The Potter of Firsk and Other Stories

by Jack Vance

  “I’ll read the article again,” said Hugh in a throaty voice. “And as I read, ponder the audacity of these hermetic imps.” He looked around his audience, raised his voice to oboe pitch. “These atheists.” He peered into the blur of faces. “These nasty vandals, breaking a way even into God’s own Heaven.” He paused. Even the sibilant sound of breath and stirring cloth had stopped. There was as deep a hush as is possible when seventeen thousand people gather under a roof hung with bright lights.

  Hugh’s voice dropped an ominous octave. “If your blood doesn’t boil like mine—then never call me Fighting Hugh Bronny, and never call yourselves Christian Crusaders.”

  He bent his head over the clipping and read.

  Lucky Don Berwick

  To Plumb Psychic Region

  by Vivian Hallsey

  “Three months ago Lucky Don Berwick was a man known to comparatively few people; today his name is on everyone’s tongue. Wherever men and women get together, chances are they’re talking about Lucky Don Berwick. Now comes news of an adventure to pale all the fabulous exploits in Berwick’s fabulous life—if it works. Tonight at nine o’clock Donald Berwick will be killed. By every medical and legal definition he will be dead. His heart will be still. His lungs will pump no air. There will be no sign of life in Berwick’s body; there will be no spark of life in Berwick’s body; he will have passed beyond.

  “At nine-thirty Drs. Cogswell, Clark, Aguilar and Foley of Los Angeles Medical Research Center will attempt to revive Donald Berwick by techniques conceived during World War II, improved upon, and now perfected. At ten o’clock it is hoped that Lucky Donald Berwick will be lucky enough to be once more alive.

  “What is the purpose of this experiment? Hang on to your seats, ladies and gentlemen; this is a jolt. Donald Berwick has volunteered to undertake the most daring exploration of his existence (although it’s a journey all of us must make). He will endeavor to bring back a report on the land beyond the grave, if there be any.”

  Hugh looked up, carefully crumpled the clipping into a ball, cast it away with a gesture of revulsion.

  “There, Christian Crusaders, you have it. You say with wrath in your hearts, God will punish these men. I say to you, God will certainly punish Donald Berwick and his kind! He has sent me—” Hugh became suddenly magnificent; he soared to his full height, an arm stretched high; his voice was a trumpet. “He has sent me! He has sent me as his strong right arm!” And in Hugh’s voice was the sudden certainty, and every heart felt a pang, every throat contracted, gulped for air, expanded in a great guttural moan. “He has sent me!—and I will lead!—first against the Devil’s Imp Berwick!—then against the vile forces that seek to befoul and destroy this dear America of ours! I can’t tell you, go to 26 Madrone Place, make your wishes known. I can’t urge you—as I might wish—to tear that cursed haunt of evil stone from stone. No! They’d say I was inciting you to riot! I can’t say that! No, brothers! All I can say is that’s where I’m going! Now is the time for Christian Crusaders to ask themselves to enforce the will of God. By fighting? Or by reading in the papers of blasphemy and sacrilege? The address, brothers and Crusaders! 26 Madrone Place. I will be there!”

  XVII

  Don looked at his watch. “Time grows short…I suppose I should be more alarmed, but I’m not.”

  He grinned. “Just another dull evening.”

  Head said drily, “You’re starting to take the exploits of Lucky Don Berwick seriously.”

  Don grinned. “It’s hypnotic; I can’t help it. The synthetic personality is taking me over.” He caught Jean’s half-alarmed glance, laughed. “I’ll resist it.”

  Clark and Aguilar were giving the tank a final cursory inspection, looking without seeing, since the entire apparatus had been checked and re-checked during the day.

  The cameraman walked here and there, taking photographs.

  Don glanced around the faces, meeting the eyes that watched him with covert speculation. “Everybody looks comfortable.” He prodded Cogswell’s plump ribs. “Cheer up, Doctor. After all, it’s me that’s being killed.”

  Cogswell mumbled unhappily. “Do you think there’ll be time for materialization?”

  “I’ll do what I can.”

  Dr. Foley touched Berwick’s elbow. “Come on, Lucky; take the dive.”

  Don slipped out of the bathrobe. He wore the Russian colonel’s uniform to identify himself as completely as possible with the archetypal image of himself in the mass mind. A Polaroid camera hung around his neck; at his hip, a holster held a .45 army automatic.

