. “Fancy that. Say,” he nudged Smith with his elbow, “ever think you’d like to make a trip? You look like you might be good at figures. And it just so happens I know of a vacancy that wants to be filled quiet-like without any red tape.”

  Smith reflected a moment. The idea had many ramifications. Life in space was by no means easy and he would have to forget the supercargo of the Messeraria. He thought of the far worlds, the strange sights to be seen, the naked beauty of the stars seen in their native element. “I’d have to know more about it,” he said cautiously. “I’ve never given the idea serious thought.”

  The fat man nodded, and pushed open the door into the Bobolink. When Smith paused, adjusting his eyes to the dimness, the fat man took his elbow and conducted him to a table where three men were sitting.

  The fat man addressed the central of the three figures, a giant of a man with a low forehead, a coarse overhanging shock of hair, a splayed nose with tufts of hair sprouting from the nostrils. These the man had freakishly waxed and shaped into tiny mustaches. There was also a peculiar rancid odor, which reminded Smith of the bear pen at the Haight Memorial Zoo.

  “Captain, sir,” said the fat man, bending over the table with doggish servility, “here’s a young fellow says he can figure pretty well and maybe he’d like to make a trip.”

  The giant turned clever little eyes up and down Smith’s crisp gabardines. “Well, well, a dude. You ever been to space before?”

  “Well, no, but—”

  “Don’t make too much difference. I need a man that knows how to add, how to take orders, how to keep his mouth shut. This damn fool here can’t do any of the three.”

  Smith followed his glance to the man at the captain’s left. He sat morosely, with his back half-turned to Smith: the supercargo who had staggered drunkenly after him into the Star Control office.

  Smith turned back to the captain. “You must be Captain Plum.”

  “That’s me. Meet Bones, my steward—” he pointed to the fat man “—Jack Fetc
h, the mate, and—” he jerked a thumb at the supercargo “—this is Bilge.”

  The supercargo straightened in his chair. “My name is Lowell.”

  “Harrup!” roared Plum. “If I say your name is Bilge, that’s your name.”

  Smith conceived that a year with Captain Plum in the welded steel tube of a spaceship might be trying. He rapidly diagnosed megalomania in Plum, sado-masochism in the hatchet-faced Jack Fetch and a shifted valence in Bones, the steward; a set of ship’s officers over-rich and over-ripe even in the unreal atmosphere of Rafferty Alley. Captain Plum and his nose-mustache. Bones and his green- and white-striped suit. Bilge Lowell and his delusions of an intelligent race in the far places. Did he recognize Smith as the clerk from Star Control? Smith felt the brush of the hot black eyes, saw Lowell’s pale brow furrow in thought.

  Smith turned uneasily to Plum. “What’s your ship?”

  “The Messeraria. My own property.” Captain Plum looked him over coolly. “Know her?”

  “Never heard of her.”

  “A good ship,” said Plum. “Good quarters, good chow.” He winked slyly; the great brush of his eyebrow made near-contact with his cheek. “Maybe a little extra money at the end of the trip, if things go right.”

  “It sounds very interesting,” said Smith. “I’d have to think the proposition over.” He looked toward Lowell. “Er—your present man is leaving you?”

  “Yes,” said Plum. “He’s leaving us.”

  Lowell said in a hoarse voice, as if his throat were lined with bark, “I’ve just been thinking. I’ve just been making myself up a philosophy, and I’ve come to the conclusion that there’s nothing in the world as good as a good drink. What do you say to that, Captain?”

  “I say that you’ve been following that philosophy too close, and it’s liable to stove you in before you’re much older.”

  “Pah. Nothing’s as good as a good drink, unless it’s one of them pretty jewels you carry in that big pocket of yours.”

  The captain swung a burly arm and there was a sound: half slap, half thud. Blood dribbled down the supercargo’s chin. He grinned a wide, toothless grin. “No more teeth, Cap. You’re a mighty rough man.”

  Smith asked ingenuously, “Just what jewels are these? I’m interested in off-world minerals.”

  Plum’s eyes glowed. “First thing you learn on my ship, son, is to ask no questions. Jump to it when orders are given, and you’re fine as wine.”

  “Speaking of wine,” said Lowell, “I’m now going to mix us a drink such as you’ve never tasted in the history of the world. Just like our last trip, eh, Captain?” He ducked back before Plum could strike. “Now then, don’t hit a sick man. Hey, Bosco!” He called to the bartender. “Come over here.”

  “You got legs.”

  Lowell staggered over to the bar, returned with a tray full of bottles and measuring glasses.

  “Watch close,” said Lowell. He looked deep into Smith’s eyes. “Watch close. This is important.”

  Smith stirred uneasily, glancing at Captain Plum, who leaned back, watching Lowell’s motions like a cat fascinated by a bit of twitching paper.

  Lowell picked up a bottle, waved it in the air. “Here’s arrack, good white arrack. But it should be red arrack. Well, we’ll pretend it’s red arrack. The recipe calls for: Red Arrack—twenty-six and a half cc. Very well. I put it aside. Next, the Dubonnet. I pour the bottle into the pitcher. Now I take away—take away, mind you—ten cc. Seem strange to you?” He eyed Smith searchingly. “No? Good.”

  Captain Plum chuckled indulgently. “Bilge is cooking you up some of the Fountain of Youth.”

  “A jag of that slop and age means nothing,” said Jack Fetch.

  Lowell ignored them. “Now this stuff is Fleur de Lys liqueur. Just Lys is good enough; I never was much at this European lingo.” With a sudden clutch he tore the label in such a way that only the ‘Lys’ remained.

  Lowell was rambling insanely, thought Smith; a wink from Captain Plum confirmed the diagnosis. If only Bannister were here now!

