The Potter of Firsk and Other Stories

by Jack Vance

“Not since the sjambaks, eh?”

  “The sjambaks are bad. But better than amok. When a man feels the knot forming around his chest, he no longer takes his kris and runs down the street—he becomes sjambak.”

  This was getting interesting. “Where does he go? What does he do?”

  “He robs.”

  “Who does he rob? What does he do with his loot?”

  She leaned toward him. “It is not well to talk of them.”

  “Why not?”

  “The Sultan does not wish it. Everywhere are listeners. When one talks sjambak, the Sultan’s ears rise, like the points on a cat.”

  “Suppose they do—what’s the difference? I’ve got a legitimate interest. I saw one of them in that cage out there. That’s torture. I want to know about it.”

  “He is very bad. He opened the monorail car and the air rushed out. Forty-two Singhalûsi and Hadrasi bloated and blew up.”

  “And what happened to the sjambak?”

  “He took all the gold and money and jewels and ran away.”

  “Ran where?”

  “Out across Great Pharasang Plain. But he was a fool. He came back to Singhalût for his wife; he was caught and set up for all people to look at, so they might tell each other, ‘thus it is for sjambaks’.”

  “Where do the sjambaks hide out?”

  “Oh,” she looked vaguely around the room, “out on the plains. In the mountains.”

  “They must have some shelter—an air-dome.”

  “No. The Sultan would send out his patrol-boat and destroy them. They roam quietly. They hide among the rocks and tend their oxygen stills. Sometimes they visit the old cities.”

  “I wonder,” said Murphy, staring into his beer, “could it be sjambaks who ride horses up to meet the spaceships?”

  Soek Panjoebang knit her black eyebrows, as if preoccupied.

  “That’s what brought me out here,” Murphy went on. “This story of a man riding a horse out in space.”

  “Ridiculous; we have no horses in Cirgamesç.”

  “All right, the steward won’t swear to the horse. Suppose the man was up there on foot or riding a bicycle. But the steward recognized the man.”

  “Who was this man, pray?”

  “The steward clammed up…The name would have been just noise to me, anyway.”

  “I might recognize the name…”

  “Ask him yourself. The ship’s still out at the field.”

  She shook her head slowly, holding her golden eyes on his face. “I do not care to attract the attention of either steward, sjambak—or Sultan.”

  Murphy said impatiently. “In any event, it’s not who—but how. How does the man breathe? Vacuum sucks a man’s lungs up out of his mouth, bursts his stomach, his ears…”

  “We have excellent doctors,” said Soek Panjoebang shuddering, “but alas! I am not one of them.”

  Murphy looked at her sharply. Her voice held the plangent sweetness of her instrument, with additional overtones of mockery. “There must be some kind of invisible dome around him, holding in air,” said Murphy.

  “And what if there is?”

  “It’s something new, and if it is, I want to find out about it.”

  Soek smiled languidly. “You are so typical an old-lander—worried, frowning, dynamic. You should relax, cultivate napaû, enjoy life as we do here in Singhalût.”

  “What’s napaû?”

  “It’s our philosophy, where we find meaning and life and beauty in every aspect of the world.”

  “That sjambak in the cage could do with a little less napaû right now.”

  “No doubt he is unhappy,” she agreed.

  “Unhappy! He’s being tortured!”

  “He broke the Sultan’s law. His life is no longer his own. It belongs to Singhalût. If the Sultan wishes to use it to warn other wrong-doers, the fact that the man suffers is of small interest.”

  “If they all wear that metal ornament, how can they hope to hide out?” He glanced at her own bare bosom.

  “They appear by night—slip through the streets like ghosts…” She looked in turn at Murphy’s loose shirt. “You will notice persons brushing up against you, feeling you,” she laid her hand along his breast, “and when this happens you will know they are agents of the Sultan, because only strangers and the House may wear shirts. But now, let me sing to you—a song from the Old Land, old Java. You will not understand the tongue, but no other words so join the voice of the gamelan.”

  “This is the gravy-train,” said Murphy. “Instead of a garden suite with a private pool, I usually sleep in a bubble-tent, with nothing to eat but condensed food.”

