by Jack Vance
"Well," said Joe, "you never know how a person takes things. Sometimes they'll sue you, ha, ha, for a hair in the soup. Of course, in your case - well," he finished lamely, "we hadn't really thought about it."
Ridolph frowned thoughtfully. "Ah, if I had an exaggerated sense of dignity, a sop of five thousand munits might only further offend me. But since I am what I am, I'm sure we can let events adjust themselves naturally."
"Sure," said Lucky enthusiastically. "Gentlemen to gentlemen."
Joe Blaine twirled the cigar in his mouth, looked into space trying to trace the implications of the words.
"Well, suits me," he said reluctantly. He wrote. "Here's your fee, then."
"Thank you." Magnus Ridolph pocketed the check. He looked out the window. "I believe your franchise ends about a half-mile up the beach?"
Blaine nodded. "Just about where I came out of the jungle this morning. Maybe a little this way."
Magnus Ridolph said abstractedly, "The closer to the Mollie village, the better."
"Eh? How's that?"
Magnus Ridolph looked up in surprise. "Haven't I described my plans for the bottling and processing plant? No? Today I applied via space-wave for a use permit of the beach."
Joe and Lucky had turned their heads simultaneously, staring. Their faces wore the expressions seen on small animals, who, tripping a baited trigger, snap their own flash-light photographs.
"Processing plant?"
"For what?"
Magnus Ridolph said in a pedantic tone, "I've tentatively decided on the name Mephitoline - which to some extent describes the product."
"But-"
"But-"
"It has been my experience," continued Magnus Ridolph, "that the more noxious a salve, an unguent, or a beauty aid, the more eagerly it is purchased, and the greater its therapeutic or psychological value. In this respect, that unspeakably vile liquid which you used this afternoon in your experiment can hardly be improved upon. Mephitoline, suitably bottled and attractively packaged, will be a valuable specific against psychosomatic disorders."
"But-"
"Possibly Mephitoline may be used as a fixative in the perfume industry, as being more positive than either ambergris, musk, or any of the synthetics. I also anticipate a large and steady sale to college fraternities, lodges, and secret organizations, where it might become an important adjunct to their rituals."
Magnus Ridolph turned a grave glance upon Joe and Lucky.
"I have you two to thank for putting this opportunity in my way. But then, the Spa of the Stars will doubtless share in any prosperity which might come to the Mephitoline Bottling Works. Plant workers will no doubt spend part of their pay at your bars, only three minutes walk away..."
"Look here," said Blame, in a voice like an old-fashioned wagon crossing a graveled road, "you know darn well that a plant bottling that black stuff a few hundred yards upwind from the hotel would chase every guest back on the same packet that brought him!"
"Not at all," argued Magnus Ridolph. "The Mephitoline plant would add a great deal of color and atmosphere. I believe that the plant and the Spa would complement each other very well. I'm sure you must have thought of it yourself: 'Spa of the Stars, Health Center of the Cluster. If You've Got It, Mephitoline Will Cure It' - something of the sort. But, as you see" - and Magnus Ridolph smiled apologetically - "I'm a dreamer. I have no head for business. You two are really better suited to managing a modern medical laboratory. I suppose it would be better for us all if I sold out to you for - say, twenty-five thousand munits. Cheap at the price."
Joe Blaine spat in a wordless futility of anger and disgust.
"Pah!" snorted Lucky. "You're selling us a gold brick. You haven't got a plant, you don't even know whether the stuff is any good."
Magnus Ridolph seemed impressed with Lucky's reasoning. He rubbed his beard thoughtfully.
"That's a very good point. After all, how can we be sure of Mephitoline's efficacy? The sensible solution is to test it. Hm - I see that you have a rather severe case of acne. And - yes - Mr. Blairie appears to be suffering from - is it heat-rash? or some sort of itch?" "Heat-rash!" snapped Joe.
"We'll put Mephitoline to a test. Each of you can rub Mephitoline over your lesions - or better yet, submerge yourselves in a Mephitoline bath. Give it a fair chance. Then if your conditions are not alleviated, we'll know that Mephitoline is useful only in a psychological sense, and my price will drop to fifteen thousand munits. If your ailments are cured, and Mephitoline has a specific value, the price remains at twenty-five thousand munits. Of course, if you and Mr. Woolrich do not avail yourselves of this opportunity, I personally can't afford to give it up."
