The Potter of Firsk and Other Stories

by Jack Vance

  “A Star Control man is resourceful and daring—right?”

  “Right.”

  Bannister pounded the table. “We can’t let Plum antagonize this race, if it exists, or destroy it with Earth diseases. If it exists, we’ve got to find it. And you’re the man to do it, Smith!”

  Smith blinked.

  “Here’s how I see it,” said Bannister. “If there’s money to be made looting this planet, Plum will be out and away as soon as he organizes a trip. Once in space, under sky-drive, he’s gone. We can’t trace him. Unless of course we have a representative aboard. There’s where you come in. He’s practically hired you already. You return the jewel to him, tell him you’re sorry you ran off with it, and that you want a chance to pick up a few yourself.”

  Smith sat hunched in his chair. “You don’t think he’ll be angry with me?”

  “You’ve brought his jewel back; why should he be?”

  “He won’t—” Smith paused, tried to gauge the temper of Plum’s mind.

  “Won’t what?”

  “Well,” said Smith, “don’t you think that if he got me out in space, aboard his ship, that he might take advantage of the situation to—well, beat me up?”

  “I don’t see why,” argued Bannister.

  “But I knocked him down in the Bobolink.”

  “He respects you for it.”

  “You don’t think he might use that aratin stuff on me?”

  “What good is a man dosed up with aratin? He needs you as a member of his crew.”

  Smith chewed his lips.

  “I’ll give you a packet of hyolone,” said Bannister heartily. “Out in space, when you go into sky-drive, drop it into the thrust-box. The ship will leave a trickle of luminescence behind that we can follow at a safe distance.”

  Smith still seemed uncertain. Bannister eyed him under half-closed lids. Suddenly he turned to the visiphone. “Codge, get credentials ready for Sergeant Robert Smith—” He looked sidewise at Smith, calculated rapidly. There was nothing to lose. “Make it Lieutenant Robert Smith, of the Extraordinary Squad.”

  Smith sat back in his chair. Lieutenant Smith of the Extraordinary Squad! He rolled the words around his tongue. Bannister watched covertly a moment, then rose to his feet, motioned to Smith.

  “Come along, Lieutenant. I’ll drop you off at the field.”

  They flew out across Lake Maud, circled Mount Davidson, dropped low across the Graymont district, and presently flew along the taxi lane only a few hundred feet above the mud-colored old buildings of Folger Avenue.

  Below was the space-port. Polished black hulls lay quiet around the field like enormous dead beetles.

  Smith pointed. “There’s the Messeraria. Or rather—” he hesitated, frowned, searched the field. “It was about there, near that new glass blister.”

  “New glass blister, eh?” Bannister spoke in a strained voice. “Well, Lieutenant Smith—” he laid heavy stress on the title “—it appears the bird has flown the coop.”

  Smith drew a deep breath. “Perhaps it’s all for the best, I never was completely comfortable with the plan. But there’ll be other jobs.”

  III

  Returning toward the Star Control Office, Smith pointed to a landing plat on a terrace above St. Andrews Place. “There’s the Odd Angle Club, that blue blazon with the green bars. I happen to be a member. Would you care to lunch with me, by way of celebration?”

  Bannister gazed at him blankly. “Celebration? What for, in God’s name?”

  “My promotion.”

  “Oh,” Bannister smiled grimly. “Your promotion, indeed.”

  He landed the boat and a moment later Desdumes, the maître d’hôtel, ushered them to a seat.

  Smith signalled the bar-boy. “A drink before lunch, perhaps?”

  Bannister grudgingly relaxed his aloofness. “A good idea.”

  “I’m not a drinking man myself,” said Smith. “Alcohol corrodes the intellect. But naturally there’s not an objection in the world to your enjoying yourself.”

  “Very decent of you,” said Bannister dryly. He looked Smith up and down with dispassionate curiosity.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Smith uncomfortably.

  “Nothing at all. I know a woman who can’t stand the sight of feathers.”

  Smith was unable to trace the sequence of thought, and glancing sidelong at Bannister, seemed to notice a lack of warmth in his manner. Was it possible that Bannister considered him something less than a good fellow? Such a notion might militate against further advancement, no matter how efficient his work.

  Smith said heartily, “Let me order you something a little different—a drink I imagine you’ve never tasted before.”