  In his husky voice Lowell said, “This is important. I’m a sick man not long for the world. It’s as well that the knowledge survives me. So: Lys—ninety-four cc.” He heaved a great sigh; his shoulders slumped. “There, that’s the body of it. Now the trimmings.” He laid out an orange and a lemon, three black olives and a green one.

  Bones the steward suddenly bent forward, whispered into Plum’s heavy ear. Plum’s eyebrows shot upward; he struck out, swept the tray, bottles, glasses to the floor. The crash and clatter of breaking glass brought conversation throughout the Bobolink to a dead halt.

  Lowell sat back grinning wearily at Captain Plum. “Who’s the crazy one now?” He coughed. Plum surged forward, raised his arm; in sudden pity Smith reached out, pushed him back into his seat. “For Heaven’s sake, Captain, take it easy! The man’s not well!”

  Bosco the bartender had been sweeping up the broken glass. “Who’s going to pay for the good liquor and glassware? Three bottles, arrack rum, wine and liqueur—that’s twenty dollars—and five for the glass.”

  “Take it out of Lowell,” said Plum with a heavy-lidded stare. “He ordered the drinks.”

  Smith said sharply, “The arrack and the liqueur weren’t broken; you picked them up and carried them off. And that glassware isn’t worth a dollar. Here—two dollars for half a bottle of wine, a dollar for the glass.” He shoved bills at the bartender. “That’s all you’ll collect here; if you want more—” He paused, feeling the baleful weight of Captain Plum’s eyes on his skin.

  Bosco said spitefully, “You’re sure a smart snipe, ain’t you?” He took the money and went muttering back to the bar.

  Plum said, “Does seem like you’re pretty big for your britches. Minute ago you pushed me; can’t say as I like it.” He came to his feet suddenly, as if snapped up on a spring. A hand slammed around, struck with a crushingly sick impact.

  Smith tottered limply back, caught himself with his elbows over the bar. His eyes went dim, something strange clamped at his brain. Faintly he heard Jack Fetch say in a pleased breathless voice, “The young fool’s gonna challenge you, Cap; the—young—fool…”

  Smith whirled through nightmare, through a fury of thudding blows that seemed to diminish in intensity. From a great distance he heard sounds, but the impression most vivid was Captain Plum’s great face, swollen and turgid, with the ridiculous nose-mustache, the eyes staring, wide open, the mouth working up and down as if he were chewing.

  His own arms and feet were moving; he felt the jerk and strain; he felt the breath burn in his throat. His knuckles stung; he saw Captain Plum stumble awkwardly, trip on a chair, fall flailing to the floor. From his pocket rolled a green ball.

  Smith stared stupidly down at Plum, who sat staring back, his eyebrows a bar across his face.

  The green ball glittered, sparkled. On a sudden impulse Smith seized it, turned, ran out of the Bobolink and pell-mell down Rafferty Alley. He turned into Folger Avenue, hearing the thud of steps behind him.

  First came Jack Fetch, running like a weasel. Behind was Captain Plum, yelling hoarsely.

  Smith turned the corner, stopped short.

  Jack Fetch came swiftly around. Smith hit the saturnine gray face as hard as he could; Jack Fetch tottered blindly toward the gutter. Smith turned, ran up on Folger Avenue.

  A taxi stanchion rose from the street; a cab was moored to the davits. Smith jumped on the lift; the chain moved, he slid up the tube. From the platform he glimpsed the hulk of Captain Plum striding like a mad colossus down Folger Avenue.

  He jumped into the cab. “Star Control Field Office,” he directed.

  Bannister sat with the jewel between his fingers, fascinated by the delicate snowflake light-spangles forming, building, expanding, varying, dissolving, one after the other. “It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before. I’ll have the mineralogist look at it. Or—” he hesitated, inspected the jewel more closely “—maybe it’s a matter for the
biology department.”

  Smith hitched himself forward in his chair. “Now what? Do you think we’d better send the patrol out for Captain Plum?”

  Bannister flicked Smith’s face with a cool glance. “Right now he’s probably in the patrol office, signing a complaint against you for stealing his jewel. I can’t say that you’ve handled this very well.” He turned back to the jewel. “I had already assigned two men to check up on Plum; now there’s no telling what he’ll do.”

  The visiphone buzzed; Bannister leaned forward, punched a button. “Yes?”

  “Sergeant Burt here, sir. We’ve picked up Lowell, the supercargo, in Chenolm Way, off Folger Avenue. He’s been aratinized. Face yellow, eyes and tongue hanging loose. We’ve sent him to the hospital, but I’m afraid there’s nothing more to be done.”

  Bannister cursed softly. “Damned scoundrels. How about Plum?”

  “He’s dropped out of sight.”

  Bannister nodded grimly. “Keep looking for him.” He snapped off the visiphone. For a moment he sat motionless, then sighed heavily. “Well, that’s that. Lowell is done for. He’ll never talk to anybody again. As good as dead.”

  “He was lucid enough in the Bobolink,” said Smith doubtfully.

  “That was an hour ago. He’s been dosed with aratin since, and his brain is bubbling like a pot of hot mush.” Bannister sat back, looking thoughtfully at Smith.

  Smith moved uneasily in his chair.

  Bannister said, “I have in mind a job I think you can do. If you carry it off, you’ll get a promotion.”

  Smith frowned. “I’m not so sure that—”

  “You’re a good Star Control man?”

  “I was, until I was fired this morning.”

  Bannister gestured impatiently. “That’s all water under the bridge; you’re hired again. You understand that this hint of contact with an intelligent race is unprecedented? How important it is that we either verify or disprove it?”

  Smith nodded. “Certainly.”