There was a short silence.
''Well, Joe," said Lucky wearily, "he's got us over a barrel."
"Not at all," protested Magnus Ridolph. "By no means! I am offering you a valuable property at a ridiculously - "
Blaine interrupted him. "Ten thousand munits is our top price. Take it or leave it."
"Very well," said Magnus Ridolph readily. "Ten thousand - if the Mephitoline does not cure your itch. But unless the test is made, I'll have to hold out for twenty-five thousand."
In a tight-lipped atmosphere the Mephitoline was gingerly swabbed over the afflicted parts. Magnus Ridolph, however, insisted on a liberal application.
"If the job is scamped, we will never be sure in our own minds."
But when the Mephitoline was finally scraped off with sticks, the itch and the acne were found still to be in evidence.
"Now are you satisfied?" asked Joe, glaring from behind the application like a tiger made-up with grease-paint. "It don't work. I itch like fury. It's even worse than before."
"The substance is evidently no cure-all," said Magnus Ridolph regretfully.
Lucky had been scrubbing himself with alcohol. "How do you get this stuff off? Soap and water I guess would be better..."
But thorough scouring still did not entirely erase the Mephitoline; a strong odor still clung to the persons of Joe Blaine and Lucky Woolrich.
"Cripes," muttered Joe, "how long does this stuff last?" He looked suspiciously at Magnus Ridolph. "How did you get it off you?"
Magnus Ridolph, standing carefully aloof, said, "That's a rather valuable bit of information, I'm sorry to say. I arrived at the formula after considerable - "
"All right," said Joe brutally. "How much?"
Magnus Ridolph drew his fine white eyebrows up into an injured line. "Oh, negligible. I'll make only a token charge of a thousand munits. If you perform - ah, further experiments with Mephitoline, you'll need the solution time and time again."
There were several bitter statements, but finally Joe wrote Magnus Ridolph a check, eleven thousand munits in all.
"Now, how do we get rid of this horrible stench?"
"Apply a ten percent solution of hydrogen peroxide," said Magnus Ridolph.
Joe started to bellow; Lucky stifled him, and went off to the hotel dispensary. He returned with an empty gallon jug.
"I can't find any!" he said querulously. "The bottle's empty!"
"There is no more," said Magnus Ridolph frankly. "I used it all myself. Of course, if you wish to retain me as a consultant, I can outline a simple chemical process..."
COUP DE GRACE
THE HUB, a cluster of bubbles in a web of metal, hung in empty space, in that region known to Earthmen as Hither Sagittarius. The owner was Pan Pascoglu, a man short, dark and energetic, almost bald, with restless brown eyes and a thick mustache. A man of ambition, Pascoglu hoped to develop the Hub into a fashionable resort, a glamor-island among the stars - something more than a mere stopover depot and junction point. Working to this end, he added two dozen bright new bubbles - "cottages," as he called them - around the outer meshes of the Hub, which already resembled the model of an extremely complex molecule.
The cottages were quiet and comfortable; the dining salon offered an adequate cuisine; a remarkable diversity of company met in the public r
ooms. Magnus Ridolph found the Hub at once soothing and stimulating. Sitting in the dim dining salon, the naked stars serving as chandeliers, he contemplated his fellow-guests. At a table to his left, partially obscured by a planting of dendrons, sat four figures. Magnus Ridolph frowned. They ate in utter silence and three of them, at least, hulked over their plates in an uncouth fashion.
"Barbarians," said Magnus Ridolph, and turned his shoulder. In spite of the mannerless display he was not particularly offended; at the Hub one must expect to mingle with a variety of peoples. Tonight they seemed to range the whole spectrum of evolution, from the boors to his left, across a score of more or less noble civilizations, culminating with - Magnus Ridolph patted his neat white beard with a napkin - himself.
From the corner of his eye he noticed one of the four shapes arise, approach his own table.
"Forgive my intrusion, but I understand that you are Magnus Ridolph."