  Soek Panjoebang flung the water out of her sleek black hair. “Perhaps, Weelbrrr, you will regret leaving Cirgamesç?”

  “Well,” he looked up to the transparent roof, barely visible where the sunlight collected and refracted, “I don’t particularly like being shut up like a bird in an aviary…Mildly claustrophobic, I guess.”

  After breakfast, drinking thick coffee from tiny silver cups, Murphy looked long and reflectively at Soek Panjoebang.

  “What are you thinking, Weelbrrr?”

  Murphy drained his coffee. “I’m thinking that I’d better be getting to work.”

  “And what do you do?”

  “First I’m going to shoot the palace, and you sitting here in the garden playing your gamelan.”

  “But Weelbrrr—not me!”

  “You’re a part of the universe, rather an interesting part. Then I’ll take the square…”

  “And the sjambak?”

  A quiet voice spoke from behind. “A visitor, Tuan Murphy.”

  Murphy turned his head. “Bring him in.” He looked back to Soek Panjoebang. She was on her feet.

  “It is necessary that I go.”

  “When will I see you?”

  “Tonight—at the Barangipan.”

  The quiet voice said, “Mr. Rube Trimmer, Tuan.”

  Trimmer was small and middle-aged, with thin shoulders and a paunch. He carried himself with a hell-raising swagger, left over from a time twenty years gone. His skin had the waxy look of lost floridity, his tuft of white hair was coarse and thin, his eyelids hung in the off-side droop that amateur physiognomists like to associate with guile.

  “I’m Resident Director of the Import-Export Bank,” said Trimmer. “Heard you were here and thought I’d pay my respects.”

  “I suppose you don’t see many strangers.”

  “Not too many—there’s nothing much to bring ’em. Cirgamesç isn’t a comfortable tourist planet. Too confined, shut in. A man with a sensitive psyche goes nuts pretty easy here.”

  “Yeah,” said Murphy. “I was thinking the same thing this morning. That dome begins to give a man the willies. How do the natives stand it? Or do they?”

  Trimmer pulled out a cigar case. Murphy refused the offer.

  “Local tobacco,” said Trimmer. “Very good.” He lit up thoughtfully. “Well, you might say that the Cirgameski are schizophrenic. They’ve got the docile Javanese blood, plus the Arabian élan. The Javanese part is on top, but every once in a while you see a flash of arrogance…You never know. I’ve been out here nine years and I’m still a stranger.” He puffed on his cigar, studied Murphy with his careful eyes. “You work for Know Your Universe!, I hear.”

  “Yeah. I’m one of the leg men.”

  “Must be a great job.”

  “A man sees a lot of the galaxy, and he runs into queer tales, like this sjambak stuff.”

  Trimmer nodded without surprise. “My advice to you, Murphy, is lay off the sjambaks. They’re not healthy around here.”

  Murphy was startled by the bluntness. “What’s the big mystery about these sjambaks?”

  Trimmer looked around the room. “This place is bugged.”

  “I found two pick-ups and plugged ’em,” said Murphy.

  Trimmer laughed. “Those were just plants. They hide ’em where a man might just barely spot ’em. You
can’t catch the real ones. They’re woven into the cloth—pressure-sensitive wires.”

  Murphy looked critically at the cloth walls.

  “Don’t let it worry you,” said Trimmer. “They listen more out of habit than anything else. If you’re fussy we’ll go for a walk.”

  The road led past the palace into the country. Murphy and Trimmer sauntered along a placid river, overgrown with lily pads, swarming with large white ducks.

  “This sjambak business,” said Murphy. “Everybody talks around it. You can’t pin anybody down.”

  “Including me,” said Trimmer. “I’m more or less privileged around here. The Sultan finances his reclamation through the bank, on the basis of my reports. But there’s more to Singhalût than the Sultan.”

  “Namely?”

  Trimmer waved his cigar waggishly. “Now we’re getting in where I don’t like to talk. I’ll give you a hint. Prince Ali thinks roofing-in more valleys is a waste of money, when there’s Hadra and New Batavia and Sundaman so close.”

  “You mean—armed conquest?”

  Trimmer laughed. “You said it, not me.”

  “They can’t carry on much of a war—unless the soldiers commute by monorail.”