  “Take a good look,” said Don. “And remember—Lucky Don Berwick! Concentrate on it! The ‘Lucky’ part especially.” He stepped into the tank, stretched out.

  Foley started a timer; Clark and Aguilar gave him intravenous injections in the right and left thighs, then the right and left shoulders. At one minute Foley threw a switch; motors under the tank began to whine. The glass was quickly frosted, Don’s shape became indistinct.

  At two minutes Clark and Aguilar repeated the injections, while Foley clamped a soft band around Don’s wrist, looped a metal ribbon around his neck. Dials on the panel indicated pulse and body temperature. The pulse indicator quivered, sank: 60, 55, 50, 45; the temperature gauge hovered at 98.6 for thirty seconds, then began to dive. When it hit 90 degrees Foley threw in another switch; the motors below the cabinet sang.

  Don was now unconscious. His pulse sank swiftly: 20—15—10—5…It quivered to a stop. The temperature gauge began to plummet: 80°—70°—60°. Dr. Clark and Dr. Foley reached into the tank, flexed Berwick’s legs, arms. The temperature dropped: 50°—40°—now far below room temperature.

  Dr. Aguilar worked a knob; the motor sound declined in pitch. The temperature gauge moved more slowly, came to a halt at 34°.

  Drs. Foley and Aguilar slid a glass cover over the tank, Clark opened a valve; there was a sound of pumps.

  Dr. Cogswell turned to the spectators. “At this time—he’s dead. The pumps are drawing the air out of his lungs; the tank will be refilled by an atmosphere of nitrogen.”

  Foley reached through a port, rubber gauntlets over his hands. He put a bracket against the waxy temples, pressed contacts against various parts of Don’s close-cropped scalp. Aguilar watched a dial muttering, “No—no—no…No—no—nothing. No activity.” Cogswell turned to the others. “He is now dead.”

  Kelso said, “Okay to take pictures into the tank?”

  Dr. Cogswell nodded shortly.

  Kelso motioned to the photographer.

  Jean was looking at Ivalee Trembath. “Can you get anything?”

  Ivalee shook her ice and silver head. “No…Not in here. There’s too much infringement—disturbance.”

  “Want to leave the room?” Rakowsky asked her.

  “Yes, please.”

  Rakowsky and Jean took her to one of the upstairs bedrooms. Suddenly conscious of noise, Rakowsky looked out the window. He touched Jean’s arm. “The street—all of a sudden it’s full of cars.”

  The cars crowded bumper to bumper along the street, glowing-eyed black fish. They roared and groaned and choked to a halt. The doors opened; men and women with twisted faces squeezed out, struggled and sidled to the sidewalk. They started to chant—off-key, off-beat. The tune suddenly emerged.

  “Listen,” said Jean.

  “‘Onward Christian Soldiers’,” said Rakowsky.

  Jean shuddered. “It sounds weird—music from the future…What are they doing here?…A convention? A gathering?”

  “A demonstration,” said Rakowsky.

  “An attack,” said Ivalee Trembath.

  The voices rose into the night, the faces looked up, pale as clamshells. A tall figure, larger and more definite than the faceless crowd, stalked to the door.

  Rakowsky muttered, “I’m going to call the police.”

  Hugh’s bony knuckles echoed on the door. “Open up, open up, in the name of the Lord God Most High. Open this cursed door!”


  Jean suddenly snapped out of it to find Ivalee’s hands clutching her. Ivalee was crying. “Jean! Jean! Don’t!” Jean had a heavy earthenware vase in her hand; the window was open in front of her. She stopped struggling, put down the vase. “What a horror!” she whispered. “I would have killed him…”

  The knocks were sounding again. “For the last time!” blared Hugh’s voice; then the door swung open. Godfrey Head’s calm quiet voice rose up to them.

  “I have called the police. You’re disturbing a delicate scientific experiment. I advise you to leave before you get in serious trouble.”

  “Anti-Christ!” crackled Hugh’s voice. “Stand aside.” He put a great hand on Head’s thin chest, pushed. Kelso stepped out on the porch. Hugh attempted to thrust him aside. Kelso swung a bony fist into Hugh’s mouth, sent him reeling off the porch.

  From the distance came the eery moan of sirens. It seemed to stimulate the crowd, to heighten their mood.