Magnus Ridolph acknowledged his identity and the other, without invitation, sat heavily down. Magnus Ridolph wavered between curtness and civility. In the starlight he saw his visitor to be an anthropologist, one Lester Bonfils, who had been pointed out to him earlier. Magnus Ridolph, pleased with his own perspicacity, became civil. The three figures at Bonfils' table were savages in all reality: paleolithic inhabitants of S-Cha-6, temporary wards of Bonfils. Their faces were dour, sullen, wary; they seemed disenchanted with such of civilization as they had experienced. They wore metal wristlets and rather heavy metal belts: magnetic pinions. At necessity, Bonfils could instantly immobilize the arms of his charges.
Bonfils himself was a large fair man with thick blond hair, heavy and vaguely flabby. His complexion should have been florid; it was pale. He should have exhaled easy good-fellowship, but he was withdrawn and diffident. His mouth sagged, his nose was pinched; there was no energy to his movements, only a nervous febrility. He leaned forward. "I'm sure you are bored with other people's troubles, but I need help."
"At the moment I do not care to accept employment," said Magnus Ridolph in a definite voice.
Bonfils sat back, looked away, finding not even the strength to protest. The stars glinted on the whites of his eyes; his skin shone the color of cheese. He muttered, "I should have expected no more."
His expression held such dullness and despair that Magnus Ridolph felt a pang of sympathy. "Out of curiosity – and without committing myself - what is the nature of your difficulty?"
Bonfils laughed briefly - a mournful empty sound. "Basically - my destiny."
"In that case, I can be of little assistance," said Magnus Ridolph.
Bonfils laughed again, as hollowly as before. "I use the word 'destiny' in the largest sense, to include" - he made a vague gesture - "I don't know what. I seem predisposed to failure and defeat. I consider myself a man of good-will - yet there is no one with more enemies. I attract them as if I were the most vicious creature alive."
Magnus -Ridolph surveyed Bonfils with a trace of interest. "These enemies, then, have banded together against you?"
"No ... at least, I think not. I am harassed by a woman. She is busily engaged in killing me."
"I can give you some rather general advice," said Magnus Ridolph. "It is this: Have nothing more to do with this woman."
Bonfils spoke in a desperate rush, with a glance over his shoulder toward the paleolithics. "I had nothing to do with her in the first place! That's the difficulty! Agreed that I'm a fool; an anthropologist should be careful of such things, but I was absorbed in my work. This took place at the southern tip of Kharesm, on Journey's End; do you know the place?"
"I have never visited Journey's End."
"Some people stopped me on the street - 'We hear you have engaged in intimate relations with our kinswoman!'
"I protested: 'No, no, that's not true!' - because naturally, as an anthropologist, I must avoid such things like the plague."
Magnus Ridolph raised his brows in surprise. "Your profession seems to demand more than monastic detachment."
Bonfils made his vague gesture; his mind was elsewhere. He turned to inspect his charges; only one remained at the table. Bonfils groaned from the depths of his soul, leapt to his feet - nearly overturning Magnus Ridolph's table - and plunged away in pursuit.
Magnus Ridolph sighed, and, after a moment or two, departed the dining salon. He sauntered the length of the main lobby, but Bonfils was nowhere to be seen. Magnus Ridolph seated himself, ordered a brandy.
The lobby was full. Magnus Ridolph contemplated the other occupants of the room. Where did these various men and women, near-men and near-women, originate? What were their purposes, what had brought them to the Hub? That rotund moon-faced bonze in the stiff red robe, for instance. He was a native of the planet Padme, far across the galaxy. Why had he ventured so far from home? And the tall angular man whose narrow shaved skull carried a fantastic set of tantalum ornaments: a Lord of the Dacca. Exiled? In pursuit of an enemy? On some mad crusade? And the anthrope from the planet Hecate sitting by himself: a walking argument to support the theory of parallel evolution. His outward semblance caricatured humanity; internally he was as far removed as a gastropod. His head was bleached bone and black shadow, his mouth a lipless slit. He was a Meth of Maetho, and Magnus Ridolph knew his race to be gentle and diffident, with so little mental contact with human beings as to seem ambiguous and secretive... . Magnus Ridolph focused his gaze on a woman, and was taken aback by her miraculous beauty. She was dark and slight, with a complexion the color of clean desert sand; she carried herself with a self-awareness that was immensely provoking.
