Dimensiion X

by Jerry eBooks

  Just as every day brings news of more armaments pulverized by dynamopsychism, so has it brought rumors of the professor’s whereabouts. During last week alone, three publications carried articles proving variously that he was hiding in an Inca ruin in the Andes, in the sewers of Paris, and in the unexplored lower chambers of Carlsbad Caverns. Knowing the man, I am inclined to regard such hiding places as unnecessarily romantic and uncomfortable. While there are numerous persons eager to kill him, there must be millions who would care for him and hide him. I like to think that he is in the home of such a person.

  One thing is certain: at this writing, Professor Barnhouse is not dead. Barnhouse static jammed broadcasts not ten minutes ago. In the eighteen months since his disappearance, he has been reported dead some half-dozen times. Each report has stemmed from the death of an unidentified man resembling the professor, during a period free of the static. The first three reports were followed at once by renewed talk of rearmament and recourse to war. The saber-rattlers have learned how imprudent premature celebrations of the professor’s demise can be.

  Many a stouthearted patriot has found himself prone in the tangled bunting and timbers of a smashed reviewing stand, seconds after having announced that the arch-tyranny of Barnhouse was at an end. But those who would make war if they could, in every country in the world, wait in sullen silence for what must come—the passing of Professor Barnhouse.

  To ask how much longer the professor will live is to ask how much longer we must wait for the blessings of another world war. He is of short-lived stock: his mother lived to be fifty-three, his father to be forty-nine; and the life-spans of his grandparents on both sides were of the same order. He might be expected to live, then, for perhaps fifteen years more, if he can remain hidden from his enemies. When one considers the number and vigor of these enemies, however, fifteen years seems an extraordinary length of time, which might better be revised to fifteen days, hours, or minutes.

  The professor knows that he cannot live much longer. I say this because of the message left in my mailbox on Christmas Eve. Unsigned, typewritten on a soiled scrap of paper, the note consisted of ten sentences. The first nine of these, each a bewildering tangle of psychological jargon and references to obscure texts, made no sense to me at first reading. The tenth, unlike the rest, was simply constructed and contained no large words—but its irrational content made it the most puzzling and bizarre sentence of all. I nearly threw the note away, thinking it a colleague’s warped notion of a practical joke. For some reason, though, I added it to the clutter on top of my desk, which included, among other mementos, the professor’s dice.

  It took me several weeks to realize that the message really meant something, that the first nine sentences, when unsnarled, could be taken as instructions. The tenth still told me nothing. It was only last night that I discovered how it fitted in with the rest. The sentence appeared in my thoughts last night, while I was toying absently with the professor’s dice.

  I promised to have this report on its way to the publishers today. In view of what has happened, I am obliged to break that promise, or release the report incomplete. The delay will not be a long one, for one of the few blessings accorded a bachelor like myself is the ability to move quickly from one abode to another, or from one way of life to another. What property I want to take with me can be packed in a few hours. Fortunately, I am not without substantial private means, which may take as long as a week to realize in liquid and anonymous form. When this is done, I shall mail the report.

  I have just returned from a visit to my doctor, who tells me my health is excellent. I am young, and, with any luck at all, I shall live to a ripe old age indeed, for my family on both sides is noted for longevity.

  Briefly, I propose to vanish.

  Sooner or later, Professor Barnhouse must die. But long before then I shall be ready. So, to the saber-rattlers of today—and even, I hope, of tomorrow—I say: Be advised. Barnhouse will die. But not the Barnhouse Effect.

  Last night, I tried once more to follow the oblique instructions on the scrap of paper. I took the professor’s dice, and then, with the last, nightmarish sentence flitting through my mind, I rolled fifty consecutive sevens.

  Good-by.

  The Potters of Firsk

  Jack Vance

  Uranium is an interesting material indeed. And Uranium-235 can be used to settle a cultural dispute permanently—if it is used sensibly. This time it was.

  The yellow bowl on Thomm’s desk stood about a foot high, flaring out from a width of eight inches at the base to a foot across the rim. The profile showed a simple curve, clean and sharp, with a full sense of completion; the body was thin without fragility; the whole piece gave an impression of ringing well-arched strength.