  Bannister made a wry face. “Camel milk, something of the sort? Thanks no, I’ll stick to whisky.”

  “Just as you like,” said Smith. “It was recommended rather highly by the Messeraria supercargo; he was so emphatic that I noted the recipe. Arrack—red arrack—Dubonnet, a liqueur—”

  “What’s this?” demanded Bannister. “Lowell telling you how to mix drinks?”

  Smith found a soiled bit of paper in his pocket. “Red arrack, twenty-six and a half cc. Dubonnet—a half bottle less ten cc. Fleur de Lys liqueur, ninety-four cc. An orange, a lemon, four olives.”

  Bannister, sitting rigidly in his chair, asked, “Why haven’t you mentioned this before?”

  Smith made an indulgent gesture. “Just more of this alcoholic stuff.”

  Bannister asked in a steely voice, “Could it possibly be that he was attempting a secret communication?”

  Smith considered, “I will say this much,” he admitted uneasily. “Immediately afterward, Captain Plum became violent.”

  “Exactly what happened? Try to remember every detail.”

  Smith described the episode to the best of his recollection.

  Bannister, frowning, scanned the formula. “Undoubtedly he recognized you and was trying to tell you about this secret planet. The orange and the lemon seem to refer to a double star, the three black and the green olives tell us that the planet in question was fourth from the sun.”

  “And the numbers must be position coordinates for the double star.”

  Bannister nodded shortly. “So it would seem.”

  “Take the first figure along the x-axis,” said Smith excitedly. “Twenty-six and a half light years toward Polaris. The second figure—now I see, it’s negative. A negative ten light years along the equinoctial axis, or ten light years, roughly, toward Denebola. The third figure, along the solstitial axis—ninety-four light years toward Betelgeuse. Combine the three—” He scribbled on a bit of paper. “Square root of the squares of twenty-six and a half, ten and ninety-four. Somewhere near a hundred. The direction would be roughly—” he paused, chewed his pencil “—probably in the direction of Procyon. That would be fairly close. A hundred light years in the direction of Procyon.”

  Bannister made an impatient motion. “Please let me think.”

  Smith sat back with injured dignity. Lunch was served; they ate almost in silence.

  Over his coffee Bannister leaned back with a sigh. “Well, it may be a wild-goose chase. But I’m going to stick my neck out, requisition a cruiser.”

  “I suppose I’d better wind up my affairs,” Smith said tentatively.

  “No need at all,” replied Bannister. “You’ll be travelling no farther than the subbasement storeroom.”

  “Mr. Bannister, I hardly think you’re being reasonable.”

  “Reasonable or not,” growled Bannister, “I can’t risk another of your fiascos.” He rose to his feet. “And now I’ll have to be back to work. Thanks for the lunch.”

  Smith watched the broad back retreating, then ordered more coffee.

  After a few minutes’ thought he rose to his feet, went to the visiphone, called Harry Codge at the Star Control Office.

  “Harry,” he said to the ruddy face, “have you made up those credentials for me yet?” />
  Codge nodded sourly. “You must be related to Bannister.”

  Smith ignored the implication. “Drop them into the tube, will you please? I’m at the Odd Angle Club, St. Andrews Place.”

  He took himself to the club office and a moment later a little cylinder thudded into the receptacle.

  Smith pinned the badge inside his coat, tucked the plastic card into his wallet, ordered a cab and flew to the Bureau of Registry hard by the space-field.

  He displayed his new credentials to the girl at the front desk. “Bring me the card on the SpS Messeraria.”

  “Yes sir.” She went to a file, thumbed through once, twice. “That’s strange.”

  “What’s the trouble?”

  “The card’s not in place. Unless—” She crossed the room, flipped through a small stack of pink and blue cards. “Here it is. Change of ownership.”

  “Let’s see the card,” said Smith in high excitement.

  He ran his eye down the form. “Built twenty years ago. First owners—Vacuum Transport. Sold to R. Plum and Chatnos Widna. New owner—Hermetic Line. Well, well.”

  “Anything wrong, Lieutenant? The Hermetic Line is very conservative—”

  “No,” said Smith hastily. “Nothing at all.”