  Hugh staggered around, faced them. His mouth oozed black blood, his shirt was befouled. “They have drawn my blood! In the name of my blood, forward! The time is now! Such a great fire we will kindle to carry us across the world! Onward, you Crusaders, you soldiers of Christ! With fire and sword—onward!”

  The crowd roared, surged. Jean caught a horrifying glimpse of Godfrey Head being yanked by his necktie, flung down from the porch, disappearing under the dark rush.

  An enormous baby-faced young man with side-burns wearing a leather jacket charged into the hall, clamped Kelso’s arms; they fell heavily, Kelso on the bottom.

  Hugh stalked forward, kicked. The young man jumped up, kicked too, again and again with booted feet.

  Hugh looked about him, majestic, flaming-eyed. “Fire and sword!” came the cry behind him; and a woman who looked like a consumptive stenographer began keening “Onward Christian Soldiers!” And the baby-faced young man yelled, “Kill the devils! Kill the atheists!”

  At the foot of the staircase, the cameraman snapped pictures—one, two, three—then prudently retreated down the hall. Hugh ignored him. The four doctors came forward, so cool and inquiring that Hugh was momentarily taken aback.

  “Will you kindly get that beastly mob out of here?” asked Dr. Aguilar testily.

  Rakowsky marched forward. “I’m placing you under arrest. If you attempt to escape, I’ll shoot you.”

  “‘Escape’?” roared Hugh. “Stand aside!”

  The doctors were disconcerted; the authority which served in hospital and laboratory had failed; they suddenly became ordinary men. They fought.

  In the living room there was a sudden crackle, a roar and babble of voices. Hugh sidled against the wall, fended off Dr. Aguilar with one great hand. Jean met him at the door; he slapped her face, backward, forward; she staggered back.

  Hugh stood a moment in the doorway. Cogswell, his face twisted by fear, lurched forward. “Go away, get out of here!”

  Hugh looked contemptuously from Cogswell to the tank. Donald Berwick lay cold, impassive, dead. The dials showed no pulse. The temperature was 34°.

  Jean stood with her back to the tank; Ivalee Trembath gripped a chair to one side; to the other Dr. James Cogswell stared at Hugh like a hypnotized frog.

  “Get out of here, Hugh,” whispered Jean. “I’ll kill you…”

  Hugh’s eyes blazed. “No one can stop me…I am the new Messiah!” He took a step forward. Cogswell, screaming hoarsely, charged. Hugh swung his long lank arm, slapped Cogswell’s red cheek. Cogswell thumped to the wall, slid down to the floor. Hugh stepped forward.

  Jean ran around behind the tank. Ivalee swung the chair. Somebody behind Hugh fended it off.

  Jean slid back the glass cover, seized the automatic from Don’s holster; the cold stung her hands. She aimed it, pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. Hugh laughed. He reached under the tank, heaved. The tank was bolted to the floor. Hugh grunted foolishly. Jean looked at the automatic, frantically fumbled, threw off the safety. She aimed. Hugh raised his foot, kicked. Glass tinkled. Hugh reached, seized Don’s cold arm.

  Jean fired. The bullet struck Hugh’s shoulder; he flinched, but seemed to feel no pain. He tugged at Don. With a sliding rush the body slid out on the floor.

  Jean took a step forward, aimed, fired. Hugh clutched his abdomen in surprise. Jean pulled the trigger, firing steadily. Hugh’s knees sagged. Blood suddenly spouted from a hole in his neck. His knees buckled; he toppled like a stricken mantis. Jean aimed her gun at the faces in the doorway, the shapes behind Hugh. They scuttled and ducked like beetles.

  “Jean,” said Ivalee, “the house is on fire.”

  “Fire!” came a cry from the hall. Ivalee went to Cogswell, tried to pull him to his feet. He lay limp, his breath coming in stertorous gulps. There was a shuffle in the hall, a curious lull. Then a sudden terrified sounding of feet, a scream, not so much of pain as terror.

  Ivalee ran out into the hall; Jean saw the flicker on her face. For an instant the silver of her hair and ice of her face were alloys of gold. She turned back to Jean. “We can’t get out the front.”

  Jean ran to the body of Donald Berwick. She knelt beside it, rubbed the cheeks. They were cold and damp from condensed moisture.

  “Jean,” said Ivalee gently, “Don is past all that.”