  The craftsmanship of the body was matched by the beauty of the glaze—a glorious transparent yellow, luminescent like a hot summer afterglow. It was the essence of marigolds. a watery wavering saffron, a yellow as of transparent gold, a yellow glass that seemed to fabricate curtains of light within itself and fling them off, a yellow brilliant but mild, tart as lemon, sweet as quince jelly, soothing as sunlight.

  Keselsky had been furtively eying the howl during his interview with Thomm, personnel chief for the Department of Planetary Affairs. Now, with the interview over, he could not help but bend forward to examine the bowl more closely. He said with obvious sincerity: “This is the most beautiful piece I’ve ever seen.”

  Thomm, a man of early middle-age with a brisk gray mustache, a sharp but tolerant eye, leaned back in his chair. “It’s a souvenir. Souvenir’s as good a name for it as anything else. I got it many years ago, when I was your age.” Pie glanced at his desk clock. “Lunch-time.”

  Keselsky looked up, hastily reached for his brief case. “Excuse me, I had no idea—”

  Thomm raised his hand. “Not so fast. I’d like you to have lunch with me.”

  Keselsky muttered embarrassed excuses, but Thomm insisted.

  “Sit down, by all means.” A menu appeared on the screen. “Now—look that over.”

  Without further urging Keselsky made a selection, and Thomm spoke into the mesh. The wall opened, a table slid out with their lunch.

  Even while eating Keselsky fondled the bowl with his eyes. Over coffee, Thomm handed it across the table. Keselsky hefted it, stroked the surface, looked deep into the glaze.

  “Where on earth did you find such a marvelous piece?” He examined the bottom, frowned at the marks scratched-in the clay.

  “Not on Earth,” said Thomm. “On the planet Firsk.” He sat back. “There’s a story connected with that bowl.” He paused inquiringly.

  Keselsky hurriedly swore that nothing could please him more than to listen while Thomm spoke of all things under the sun. Thomm smiled faintly. After all, this was Keselsky’s first job.

  “As I’ve mentioned, I was about your age,” said Thomm. “Perhaps a year or two older, but then I’d been out on the Channel Planet for nineteen months. When my transfer to Firsk came I was naturally very pleased, because Channel, as perhaps you know, is a bleak planet, full of ice and frost-fleas and the dullest aborigines in space—”

  Thomm was entranced with Firsk. It was everything the Channel Planet had not been: warm, fragrant, the home of the Mi-Tuun, a graceful people of a rich, quaint and ancient culture. Firsk was by no means a, large planet, though its gravity approached that of Earth. The land surface was small—a single equatorial continent in the shape of a dumbbell.

  The Planetary Affairs Bureau was located at Penolpan, a few miles in from the South Sea, a city of fable and charm. The tinkle of music was always to be heard somewhere in the distance; the air was mellow with incense and a thousand flower scents. The low houses of reed, parchment and dark wood were arranged negligently, three-quarters hidden under the foliage of trees and vines. Canals of green water laced the city, arched over by wooden bridges trailing ivy and orange flowers, and here swam boats each decorated in an intricate many-colored patte
rn.

  The inhabitants of Penolpan, the amber-skinned Mi-Tuun, were a mild people devoted to the pleasures of life, sensuous without excess, relaxed and gay, guiding their lives by ritual. They fished in the South Sea, cultivated cereals and fruit, manufactured articles of wood, resin and paper. Metal was scarce on Firsk, and was replaced in many instances by tools and utensils of earthenware, fabricated so cleverly that the lack was never felt.

  Thomm found his work at the Penolpan Bureau pleasant in the extreme, marred only by the personality of his superior. This was George Covill, a short ruddy man with prominent blue eyes, heavy wrinkled eyelids, sparse sandy hair. He had a habit, when he was displeased—which was often—of cocking his head sidewise and staring for a brittle five seconds. Then, if the offense was great, he exploded in wrath; if not, he stalked away.

