The Potter of Firsk and Other Stories

by Jack Vance

  “That would be fine,” said Jean. “Except that we don’t know their program. We don’t even know our own.”

  “But now we get down to business.” Don took a notebook and pen, then looked up as the doorbell rang. He jumped to his feet, opened the door.

  “Hello,” said Vivian Hallsey. “I was in Orange City and thought I’d drop by to see you.”

  “Professionally or socially?” asked Don. “Come on in, in either case.”

  “It’s a social visit,” said Vivian Hallsey. “Of course, if you’ve done anything spectacular, like finding an Abominable Snowman or making contact with Lost Atlantis, I’d find it hard to restrain myself.”

  “We’re just shifting into high gear,” said Jean. “Have some coffee?”

  “Thanks. Sure I’m not bothering you?”

  “Of course not. We liked your story; you didn’t make us out to be typical Southern California crack-pots. We’re just now trying to organize a sensible program for ourselves.”

  “Go right ahead. I’m interested. In fact, that’s why I’m here.”

  “Well, our first problem is deciding where to begin. There’s plenty of literature, thousands of case-histories, bushels of more or less valid research—but we want to start where the others leave off. In other words, we’re not planning to duplicate Dr. Rhine’s experiments, and we don’t want to make Borley Rectory-type studies. The field is enormous—” The telephone rang, Jean answered.

  “It’s Dr. James Cogswell, from the American Society of Psychical Research. He wants to call on us.”

  “Fine. Where’s he phoning from?”

  “He’s in Orange City.” She spoke into the telephone, hung up. “He’ll be right out.”

  Vivian Hallsey started to rise; Jean said, “No, no, don’t go. We like company.”

  Five minutes later Dr. James Cogswell presented himself. He was sixty years old, a brain surgeon: short, plump, with coal-black hair, combed in precise dark streaks across his balding scalp. He wore elegant clothes; his manners were highly civilized. Don thought of him as representing the old-fashioned school of psychic research, a man who might have been colleague to Sir Oliver Lodge or William McDougall. Dr. Cogswell looked about with interest and a faintly patronizing air, which at first irritated, then amused Don. It was, after all, the natural condescension of a veteran for a group of enthusiastic, and undoubtedly naive, beginners.

  “I understand that you plan to conduct a large-scale attack on some of our mutual problems,” said Cogswell.

  “That’s our purpose.”

  Cogswell nodded. “Excellent. It’s exactly what’s needed—a well-organized, well-financed—I understand that you’re well-financed?” He looked searchingly at Don.

  “Adequately so,” said Don. “At least for all present possibilities and contingencies.”

  “Good. We need a central agency, a permanent full-time trained staff working at a definite program. My own organization is loose and undisciplined; we’re on our own so far as investigations are concerned. However we do have access to a large library, and perhaps I can save you some duplication of effort.” He looked around the room. “Is this your headquarters?”

  “Temporarily. Until we know what we need—which depends on our program.”

  “And what is your program, may I ask?”

  “We were just hacking it out when you arrived.”

  “Am I interrupting you?”

  “By no means. You can help us.”

  “Fine. Go right ahead.”

  “I was explaining to Miss Hallsey that we have no intent of duplicating either Rhine’s work or performing any ghost-laying in the classic tradition.”

  “Good. I approve heartily.”

  “What we want to do is attack the basis, the lowest common denominator, of all parapsychological phenomena. The simplest, or most common, effect of course is telepathy. It’s part of our everyday lives, although probably none of us are aware how much or how little we use it. Telepathy exists, it links minds. How? Action at a distance without a link—of some kind—is impossible.”

  Dr. Cogswell shrugged. “‘Impossible’ is a big word.”

