The Potter of Firsk and Other Stories

by Jack Vance

  “Odfars, eh?” Cooley’s expression changed not at all. “What do you expect to find out there?”

  “Well—Pillson’s Almanac indicates a very high density. Which, as you may know, means heavy metal. Then the Deed Office shows neither claims nor workings on Odfars, so we thought we’d survey the territory before someone beat us to it.”

  Cooley nodded slowly. “So you’re going out to Odfars…well, I tell you what to do. Get Three-legged Joe to wait on you. He’ll make you a good hand.”

  “Three-legged Joe?” asked Milke in puzzlement. “Where do we find him?”

  “He’s out on Odfars now.”

  Paskell came closer. “How do we locate him on Odfars?”

  Cooley smiled crookedly. “Don’t worry about that. Leave it to Joe. He’ll find you.”

  From the house came a dark-skinned man five feet tall and four feet wide. Cooley said, “James, these boys are going prospecting out on Odfars; they’re looking for a flunky. Maybe you’re interested?”

  “Not just now, Abel.”

  “Maybe Three-legged Joe is the man to see.”

  “Can’t beat Three-legged Joe.”

  Paskell drew Milke out to the street. “They’re joking.”

  Milke said darkly, “No use trying to get work out of those old bums. They get by on their pensions; they don’t want an honest job.”

  Paskell said thoughtfully, “Perhaps it’s as well to go out by ourselves; it might be less trouble in the long run. These old-timers don’t understand modern methods. Even if we found a man that satisfied us, we’d have to break him in on the Pinsley generator and the Hurd; he’d have the aerators out of adjustment before we’d been out twice.”

  Milke nodded. “There’ll be more work for us, but I think you’re right.”

  Paskell pointed. “There’s the other place—Tom Hand’s Chandlery.”

  Milke consulted a list. “I hope this doesn’t turn out to be another wild goose chase; we need those extra filters.”

  Tom Hand’s Chandlery occupied a large dirty building raised off the ground on four-foot stilts. Milke and Paskell climbed up on the loading platform. A scrawny near-bald man approached from out of the shadows. “What’s the trouble, boys?”

  Milke frowned at his list while Paskell stood aside puffing owlishly on his pipe. “If you’ll take us to your technical superintendent,” said Milke, “I think I can explain what we need.”

  The old man reached out two dirty fingers. “Lemme see what you want.”

  Milke fastidiously moved the list out of reach. “I think I’d better see someone in the technical department.”

  The old man said impatiently, “Son, out here we don’t have departments, technical or otherwise. Lemme see what you want. If we got it, I’ll know; if we don’t, I’ll know.”

  Milke handed over the list. The old man hissed through his teeth. “You want an ungodly amount of them filters.”

  “They keep burning out on us,” said Milke. “I’ve diagnosed the trouble—an extra load on the circuit.”

  “Mmph, those things never burn out. You’ve probably been plugging them in backwise. This side here fits against the black thing-a-ma-jig; this side connects to your circuits. Is that how you had ’em?”

  Milke cleared his throat. “Well—”

  Paskell took the pipe out of his mouth. “No, as a matter of fact we had them in the other way.”

  The old man nodded. “I’ll give you three. That’s all you’ll use in a lifetime. Now for this other stuff, we got to go around to the front.”

  He led them down a dark aisle, past racks crammed with nameless oddments, into a room split by a scarred wooden counter.

  At a table near the door three men sat playing cards; nearby stood the dark thick man called James.

  James called in a jocular baritone, “Give ’em a jug of acid for Three-legged Joe, Tom. These boys is going out to prospect Odfars.”

  “Odfars, eh?” Tom scrutinized Milke and Paskell with impersonal interest. “Don’t know as I’d try it, boys. Three-legged Joe—”

  Milke asked brusquely, “What do we owe you?”

  Tom Hand scribbled out a bill, took Milke’s money.

  Paskell asked tentatively, “Who is this Three-legged Joe?…A joke? Or is there actually someone out there?”

  Tom Hand bent over his cash box. The men at the table snapped cards along the green felt. James had his back turned.

  Paskell put the pipe back in his mouth, sucked noisily.