  On Penolpan Covill’s duties were more of a technical than sociological nature, and even so, in line with the Bureau’s policy of leaving well-balanced cultures undisturbed, there was little to occupy him. He imported silica yarn to replace the root fiber from which the Mi-Tuun wove their nets; he built a small cracking plant and converted the fish oil they burned in their lamps into a lighter cleaner fluid. The varnished paper of Penolpan’s houses had a tendency to absorb moisture and split after a few months of service. Covill brought in a plastic varnish which protected them indefinitely. Aside from these minor innovations Covill did little. The Bureau’s policy was to improve the native standard of living within the framework of its own culture, introducing Earth methods, ideas, philosophy very gradually and only when the natives themselves felt the need.

  Before long, however, Thomm came to feel that Covill paid only lip-service to the Bureau philosophy. Some of his actions seemed dense and arbitrary to the well-indoctrinated Thomm. He built an Earth-style office on Penolpan’s main canal, and the concrete and glass made an inexcusable jar against Penolpan’s mellow ivories and browns. He kept strict office hours and on a dozen occasions a delegation of Mi-Tuun, arriving in ceremonial regalia, had to be turned away with stammered excuses by Thomm, when in truth Covill, disliking the crispness of his linen suit, had stripped to the waist and was slumped in a wicker chair with a cigar, a quart of beer, watching girl-shows on his telescreen.

  Thomm was assigned to Pest Control, a duty Covill considered beneath his dignity. On one of his rounds Thomm first heard mentioned the Potters of Firsk.

  Laden with insect spray, with rat-poison cartridges dangling from his belt, he had wandered into the poorest outskirts of Penolpan, where the trees ended and the dry plain stretched out to the Kukmank Mountains. In this relatively drab location he came upon a long open shed, a pottery bazaar. Shelves and tables held ware of every description, from stoneware crocks for pickling fish to tiny vases thin as paper, lucent as milk. Here were plates large and small, bowls of every size and shape, no two alike, ewers, tureens, demijohns, tankards. One rack held earthenware knives, the clay vitrified till it rang like iron, the cutting edge chipped cleanly, sharper than any razor, from a thick dripping of glaze.

  Thomm was astounded by the colors. Rare rich ruby, the green of flowing river water, turquoise ten times deeper than the sky. He saw metallic purples, browns shot with blond light, pinks, violets, grays, dappled russets, blues of copper and cobalt, the odd streaks and flows of rutilated glass. Certain glazes bloomed with crystals like snowflakes, others held floating within them tiny spangles of metal.

  Thomm was delighted with his find. Here was beauty of form, of material, of craftsmanship. The sound body, sturdy with natural earthy strength given to wood and clay, the melts of colored glass, the quick restless curves of the vases, the capacity of the bowls, the expanse of the plates—they produced a tremendous enthusiasm in Thomm. And yet—there were puzzling aspects to the bazaar. First—he looked up and down the shelves—something was lacking. In the many-colored display he missed yellow. There were no yellow glazes of any sort. A cream, a straw, an amber—but no full-bodied glowing yellow.

  Perhaps the potters, avoided the color through superstition, Thomm speculated, or perhaps because of identification with royalty, like the ancient Chinese of Earth, or perhaps because of association with death or disease—The train of thought led to the second puzzle:

  Who were the potters? There were no kilns in Penolpan to fire ware such as this.

  He approached the clerk, a girl just short of maturity, who had been given an exquisite loveliness. She wore the pareu of the Mi-Tuun, a flowered sash about the waist, and reed sandals. Her skin glowed like one of the amber glazes at her back; she was slender, quiet, friendly.

  “This is all very beautiful,” said Thomm. “For instance, what is the price of this?” He touched a tall flagon glazed a light green, streaked and shot with silver threads.

  The price she mentioned, in spite of the beauty of the piece, was higher than what he had expected. Observing his surprise, the girl said, “They are our ancestors, and to sell them as cheaply as wood or glass would be irreverent.”

  Thomm raised his eyebrows, and decided to ignore what he considered a ceremonial personification.

  “Where’s the pottery made?” he asked. “In Penolpan?”