  “Not too big. Don’t forget, Doctor, we’re operating as scientists, not mystics. Axiom One: action at a distance is unthinkable. Axiom Two: an effect has a cause.” He raised his hand to quell Dr. Cogswell’s objection. “I’m familiar with the Uncertainty Principle. But doesn’t it describe the limits of our investigative abilities, rather than the events themselves? We can’t determine both the position and velocity of an electron simultaneously—but this does not presuppose that the two qualities are non-existent. So far as we know there is nothing to differentiate a stable radium atom from one which is about to disintegrate. To the best of our present knowledge the process occurs at random. But obviously, if we were able to compare the two atoms carefully enough, we could decide which was about to disintegrate. The lack is in our abilities, not the radium atoms. If they were exactly alike, if they were identities, exposed to identical conditions, then they must act alike.”

  “I fear,” said Dr. Cogswell, a trifle pompously, “that your analysis is based on human experience. You reason anthropomorphically, so to speak. Consider the increment of weight as an object approaches light-speed. Such a concept is completely beyond our experience—yet it exists.”

  Don laughed. “Your analogy doesn’t contradict me, Doctor. Remember, I’m not postulating that all events are determined by Newtonian physics. Light-speed physics works by its own determinants, so do sub-molecular reactions, and so do parapsychological events.”

  “Very well,” sighed Dr. Cogswell. “Continue.”

  “We consider the varieties of parapsychological events: telepathy, clairvoyance, precognition, retrocognition, telekinesis, spirit action, poltergeists, house-haunting, sympathetic magic. With precognition and retrocognition, a sort of time-travel occurs. This aside, the phenomena all involve or occur in some sort of medium definitely beyond the sensitivity of our instruments. For the sake of the discussion, we’ll call it mind-stuff. Super-normal continuum, if you prefer.”

  “Mind-stuff suits me,” said Dr. Cogswell.

  Don nodded, leaned back in his chair. “So, it appears that our first objective is this mind-stuff, or continuum. What is it?”

  Vivian Hallsey said, “Heavens, we don’t even know what our own matter consists of.”

  Don nodded. “Right. My question was rhetorical. I should have asked, how does it work? How is it related to our own matter?”

  “What if there isn’t any relationship?” suggested Vivian Hallsey airily.

  “There has to be some relationship. The two states have too many qualities in common. Time, in the first place. Second, energy. Ectoplasm reflects light, and certain ghosts give off light. Anything which radiates or reflects light must have some sort of relationship with normal matter. Third, the fact that a great deal of parapsychological phenomena is generated inside an undeniably material brain.”

  “Very well,” said Dr. Cogswell. “So much is clear. Objective—mind-stuff. And how do you propose to proceed?”

  Don smiled. “If I wanted to learn something about Timbuctoo, how would I do it?”

  “Go there.”

  “And if I couldn’t go there myself?”

  “Talk to someone who’s been there.”

  Don nodded. “Exactly. To this end I’d like to locate a dozen effective mediums of proved integrity, who don’t object to scientific checks and corroboratory measures.”

  “Ah,” said Dr. Cogswell sadly, “wouldn’t we all? There may not be that many in the whole United States.”

  “After you get the mediums, after you contact the spirits—what do you ask them?” inquired Vivian Hallsey. “And after they tell you, how do you check?”

  Don said sadly, “That’s our first problem. And it’s a hard one. Don’t forget, we still aren’t at all sure that spirits exist. There’s a strong possibility that the mediums are highly, if unconsciously
, telepathic. We’ve got to rule out that possibility first. We want to determine whether a departed spirit can give first, information unknown to any human mind, living or dead; and second, information predicting an event in the future whose existence has been determined by pure chance, or at least by no human intervention, such as the fall of a meteor, a volcanic explosion, a sunspot.”

  “Or two or three daily doubles at Santa Anita,” said Vivian Hallsey. “That’s what I need.”

  Dr. Cogswell ignored her, rather pointedly. “Those are the classic problems certainly,” he agreed. “Personally, I know of no experiment to prove beyond dispute the existence of spirit control. There is always some combination of telepathy, clairvoyance, precognition or retrocognition to explain any apparently inexplicable knowledge.”

  “I’d even be satisfied to learn the mechanisms behind telepathy, as a starter,” said Don.

  “How about ghosts?” asked Vivian Hallsey. “If you could authenticate ghosts, you’d prove the existence of spirits.”