  “Maybe Prince Ali thinks he’s got the answer.”

  “Sjambaks?”

  “I didn’t say it,” said Trimmer blandly.

  Murphy grinned. After a moment he said, “I picked up with a girl named Soek Panjoebang who plays the gamelan. I suppose she’s working for either the Sultan or Prince Ali. Do you know which?”

  Trimmer’s eyes sparkled. He shook his head. “Might be either one. There’s a way to find out.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Get her off where you’re sure there’s no spy-cells. Tell her two things—one for Ali, the other for the Sultan. Whichever one reacts you know you’ve got her tagged.”

  “For instance?”

  “Well, for instance she learns that you can rig up a hypnotic ray from a flashlight battery, a piece of bamboo, and a few lengths of wire. That’ll get Ali in an awful sweat. He can’t get weapons. None at all. And for the Sultan,” Trimmer was warming up to his intrigue, chewing on his cigar with gusto, “tell her you’re on to a catalyst that turns clay into aluminum and oxygen in the presence of sunlight. The Sultan would sell his right leg for something like that. He tries hard for Singhalût and Cirgamesç.”

  “And Ali?”

  Trimmer hesitated. “I never said what I’m gonna say. Don’t forget—I never said it.”

  “Okay, you never said it.”

  “Ever hear of a jehad?”

  “Mohammedan holy wars.”

  “Believe it or not, Ali wants a jehad.”

  “Sounds kinda fantastic.”

  “Sure it’s fantastic. Don’t forget, I never said anything about it. But suppose someone—strictly unofficial, of course—let the idea percolate around the Peace Office back home.”

  “Ah,” said Murphy. “That’s why you came to see me.”

  Trimmer turned a look of injured innocence. “Now, Murphy, you’re a little unfair. I’m a friendly guy. Of course I don’t like to see the bank lose what we’ve got tied up in the Sultan.”

  “Why don’t you send in a report yourself?”

  “I have! But when they hear the same thing from you, a Know Your Universe! man, they might make a move.”

  Murphy nodded.

  “Well, we understand each other,” said Trimmer heartily, “and everything’s clear.”

  “Not entirely. How’s Ali going to launch a jehad when he doesn’t have any weapons, no warships, no supplies?”

  “Now,” said Trimmer, “we’re getting into the realm of supposition.” He paused, looked behind him. A farmer pushing a rotary tiller bowed politely, trundled ahead. Behind was a young man in a black turban, gold earrings, a black and red vest, white pantaloons, black curl-toed slippers. He bowed, started past. Trimmer held up his hand. “Don’t waste your time up there; we’re going back in a few minutes.”

  “Thank you, Tuan.”

  “Who are you reporting to? The Sultan or Prince Ali?”

  “The Tuan is sure to pierce the veil of my evasions. I shall not dissemble. I am the Sultan’s man.”

  Trimmer nodded. “Now, if you’ll kindly remove to about a hundred yards, where your whisper pick-up won’t work.”

  “By your leave, I go.” He retreated without haste.

  “He’s almost certainly working for Ali,” said Trimmer.

  “Not a very subtle lie.”

  “Oh yes—third level. He figured I’d take it second level.”

  “How’s that again?”

  “Naturally I wouldn’t believe him. He knew I knew that he knew it. So when he said ‘Sultan’, I’d think he wouldn’t lie simply, but that he’d lie double—that he actually was working for the Sultan.”

  Murphy laughed. “Suppose he told you a fourth level lie?”

  “It starts to be a toss-up pretty soon,” Trimmer admitted. “I don’t think he gives me credit for that much subtlety…What are you doing the rest of the day?”

  “Taking footage. Do you know where I can find some picturesque rites? Mystical dances, human sacrifice? I’ve got to work up some glamor and exotic lore.”

  “There’s this sjambak in the cage. That’s about as close to the medieval as you’ll find anywhere in Earth Commonwealth.”

  “Speaking of sjambaks…”

  “No time,” said Trimmer. “Got to get back. Drop in at my office—right down the square from the palace.”

  Murphy returned to his suite. The shadowy figure of his room servant said, “His Highness the Sultan desires the Tuan’s attendance in the Cascade Garden.”

  “Thank you,” said Murphy. “As soon as I load my camera.”