Into the chair beside Magnus Ridolph dropped a short nearly-bald man with a thick black mustache: Pan Pascoglu, proprietor of the Hub. "Good evening, Mr. Ridolph; how goes it with you tonight?"
"Very well, thank you... That woman: who is she?"
Pascoglu followed Magnus Ridolph's gaze. "Ah. A fairy-princess. From Journey's End. Her name - " Pascoglu clicked his tongue. "I can't remember. Some outlandish thing."
"Surely she doesn't travel alone?"
Pascoglu shrugged. "She says she's married to Bonfils, the chap with the three cave-men. But they've got different cottages, and I never see them together."
"Astonishing," murmured Magnus Ridolph.
"An understatement," said Pascoglu. "The cave-men must have hidden charms."
The next morning the Hub vibrated with talk, because Lester Bonfils lay dead in his cottage, with the three paleolithics stamping restlessly in their cages. The guests surveyed each other nervously. One among them was a murderer!
II
Pan Pascoglu came to Magnus Ridolph in an extremity of emotion. "Mr. Ridolph, I know you're here on vacation, but you've got to help me out. Someone killed poor Bonfils dead as a mackerel, but who it was - " He held out his hands. "I can't stand for such things here, naturally."
Magnus Ridolph pulled at his little white beard. "Surely there is to be some sort of official inquiry?"
"That's what I'm seeing you about!" Pascoglu threw himself into a chair. "The Hub's outside all jurisdiction. I'm my own law - within certain limits, of course. That is to say, if I were harboring criminals, or running vice, someone would interfere. But there's nothing like that here. A drunk, a fight, a swindle - we take care of such things quietly. We've never had a killing. It's got to be cleaned up!"
Magnus Ridolph reflected a moment or two. "I take it you have no criminological equipment?"
"You mean those truth machines, and breath-detectors and cell-matchers? Nothing like that. Not even a fingerprint pad."
"I thought as much," sighed Magnus Ridolph. "Well, I can hardly refuse your request. May I ask what you intend to do with the criminal after I apprehend her - or him?"
Pascoglu jumped to his feet. Clearly the idea had not occurred to him. He held out his clenched hands. "What should I do? I'm not equipped to set up a law court. I don't want to just shoot somebody."
Magnus Ridolph spoke judiciously. "The question may resolve its
elf. Justice, after all, has no absolute values."
Pascoglu nodded passionately. "Right! Let's find out who did it. Then we'll decide the next step."
"Where is the body?" asked Magnus Ridolph.
"Still in the cottage, just where the maid found it."
"It has not been touched?"
"The doctor looked him over. I came directly to you."
"Good. Let us go to Bonfils' cottage."
Bonfils' "cottage" was a globe far out on the uttermost web, perhaps five hundred yards by tube from the main lobby.
The body lay on the floor beside a white chaise-longue - lumpy, pathetic, grotesque. In the center of the forehead was a burn; no other marks were visible. The three paleolithics were confined in an ingenious cage of flexible splines, evidently collapsible. The cage of itself could not have restrained the muscular savages; the splines apparently were charged with electricity.
Beside the cage stood a thin young man, either inspecting or teasing the paleolithics. He turned hastily when Pascoglu and Magnus Ridolph stepped into the cottage.
Pascoglu performed the introductions. "Dr. Scanton, Magnus Ridolph."
Magnus Ridolph nodded courteously. "I take it, doctor, that you have made at least a superficial examination?"
"Sufficient to certify death."
"Could you ascertain the time of death?"
"Approximately midnight."
Magnus gingerly crossed the room, looked down at the body. He turned abruptly, rejoined Pascoglu and the doctor, who waited by the door.
"Well?" asked Pascoglu anxiously.
"I have not yet identified the criminal," said Magnus Ridolph. "However, I am almost grateful to poor Bonfils. He has provided what appears to be a case of classic purity."
Pascoglu chewed at his mustache. "Perhaps I am dense - "
"A series of apparent truisms may order our thinking," said Magnus Ridolph. "First, the author of this act is currently at the Hub."
"Naturally," said Pascoglu. "No ships have arrived or departed."
"The motives to the act lie in the more or less immediate past."