  “Not necessarily,” said Cogswell. “Ghosts are probably the imprint of emotion on the supernormal continuum—about as alive as 3D movies.”

  “But aren’t there cases of ghosts acting with intelligence? Of responding differently to different circumstances?”

  Cogswell shrugged. “Perhaps. I can’t think of any authenticated cases offhand. The Clactonwall Deacon, perhaps. Or the Wailing Lady of Gray Water.”

  “Poltergeists,” suggested Jean.

  “Yes. Poltergeists, of course.”

  “There’s one sure way to find out the truth,” said Don.

  “Die,” said Cogswell.

  “I think I’ll be going,” said Vivian, “before I get elected guinea-pig.”

  “Perhaps I should have said two ways. The second is to go there—and return.”

  Cogswell started to speak, then paused. Then: “You mean, counterfeit death?”

  “Something of the sort. Isn’t it possible to die and be revived?”

  Cogswell shrugged. “There have been rather remarkable rumors out of Russia…And some remarkable work being done at the local universities with low temperatures. The body can’t take organic damage, of course. If large ice-crystals rupture the cells—finish. Then there’s the matter of keeping the brain oxygenated. Ten minutes without oxygen—a man can never get his sanity back. It’s not an easy situation.”

  “In the case of low-temperature catalepsy, is oxygenation so important?”

  “No, not nearly…In fact—well, I’ll admit it. I’m involved in some of these experiments myself. We’ve frozen a dog stiff, and revived him after twenty-two minutes.”

  Vivian laughed. “Now all you need is someone to be Bill the Lizard!”

  Dr. Cogswell raised his eyebrows. “Bill the Lizard?”

  “A character in ‘Alice in Wonderland’. He was persuaded to perform some investigations with disastrous results.”

  “These experiments are only the first phase, of course,” said Don. “If the other world exists, perhaps we can set up channels of communication. Possibly even material transfer.”

  Dr. Cogswell shook his head in respectful, if somewhat dubious, admiration. “You have remarkable ideas, Mr. Berwick.”

  “It’s a remarkable world we live in,” said Don. “Consider the sciences: astronomy, bacteriology, physics. Think how fantastic the contemporary scene would seem to the early researchers! And the old ideas of witchcraft and sorcery—how vastly more marvellous is our new knowledge! Think where it’s leading us, this knowledge. Our lives change every week—never the changes we expect. This work we’re dabbling in now—it’s the foundation of a new body of knowledge as important as all the rest together. The men of the future—they’ll use the word ‘spiritualist’ as we say ‘alchemist’, ‘astrologer’. What we’ll accomplish—” he shrugged. “Who knows? Perhaps a great deal, more likely not. We’ll be lucky if we stumble on a few of the right tools. Still—someone has to start. Astonishing that humanity has waited this long.”

  “Not astonishing, really,” said Vivian. “The after-life, the hypernormal—they’re part of all the superstitions, the religions, and therefore taboo.”

  “They still are,” said Dr. Cogswell. “I care nothing for any taboos, except those of the American Medical Association. And there I’ve got to be careful.” He rose to his feet. “Now I must go. If I can be of any help, let me know.”

  “You can put us in touch with a dozen effective mediums.”

  Cogswell shook his head doubtfully. “They’re scarce as hen’s teeth…Exactly how do you plan to proceed with a dozen mediums? What do you hope to prove?”

  “Mainly, I just want to see what’ll happen. We’ll try simultaneous seances—the mediums separate, then the mediums together. We’ll try to send messages from medium to medium through their spirit controls. We’ll try for exact knowledge of the physical nature of this after-life region.”

  Dr. Cogswell shrugged. “It sounds interesting and very ambitious, but there are also difficulties. For instance, you’d need optimum performances from all twelve mediums at the same time—which in such an atmosphere would be extremely lucky.”

  “All we can do is try,” said Don. “We’ll never know otherwise. Maybe this shot-gun technique will open up the problem.”