  “But Iva—we can do something—we’ve got to do something…The doctors—they could revive him…”

  The flames poured into the room, bringing clouds of smoke. “We’ve got to get out of here,” said Ivalee.

  Jean looked down aghast at Don’s body. “Can’t we—can’t we—” she began in a tired voice.

  Ivalee lifted her to her feet. “We can’t help him now, Jean…”

  “But—he’s really alive, Iva…The doctors can bring him back to life! It’s so horrible! I can’t abandon him!”

  “He’s dead, Jean…The doctors could bring him back to life in the tank…With the right timing and their drugs…Don is dead, Jean. And so is poor little Cogswell.”

  “Dr. Cogswell—dead?”

  “Yes, dear. Come, we can’t stay any longer…”

  By force she dragged Jean out into the hall. Sheets of flame blocked the way to the front door, and filled the rear hall.

  “To the second floor,” said Ivalee. “It’s our only chance.”

  They ran up the stairs, pursued by hot smoke, stumbled into the front bedroom. Ivalee went to the window, while Jean leaned against the wall, numb with grief.

  “The street is full of cars,” said Ivalee. “The firemen are bringing hoses in from the corner. Listen, the mob is still singing. They don’t know that Hugh is dead.”

  From one end of the street to the other the voices quavered, swelled in a chant of triumph. Jean tottered to the window. “Can we jump?”

  “It’s too far,” said Ivalee.

  Searchlights played on the house. Firemen hauled hoses down the sidewalk, running, shouting, pushing people aside. The nozzles were dry; no water came. The firemen turned, looked back along the line in rage, dropped the nozzles, ran back along the hoses.

  “The service stairs,” said Jean. “Maybe they’re still open.”

  They ran to the rear of the house. Behind them a gust of flame roared up the main staircase. Jean opened a door on the service stairs, closed it quickly on the wave of flames and blast of smoke.

  Ivalee went to the back window, a heavy old stained-glass piece, tried to open it, without success.

  “We’re worse here than we were up front.” They turned, looked back down the hall. The main stair-well acted as a chimney; flames were consuming the upper bannisters.

  Jean picked up a chair, threw it at the stained glass. It broke, but lead held the pieces together. The air was very hot, and rasped their throats. Smoke seemed to seep from her lungs into her blood, into her brain. Vision swam in Jean’s eyes, her knees began to sag.

  Behind her she heard a sound, felt a blast of cool air; she felt a strong arm. She looked up. “Donald!” She could not hold on to her sen
ses. Slowly she fainted; and when she awoke, it was four hours later, and she lay in the emergency hospital with Ivalee Trembath in the next room.

  The nurse had no information to give her.

  Three o’clock the next day she and Ivalee Trembath were discharged. They took a taxi to the old Marsile home across town. Two reporters were waiting. Ivalee sent them away; they were alone.

  Jean stood, hollow-cheeked, dry-eyed. She said, “Iva—just before I passed out—I saw him. Donald. Alive.”

  Ivalee nodded. “He carried us out.”

  “But how? He was—dead.”

  “I saw him too…” Ivalee sat down in a chair. “Let’s see if we can find him—or get news…” She covered her eyes with a scarf.

  Newspapers throughout the United States ran an account of the fire at 26 Madrone Place. The headlines read:

  LUCKY BERWICK

  RUNS OUT OF LUCK

  ENDS CAREER IN RELIGIOUS RIOTa

  Sometimes in the same story, sometimes in a different column the death of Fighting Hugh Bronny was reported:

  Members of the Christian Crusade revel in an ecstasy of religious excitement. Only an hour before his death Hugh Bronny exhorted his followers: “Rally to the Crusade; I am the new Messiah!”

  According to the Reverend Walter Spedelius, Hugh Bronny’s passing follows the Christ-pattern. “Christ died to show humanity its sins; Hugh Bronny died to lead us out of the mire to purity. He was a great spirit, a saint, a prophet, and we shall follow him in death as we did in life.”

  XVIII

  Donald Berwick lay down in the tank. He felt the weight of the camera on his chest, the mass of the automatic at his side. Overhead were the faces of Clark, Aguilar and Foley. He turned his eyes, glimpsed Jean through the glass. Then he felt the sting of the hypodermics, the clamp of the gauges. The motors whined below him; the air suddenly grew cold. He closed his eyes. When he tried to open them, he could not—already his muscles were numb.