  He turned away engrossed in his thoughts. It would be a fine feather in his cap to drag the sullen but cowed giant before Bannister for questioning. And evidently he had not departed with the Messeraria.

  Smith crossed the space-field, climbed the ramp into Folger Avenue.

  There was Rafferty Alley, and there the Bobolink. It was unlikely, thought Smith, that Plum would still be in evidence after the events of the morning; still it represented a starting place for an investigation.

  He felt for his badge, strode down Rafferty Alley, entered the Bobolink.

  There was confusion, which Smith later was never able to sort out into component events; it was as if everything occurred in a single timeless clot.

  He remembered a scraping of chairs, voices, a bull-bellow; he saw Plum’s great angry face, the lips drawn back over yellow horse-teeth; he felt a clutch at his knees, an eye-watering jar at the side of his head, a buffet in the pit of his stomach.

  Reality floated upward, like a picture rising on a screen leaving black beneath. Light, motion, sound, color went completely out of his perception; there was nothing.

  Captain Plum’s face, large as a house, seemed to fill the sky. A black velvet beret hung rakishly past one ear; his nose-mustache was preened and twisted to a fare-thee-well. He was so close that Smith could see the small corrugations of his skin, the blemishes, the ropy muscles of the cheeks, stubble on the massive rectangular chin.

  The little eyes peered cunningly into Smith’s face. “You alive, fellow? Yes? You’re lucky. Now, what did you do with my little trinket?” He took Smith’s chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Hey? Where’s my little gem?”

  Smith became aware of a curious lightness in his limbs. He focused his eyes on the background. Metal. Suddenly terrified, he sought to rise to his feet. A belt around his middle restrained him.

  Captain Plum set heavy feet to the wall, pushed his bulk out at right angles, stood in apparent defiance to sanity.

  “We’re in space!” shouted Smith. “You’ve kidnapped me!”

  Plum grinned enormously, like a bear. “Shanghaied, they used to call it. Young fellow, you don’t know how lucky you are. I could have put you away simple as squeezing a bug, but I used my head. You’re one of them Space Control hoop-te-doos; still, I need a man to do my paper work, and you happened in at the right time. Just right. I kill me two birds at one lick. Three birds, as it may be.” Plum ticked the points off his fingers. “I get me an honest worker. He better be honest. I get a Control snooper off my tail. And I get myself a bit of exercise sparring you now and again; rather handy you showed yourself.”

  “But,” cried Smith, “you don’t own a ship any more! You sold—”

  “This ain’t the old Messeraria, young fellow.” Plum showed the inside of his maroon maw in a soundless gust of laughter. “This here’s the Dog, a little boat more suited to our good purposes. And now you’ve rested on your lowers long enough; it’s go to work for you, earn your way.”

  “I didn’t ask to be brought aboard,” grumbled Smith.

  Plum’s mouth compressed; his hand caught Smith a buffet on the cheek. Smith felt his teeth creak; before him came a vision of Lowell’s toothless mouth. He sat quietly, staring at Plum.

  Plum grinned slowly. “Sure, I know what you’re thinking, that you’ll bide your time and come at me when I least expect it. Well, I say try ahead, try ahead. Better men than you have gone that path, and it keeps me lively. Now, young fellow, on your feet. And remember I’m a hard man to please; there can’t be a red cent over or under on the books; it all must come out so.”

  Smith silently unfastened the belt at his waist. The cruiser that Bannister had ordered out, he thought, must surely run down Plum’s ship. But if there were a battle, he might easily be lost with the ship. And in the meantime—A threatening move by Plum cut short his reflections. “Are you done dreaming?” growled the giant.

  Smith tried to rise to his feet; instead set himself floundering awkwardly into the air.

  Plum’s guffaw stung him almost beyond endurance. He bit his lips, and steadying himself on a stanchion, turned to Plum. “What is it you want done?”

  “Up forward, my lad, up in the chart room: that’s your nook. First you’ll sort out my old charts, arrange them in the projector. When I press for a sector, I want to get that sector and none somewhere fifty parsecs distant. Very important. That’s fair warning. Up forward!”

  Smith pulled himself forward, aching in every joint. The Dog, he perceived, was a small advance ship, one of the exploration ‘terriers’ built for maneuverability, landing ease and cheap maintenance, a type in vogue among the sun-duckers of outer space. But no matter how fast, how shifty, how desperately Plum drove his ship, once the cruiser thrust out a magnetic finger it would never win free. Smith shot a look through the forward port, seeking Procyon, past which the course must lead.