  The Cascade Room was an open patio in front of an artificial waterfall. The Sultan was pacing back and forth, wearing dusty khaki puttees, brown plastic boots, a yellow polo shirt. He carried a twig which he used as a riding crop, slapping his boots as he walked. He turned his head as Murphy appeared, pointed his twig at a wicker bench.

  “I pray you sit down, Mr. Murphy.” He paced once up and back. “How is your suite? You find it to your liking?”

  “Very much so.”

  “Excellent,” said the Sultan. “You do me honor with your presence.”

  Murphy waited patiently.

  “I understand that you had a visitor this morning,” said the Sultan.

  “Yes. Mr. Trimmer.”

  “May I inquire the nature of the conversation?”

  “It was of a personal nature,” said Murphy, rather more shortly than he meant.

  The Sultan nodded wistfully. “A Singhalûsi would have wasted an hour telling me half-truths—distorted enough to confuse, but not sufficiently inaccurate to anger me if I had a spy-cell on him all the time.”

  Murphy grinned. “A Singhalûsi has to live here the rest of his life.”

  A servant wheeled a frosted cabinet before them, placed goblets under two spigots, withdrew. The Sultan cleared his throat. “Trimmer is an excellent fellow, but unbelievably loquacious.”

  Murphy drew himself two inches of chilled rosy-pale liquor. The Sultan slapped his boots with the twig. “Undoubtedly he confided all my private business to you, or at least as much as I have allowed him to learn.”

  “Well—he spoke of your hope to increase the compass of Singhalût.”

  “That, my friend, is no hope; it’s absolute necessity. Our population density is fifteen hundred to the square mile. We must expand or smother. There’ll be too little food to eat, too little oxygen to breathe.”

  Murphy suddenly came to life. “I could make that idea the theme of my feature! Singhalût Dilemma: Expand or Perish!”

  “No, that would be inadvisable, inapplicable.”

  Murphy was not convinced. “It sounds like a natural.”

  The Sultan smiled. “I’ll impart an item of confidential information—although Trimmer no d
oubt has preceded me with it.” He gave his boots an irritated whack. “To expand I need funds. Funds are best secured in an atmosphere of calm and confidence. The implication of emergency would be disastrous to my aims.”

  “Well,” said Murphy, “I see your position.”

  The Sultan glanced at Murphy sidelong. “Anticipating your cooperation, my Minister of Propaganda has arranged an hour’s program, stressing our progressive social attitude, our prosperity and financial prospects…”

  “But, Sultan…”

  “Well?”

  “I can’t allow your Minister of Propaganda to use me and Know Your Universe! as a kind of investment brochure.”

  The Sultan nodded wearily. “I expected you to take that attitude…Well—what do you yourself have in mind?”

  “I’ve been looking for something to tie to,” said Murphy. “I think it’s going to be the dramatic contrast between the ruined cities and the new domed valleys. How the Earth settlers succeeded where the ancient people failed to meet the challenge of the dissipating atmosphere.”

  “Well,” the Sultan said grudgingly, “that’s not too bad.”

  “Today I want to take some shots of the palace, the dome, the city, the paddies, groves, orchards, farms. Tomorrow I’m taking a trip out to one of the ruins.”

  “I see,” said the Sultan. “Then you won’t need my charts and statistics?”

  “Well, Sultan, I could film the stuff your Propaganda Minister cooked up, and I could take it back to Earth. Howard Frayberg or Sam Catlin would tear into it, rip it apart, lard in some head-hunting, a little cannibalism and temple prostitution, and you’d never know you were watching Singhalût. You’d scream with horror, and I’d be fired.”

  “In that case,” said the Sultan, “I will leave you to the dictates of your conscience.”

  Howard Frayberg looked around the gray landscape of Riker’s Planet, gazed out over the roaring black Mogador Ocean. “Sam, I think there’s a story out there.”

  Sam Catlin shivered inside his electrically heated glass overcoat. “Out on that ocean? It’s full of man-eating plesiosaurs—horrible things forty feet long.”

  “Suppose we worked something out on the line of Moby Dick? The White Monster of the Mogador Ocean. We’d set sail in a catamaran—”

  “Us?”