  On the way back, Milke said bitterly, “It’s always been the same way; whenever these old-timers have a laugh on a stranger, they play it for all it’s worth…”

  “But who or what is Three-legged Joe?”

  “Well,” said Milke, “sooner or later, I suppose we’ll find out.”

  Odfars ranked fourteenth in a scatter of dead worlds around Sigma Sculptoris, drifting in an orbit so wide that the sun showed like a medium-distant street lamp.

  Paskell gingerly handled the controls, while Milke scanned the face of the planet with radar peaked to highest sensitivity. Milke pointed to a mirror-smooth surface winding like a fjord between axe-headed crags. “Look there, an ideal landing site—perfect!”

  Paskell said doubtfully, “It looks like a chain of lakes.”

  “That’s what it is—lakes of quicksilver.” Milke turned Paskell a chiding glance. “It’s absolute zero down there; it can’t help but be solid, if that’s what’s on your mind.”

  “True,” said Paskell. “But it has a peculiar soft look to it.”

  “If it’s liquid,” scoffed Milke, “I’ll eat your hat.”

  “If it’s liquid,” said Paskell, “neither one of us will eat—ever again. Well—here goes.”

  The impact of landing substantiated Milke’s position. He ran to the port, looked out. “Hmmph, can’t see anything in this dark without booster goggles. In any event, we’ll have a good level floor for our assay tent.”

  Paskell saw in his mind’s eye a page from Hade’s Manual: “The assay tent is customarily a balloon of plastic film maintained by air pressure. Its use eliminates noxious, acrid or poisonous fumes inside the ship, formerly a source of great annoyance. Certain authorities advise a field survey before bringing out the tent; others maintain that erecting the tent first will facilitate examination of samples taken on the survey, and I generally favor the latter practice.”

  Milke said off-handedly, “Some of the boys like to wait before they put up their bubble; others set it out first thing to give them a place to drop off their samples. I generally like to get it up and out of the way.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Paskell. “Let’s get it up.”

  In space-suits, with booster goggles over their eyes, they left the ship. Paskell looked across the quicksilver lake, up into the jutting rock—icy bright and black through the booster goggles. The lake gleamed like buffed nickel, terminating nearby in a long finger pointing up a defile. In the direction opposite it dropped off around the curve of the horizon.

  Paskell said in a tone of dubious humor, “I don’t see Three-legged Joe anywhere.”

  Milke’s snort sounded loud in the earphones.

  “He’s supposed to know we’re here.”

  Milke said crisply, “Let’s get to work.”

  From an exterior locker they took the assay tent, carried it fifty feet across the quicksilver to the length of the air hose. Milke turned the valve; the tent swelled into a half-sphere fifteen feet in diameter.

  Milke tested the lock with a deftness attained on lunar field trips. He squeezed the lock compartment against the tent, forcing the enclosed air into the tent through a flap valve; then entering the lock, he sealed the outside entry, opened the inside valve, letting the compartment fill with air, and entered the tent.

  “Works fine,” he told Paskell confidently. “Let’s get the equipment.”

  From the locker they brought the knock-down bench, carried it inside through the lock. Milke brought out a rack of re
agents and the pulverizer. Paskell carried out the furnace, then went into the ship for the spectroscope.

  “That should be good for a while,” said Milke. He shot a glance up at distant Sigma Sculptoris. “It’s a six hour day here—about two hours of light left. Feel like taking a quick look around?”

  “It might be a good idea.” Paskell fingered the empty loop at his belt. “I think I’ll get my gun.”

  Milke chuckled. “There’s nothing alive here; it’s a vacuum, absolute zero. You’ve let that talk of Three-legged Joe get you down.”

  “Quite right,” said Paskell. “In any event, I’ll feel better with my gun.”

  Milke followed him into the ship. “Might as well get in the habit of wearing the thing.” He holstered his own gun.

  They set out across the lake, past the tent, up the narrow finger of quicksilver, into the defile. “Strange stuff,” said Paskell chipping a fragment from the cliff. “Looks like chalk—gray chalk.”

  “Can’t be chalk,” said Milke. “Chalk is sedimentary.”

  “Whatever it is,” said Paskell, “it’s still strange stuff, and it still looks like chalk.”