  Nowhere in the field of his vision was there such a star. The sky appeared more like the region north of Scorpio—the constellation of Ophiuchus, in a direction exactly opposite to Procyon. He stared. There was some dreadful mistake. “Where are we headed for?”

  “None of your damn business,” snarled Plum. “Get forward into the chart room, and thank yourself I’m a merciful man.”

  Smith pushed himself into the chart room, numbly began to sort the star-charts. This was death, he thought, and he was in hell. Before his eyes was a black and gray panel, a bank of dials, a mesh, a row of switches. Smith focussed his attention. Radio! Long-distance radio—launching its meaningful radiation in a parallel-sided bar, to take it hot and sparkling across space.

  How far had they come? Little more than a light-week or two; he could hear the whir of motors still building up acceleration.

  He glanced out into the bridge; Captain Plum stood by the door bellowing back toward the engine room.

  With trembling hands Smith twisted dials, aimed the antenna dead astern, flipped the switch. In a fever of impatience he waited for the circuits to warm into full power, meanwhile listening to Captain Plum’s salty condemnations of the engine-room gang.

  Once more he checked the direction of the beam. Dead astern, to hit Earth on the nose. He set the frequency to standard space-band. A hundred monitors were tuned to the frequency.

  Now.

  He spoke into the mesh. “SOS—Star Control attention. SOS. This is Lieutenant Robert Smith aboard Plum’s ship the Dog. SOS. Attention, Bannister, Star Control Field Office Twelve. This is Lieutenant Smith. I have been kidnapped.” The edge of his attention sensed that Plum’s voice had quieted; he heard the rustle of heavy movement in the bridge. Desperately he bent to the mesh; he might not have another chance. Power on, direction right, frequency right. “SOS.
This is Lieutenant Robert Smith, Star Control, kidnapped aboard Plum’s ship, headed toward Rho Ophiuchus.” He became aware of a great shadow in the doorway. “Kidnapped aboard Plum’s ship, headed toward Rho Ophiuchus, Robert Smith speaking—” He could bear it no longer; he looked up. Plum stood watching him from the doorway.

  “Ratting on me, hey?”

  Smith said with feeble bravado, “I got the message through. You’re washed up, Plum. If you’re smart you’ll pull about.”

  “My, my, my,” Plum jeered mincingly. “Me and my Aunt Nellie. Go ahead, call again if you like.”

  With one eye on Plum and suddenly anxious, Smith leaned toward the mesh. “This is Lieutenant Robert Smith, aboard Captain Plum’s ship, Dog, bound for Rho Ophiuchus—”

  Plum moved carelessly forward. His hand struck Smith’s face with a sound like beef liver dropping on a butcher’s block.

  Smith, crumpled in a corner, looked up at Plum, standing in his favorite pose, legs spraddled wide, arms behind him.

  “Damn addle-brained snooper,” snarled Plum.

  Smith said weakly, “It’ll go just so much the worse for you when you’re caught.”

  “Who’s going to catch me? How am I going to be caught? Hey? Answer me that!” He prodded Smith with his toe.

  Smith slowly drew himself to his feet. He said in a tired voice, “I sent the message three times. It’s bound to be picked up.”

  Plum nodded. “You sent it out—dead astern. Sure the monitors will pick it up. At the speed we’re leaving Earth, the frequency they get will be so they can count the cycles on their fingers. That radio isn’t much good unless we’re stopped.”

  Smith numbly considered the radio. The speed of the ship would make his message completely unintelligible.

  “Now,” said Plum harshly, “get back to your work. And if I catch you fooling with the equipment again, I’ll treat you fairly rough.”

  IV

  It was as if the ship lay motionless, the center of all, and the galaxy flowed past in a clear dark syrup, the stars like phosphorescent motes in sea water—lost and lonesome sparks.

  Two points were steady: a wan star astern and an orange-yellow glint ahead which gradually resolved into a doublet. So the days passed. Smith slunk about the ship as inconspicuously as possible, dreading the daily drubbing Captain Plum administered under the guise of calisthenics.