  The girl hesitated and Thomm felt a sudden shade of restraint. She turned her head, looked out toward the Kukmank Range. “Back in the hills are the kilns; out there our ancestors go, and the pots are brought back. Aside from this I know nothing.”

  Thomm said carefully, “Do you prefer not to talk of it?”

  She shrugged. “Indeed, there’s no reason why I should. Except that we Mi-Tuun fear the Potters, and the thought of them oppresses us.”

  “But why is that?”

  She grimaced. “No one knows what lies beyond the first hill. Sometimes we see the glow of furnaces, and then sometimes when there are no dead for the Potters they take the living.”

  Thomm thought that if so, here was a case for the interference of the Bureau, even to the extent of armed force.

  “Who are these Potters?”

  “There,” she said, and pointed. “There is a Potter.”

  Following her finger, he saw a man riding out along the plain. He was taller, heavier than the Mi-Tuun. Thomm could not see him distinctly, wrapped as he was in a long gray burnoose, but he appeared to have a pale skin and reddish-brown hair. He noted the bulging panniers on the pack-beast. “What’s he taking with him now?”

  “Fish, paper, cloth, oil—goods he traded his pottery for.”

  Thomm picked up his pest-killing equipment. “I think I’ll visit the Potters one of these days.”

  “No—” said the girl.

  “Why not?”

  “It’s very dangerous. They’re fierce, secretive—”

  Thomm smiled. “I’ll be careful—”

  Back at the Bureau he found Covill stretched out on a wicker chaise longue, half-asleep. At the sight of Thomm he roused himself, sat up.

  “Where the devil have you been? I told you to get the estimates on that power plant ready today.”

  “I put them on your desk,” replied Thomm politely. “If you’ve been out front at all, you couldn’t have missed them.”

  Covill eyed him belligerently, but for once found himself at a loss for words. He subsided in his chair with a grunt. As a general rule Thomm paid little heed to Covill’s sharpness, recognizing it as resentment against the main office. Covill felt his abilities deserved greater scope, a more important post.

  Thomm sat down, helped himself to a glass of Covill’s beer. “Do you know anything about the potteries back in the mountains?”

  Covill grunted: “A tribe of bandits, something of the sort.” He hunched forward, reached for the beer.

  “I looked into the pottery bazaar today,” said Thomm. “A clerk called the pots ‘ancestors’. Seemed rather strange.”

  “The longer you knock around the planets,” Covill stated, “the stranger the things you see. Nothing could surprise me any more—except maybe a transfer to the Main Office.” H
e snorted bitterly, gulped at his beer. Refreshed, he went on in a less truculent voice, “I’ve heard odds and ends about these Potters, nothing definite, and I’ve never had time to look into ’em. I suppose it’s religious ceremonial, rites of death. They take away the dead bodies, bury ’em for a fee or trade goods.”

  “The clerk said that when they don’t get the dead, sometimes they take the living.”

  “Eh? What’s that?” Covill’s hard blue eyes stared bright from his red face. Thomm repeated his statement.

  Covill scratched his chin, presently hoisted himself to his feet. “Let’s fly out, just for the devilment of it, and see what these Potters are up to. Been wanting to go out a long time.”

  Thomm brought the copter out of the hangar, set down in front of the office, and Covill gingerly climbed in. Covill’s sudden energy mystified Thomm, especially since it included a ride in the copter. Covill had an intense dislike of flying, and usually refused to set foot in an aircraft.

  The blades sang, grabbed the air, the copter wafted high. Penolpan became a checkerboard of brown roofs and foliage. Thirty miles distant, across a dry sandy plain, rose the Kukmank Range—barren shoulders and thrusts of gray rock. At first sight locating a settlement among the tumble appeared a task of futility.

  Covill peering down into the wastes grumbled something to this effect; Thomm, however, pointed toward a column of smoke. “Potters need kilns. Kilns need heat—”

  As they approached the smoke, they saw that it issued not from brick stacks but from a fissure at the peak of a conical dome.

  “Volcano,” said Covill, with an air of vindication. “Let’s try out there along that ridge—then if there’s nothing we’ll go back.”