  The fissure widened, the cliffs fell away almost at once; another quicksilver lake spread before them. “Makes for easy walking,” observed Milke. “Better than scrambling through the rocks.”

  Paskell eyed the mirror-like surface which wound like a glacier past alternating bluffs, and in a perceptible curve over the horizon. “It might easily be connected all the way around.”

  Milke motioned to him. “See that pink stone? Rhodochrosite. And look down at the end—somehow it’s been fused and reduced, leaving the pure metal.”

  “Very encouraging,” said Paskell.

  “Encouraging?” boomed Milke. “Why it’s downright wonderful! If we found nothing else but this one vein, we’re made…perhaps it might even be economical to mine the quicksilver…”

  Paskell glanced at the sun, “There’s not much daylight left; perhaps—”

  “Oh, just around the next bend,” said Milke. “It’s easy walking.” He pointed ahead to a massive knob of shiny black material projecting from the crag. “Look at that knob of galena—interesting.”

  Paskell felt a throb and hum at his side. He looked down to the dial, stopped short, walked to the left, turned, walked back to the right. He looked up toward the knob of shiny black rock. “That’s not galena, that’s pitchblende.”

  “By Jove,” breathed Milke reverently, “you’re right! As big as the Margan-Annis strike…Oliver, my boy, we’re made.”

  Paskell said with a puckered brow, “I can’t understand why the planet hasn’t been developed…” He glanced nervously up into the deep shadows, perceptibly lengthening. “I wonder—”

  “Three-legged Joe?” Milke laughed. “Fairy-tale stuff.” He looked at Paskell. “What’s the matter?”

  Paskell said in a husky whisper, “Feel the ground.”

  Milke stood stock-still.

  Thud-bump. Thud-bump. Thud-bump.

  The sun dropped behind a crag; even the boosters found no light in the sudden shade. “Come on,” said Paskell. He turned, paced hurriedly back up the lake.

  “Wait for me,” said Milke breathlessly.

  At the ridge of chalky rock which divided the two lakes, they paused, looked back. The ground felt solid, immobile under their feet.

  “Strange,” said Milke.

  “Very strange,” said Paskell.

  They crossed the ridge; the hulk of their ship caught the last flat rays from Sigma Sculptoris.

  Paskell came to a sudden halt. Milke stared at him, then followed his gaze. “Our assay tent!”

  They ran forward to where the fabric lay in a crumpled heap. “There’s been a hole cut in it,” muttered Paskell.

  “Three-legged Joe?” inquired Milke sarcastically. “More likely there’s a leak.”

  Paskell kicked at the material, now stiff as sheet metal with the cold. “We’ll have a devil of a time finding it.”

  “Oh not so bad. We’ll pump in warm air—”

  “And then?”

  “Well, there’s a leak. As soon as the air hits the vacuum the water vapor condenses. So we look for a little jet of steam.”

  Paskell said in a precise voice, “There’s no leak.”

  “No? Then why—”

  “We never turned on the heat. The air inside liquefied.”

  Milke turned away to look out over the lake. Paskell quietly plugged in the cord; power circulated through elements meshed into the tent fabric.

  Milke turned back, slapping his gloves together. “That’s about all we can do until the air thaws out…” He looked at Paskell, who again was standing as if listening. Irritably he asked, “What’s the matter now?”

  Paskell made a furtive motion toward the ground. Milke looked intently down.

  Thud-bump. Thud-bump. Thud-bump. Thud-bump.

  “Three-legged Joe,” whispered Paskell.

  Milke looked hurriedly in all directions. “There can’t be anything out there.” He turned. Paskell had disappeared.

  “Oliver! Where are you?”

  “I’m in the ship,” came a calm voice.

  Milke backed slowly toward the port. Night had come to Odfars; starlight shone on the quicksilver lake, intensified by the booster goggles to near the power of moonlight. Was that a black shadow standing in the defile? Milke hurriedly backed against the port.

  It was locked. He pounded against the metal. “Hey, Oliver, open up!”

  He looked over his shoulder. The black shape seemed to have moved forward.