  Cogswell rubbed his chin. “When do you propose to begin?”

  “As soon as possible. We’ll call it—Exercise One.”

  IX

  The day for Exercise One approached, arrived. At three o’clock the participants began to arrive at 26 Madrone Place, a large old house on the outskirts of Orange City, rented for the occasion. First came members of the Psychical Research Society, observers from the psychology departments of local universities, Vivian Hallsey, with a somber-appearing man in a dark suit. She introduced him somewhat mysteriously to Don and Jean as Mr. Kelso. Don hesitated, then said, “Are you a journalist, Mr. Kelso?”

  “Of a sort, yes.”

  “Our policy here is freedom of the press—in general. We see no reason why the public shouldn’t be informed of any progress we make. But I do object to sensationalization, because it impedes us. It’s difficult to persuade sensitive people to undertake these experiments. If they become notorious or the subject of ridicule, it’s impossible.”

  “I quite understand,” said Mr. Kelso. “However I’m here today unofficially, an observer, a friend of Miss Hallsey’s.”

  “Then you’re very welcome.”

  At five o’clock the mediums began to arrive, and were taken at once to separate rooms. The floors were bare; in each was a small wooden table, a couch and arm-chairs for the medium and the observers. Inconspicuous in each room was a microphone, the leads of which ran to a central bank of speakers and tape-recorders in the old living room, now known as the control room. Don had considered installing closed-circuit TV within each room, connected to a screen in the control room, but could think of no advantage to the scheme, and had abandoned it.

  Of fourteen mediums approached, only eight had agreed to participate in the experiments. In general they seemed to be persons of average intelligence and education, ranging in age from Grandma Hogart, sixty-two, to her grandson Myron Hogart, eighteen. Myron showed a timorous excitement; Grandma Hogart’s comments were caustic and skeptical; Alec Dillon held himself aloof—a pallid thin-featured man, austere and taciturn; Ivalee Trembath maintained her crystalline serenity. They showed little interest in each other—all except Grandma Hogart, who labelled the others frauds. To prevent friction and any possible collusion, conscious or unconscious, Don arranged that each medium be kept isolated from every other.

  At seven o’clock the exercise was scheduled to begin; but Alec Dillon, unmarried, middle-aged, and temperamental, developed nervous attenuation and asked for time to gain composure. The delay irritated the others; there was grumbling. The exercise threatened to collapse even before it started. Jean and Dr. Cogswell scurried from room to room, apologizing, soothing, easing the ten
sion.

  Don sat in the control room tapping his fingers nervously, watching the signal panel, where seven lights signalled “Ready”. Vivian Hallsey and Kelso sat quietly to the side. There was nothing to do but wait. Don turned to Kelso. “Are you interested in this kind of thing personally or professionally?”

  “Both,” said Kelso. “It’s frequently crossed my mind that telepathy, clairvoyance, etcetera, would confer a significant military advantage on the nation which systematized them.”

  Don reflected. “I suppose so. I hadn’t considered that aspect of the situation. You’re not a government official?”

  Kelso shook his head. “I work for Life. We recently ran a picture-essay on haunted houses. Did you see it?”

  Don nodded. “Beautiful pictures.”

  Minutes passed. At seven twenty-five Alec Dillon sank with a sigh into his arm-chair, ready to summon his control: Sir Gervase Desmond. In the control room all eight lights glowed. Don hunched forward, eight intercom speakers in front of him; also eight microphones connected to speaker-buttons in the ears of the operators. By this means Don could give signals and instructions without disturbing the mediums.

  Don spoke into a master microphone which took his voice to all the eight rooms. “We’re all ready. Remember, there’s no pressure on any of us. This is for fun. We’re not trying to prove anything; we’re not trying to check on anyone—so everybody relax.”

  From Room 2 came a resentful mutter; this would be Alec Dillon, who had a poet’s aversion to exactitude and scientific method. If there were four firm contacts, thought Don, he’d consider Exercise One a success. Under conditions at 26 Madrone Place even four contacts would be remarkable. “Let’s go.”