  Paskell came to the port, looked carefully out past Milke, threw back the bolts. Milke burst into the air-chamber, on into the ship. He took off his helmet. “What’s the idea locking me out? Suppose that damn whatever it is was hot on my tail?”

  Paskell said in a practical voice, “Well, we’d hardly want him inside the ship, would we?”

  Milke roared, “If he got me first I wouldn’t care whether he got into the ship or not.” He jumped up into the central dome, played the searchlight around the lake. Paskell watched from the sideport. “See anything?”

  “No,” grumbled Milke. “I still don’t believe there’s anything out there. Let’s eat dinner and get some sleep.”

  “Perhaps we should keep watch.”

  “What do we watch for? What good would it do if we saw something?”

  Paskell shrugged. “We might be able to deal with it, if we knew what it was.”

  Milke said, “If there is anything out there—” he slapped the holster at his belt “—I’ll know how to deal with it…A couple ammo into its hide and we’ll have to screen for its pieces.”

  The ship vibrated; from the tail came a harsh sound. The floor jarred under their feet. Milke looked askance at Paskell, who puffed rather desperately at his pipe. Milke ran back to the searchlight. But the central dome interrupted the backward path of the beam and the tail was left in darkness.

  “I can’t see a thing,” fretted Milke. He jumped down to the deck, looked indecisively at the after port.

  The vibrations ceased. Milke squared his shoulders, pulled the helmet back over his head. Slowly Paskell followed suit.

  “You bring a flashlight,” said Milke. “I’ll have my gun ready…”

  They stepped into the air lock. Paskell gingerly thrust his arm out, aimed the light toward the tent. “Nothing there,” grumbled Milke. He pushed past Paskell, stepped down to the ground. Paskell followed, played the light in a circle.

  “Whatever it was, it’s gone,” grunted Milke. “It heard us coming—”

  “Look,” whispered Paskell.

  It was no more than a zigzag of shadows, a moving mass.

  Milke held out his arm; his gun spat pale blue sparks. Explosion—a great splash of orange light. “Got him!” cried Milke exultantly. “Dead center!”

  Their eyes adjusted to the pallid illumination of the flashlight. Nothing but the glistening sheen
of the quicksilver and—a rumpled tumbled mess where the assay tent had stood.

  Milke said in an outrage too deep for vehemence, “He’s ruined our gear—our tent!”

  “Look out!” screamed Paskell. The flashlight took lunatic sweeps over the lake. Milke sent shot after shot at a tall shape; the explosions smote back on their suits; the orange glare blinded their eyes.

  Thud-bump…Thud-bump…“Inside!” gasped Milke. “Inside, we can’t hold him off…”

  The outer port slammed. A breathless moment later the hull was jarred, scraped along the quicksilver. Milke and Paskell stood haunted and pale in the center of the deck.

  Metal creaked at the stern under pressure or torsion. Milke’s voice came high-pitched. “We’re not built to take that kind of stuff—”

  The ship lurched to the side. Paskell put his pipe in his pocket, grabbed a stanchion. Milke jumped up to the controls. “We’d better get out of here.”

  Paskell cleared his throat. “Wait, I think it’s stopped.”

  The boat was quiet. Milke thought of the searchlight, flicked the switch. “Hah!”

  “What is it?”

  Milke stared out the port. He said slowly, “I really don’t know. Something like a one-legged man on crutches…That’s how he walks.”

  “Is he big?”

  “Yes,” said Milke. “Rather big…I think he’s gone, through that fissure—” He came down to the deck, split open his space suit, climbed nervously out. “That was Three-legged Joe.”

  Paskell took a sudden seat on the bunk, reached for his pipe. “Quite an impressive fellow.”

  Milke laughed shortly. “I can certainly understand how he scared the bejabbers out of those old bindlestiffs.”

  “Yes,” Paskell nodded earnestly. “I can too.” He lit his pipe, puffed reflectively. “He can’t be invulnerable…”

  Milke dropped leadenly upon his own bunk. “We’ll get him—somehow or other.”

  Paskell craned his neck out the port. “There’ll be light in a few hours…I suppose we might as well sleep.”

  “Yes,” said Milke. “If Three-legged Joe comes back, I imagine he’ll let us know about it.”