Hard-Luck Diggings: The Early Jack Vance, Volume One

by Jack Vance

  A round, red face looked out the port.

  “Hello, doc,” called Rogge. “All cleared for landing?”

  “Germ-free,” said the red face. “Safe as Sunday school.”

  “Well, open ’er up!”

  The flushed medico eyed Rogge with a detached bird-like curiosity. “You in a hurry?”

  Rogge tilted his head, stared at the doctor, eye to eye. The red face disappeared, the port opened wider, a short plump man in blue shorts swung out on the stage, descended the ladder. He flipped a hand to Rogge.

  “Hello, Julic,” said Rogge, peering up past him to the open port. “Any passengers?”

  “Thirteen replacements for you. Cat-skinners, a couple plumbers—space-sick all the way.”

  Rogge snorted, jerked his head. “Thirteen? Do you know I’ve lost thirty-three men this last month? Didn’t you pick up a T.C.I. man in Starport?”

  The captain looked at him sidewise. “Yes, he’s aboard. Looks like you’re anxious.”

  “Anxious!” Rogge grinned wickedly, humorlessly. “You’d be anxious yourself with two, three men strangled every day.”

  Captain Julic narrowed his eyes. “It’s true, is it?” He looked up to the two tall cliffs that marked Diggings A and B, the raw clutter of barracks and machine-shops below. “We heard rumors in Starport, but I didn’t—” His voice dwindled away. Then: “Any idea at all who’s doing it?”

  “Not one in the world. It’s a homicidal maniac, no doubt as to that, but every time I think I’ve got him spotted, there’s another killing. The whole camp’s demoralized. I can’t get an honest day’s work out of any man on the place. I’m a month behind schedule. I radioed the T.C.I. two weeks ago.”

  Captain Julic nodded toward the port. “There he is.”

  Rogge took a half-step forward, halted, blinked. The man descending the ladder was of medium height, medium weight, and something past middle-age. He had white hair, a small white beard, a fine straight nose.

  Rogge darted a glance at Captain Julic who returned him a humorous shrug. Rogge turned back to the old man, now gazing leisurely up and down the glistening gray beach, out over the lambent white ocean.

  Rogge pulled his head between his bony shoulders, stepped forward. “Ah—I’m James Rogge, Superintendent,” he rasped. The old man turned, and Rogge found himself looking into wide, blue eyes, clear and guileless.

  “My name is Magnus Ridolph,” said the old man. “I understand that you’re having difficulty?”

  “Yes,” said Rogge. He stood back, looking Magnus Ridolph up and down. “I was expecting a man from the Intelligence Corps.”

  Magnus Ridolph nodded. “I happened to be passing through Starport and the Commander asked me to visit you. At the moment I’m not officially connected with the Corps, but I’ll do all I can to help you.”

  Rogge clamped his teeth, glared out to sea. At last he turned back to Ridolph. “Here’s the situation. Men are being murdered, I don’t know by whom. The whole camp is demoralized. I’ve ordered the entire personnel to go everywhere in couples—and still they’re killed!”

  Magnus Ridolph looked across the beach to the hills, low rounded masses covered with glistening vegetation in all shades of black, gray and white.

  “Suppose you show me around the camp.”

  Rogge hesitated. “Are you ready—right now? Sure you don’t want to rest first?”

  “I’m ready.”

  Rogge turned to the captain. “See you at dinner, Julic—unless you want to come around with us?”

  Captain Julic hesitated. “Just a minute, till I tell the mate I’m ashore.” He clambered up the ladder.

  Magnus Ridolph was gazing out at the slow-heaving, milk-white ocean that glowed as if illuminated from beneath.

  “Plankton?”

  Rogge nodded. “Intensely luminescent. At night the ocean shines like molten metal.”

  Magnus Ridolph nodded. “This is a very beautiful planet. So Earthlike and yet so strangely different in its coloring.”

  “That’s right,” said Rogge. “Whenever I look up on the hill I think of an extremely complicated steel engraving…the different tones of gray in the leaves.”

  “What, if any, is the fauna of the planet?”

  “So far we’ve found creatures that resemble panthers, quite a few four-armed apes, and any number of rodents,” Rogge said.

  “No intelligent aborigines?”

  Rogge shook his head. “So far as we know—no. And we’ve surveyed a good deal of the planet.”

  “How many men in the camp?”

  “Eleven hundred, thereabouts,” said Rogge. “Eight hundred at Diggings A, three hundred at B. It’s at B where the murders occur. I’m thinking of closing down the diggings for a while.”

  Magnus Ridolph tugged at his beard. “Murders only at Diggings B? Have you shifted the personnel?”

  Rogge nodded, glared at the massive column of ore that was Diggings B. “I’ve changed every man-jack in the camp. And still the killings go on—in locked rooms, in the showers, the toilets, anywhere a man happens to be alone for a minute or two.”

  “It sounds almost as if you’ve disturbed an invisible genius loci,” said Magnus Ridolph.

  Rogge snorted. “If that means ‘ghost’, I’ll agree with you. ‘Ghost’ is about the only explanation I got left. Four times, now, a man has been killed in a locked room with no opening larger than a barred four-inch ventilator. We’ve slipped into the room with nets, screened every cubic foot. Nothing.”

  Captain Julic came down the ladder, joined Rogge and Magnus Ridolph. They turned up the hard-packed gray beach toward Diggings A, a jut of rock breaking sharply out of the gently rolling hills.

  “The ore,” Rogge explained, “lies in a layer at about ground level. We’re bull-dozing the top-surface off onto the beach. When we’re all done, that big crag will be leveled flat to the ground, and the little bay will be entirely filled.”

  “And Diggings B is the same proposition?” asked Magnus Ridolph. “It looks about the same formation from here.”

  “Yes, it’s about the same. They’re old volcanic necks, both of them. At B, we’re pushing the fill into a low canyon in back. When we’re done at B—if we ever get done—the canyon will be level full a mile back, and we’ll use it for a town-site.”

  They climbed up from the beach on a sloping shoulder of rock. Rogge guided them toward the edge of the forest, fifty feet distant.

  “I’ll show you something,” Rogge said. “Fruit like you’ve never seen before in your life.” He stopped at a shiny black trunk, plucked one of the red globes that hung within easy reach. “Try one of these.” And Rogge bit into one of the soft skins himself.

  Magnus Ridolph and the captain gravely followed suit.

  “They are indeed very good,” said the old man.

  “They don’t grow at B,” said Rogge bitterly. “Just along this stretch here. Diggings B is the hard-luck spot of the entire project. The leopards and apes killed men at B until we put up a charged steel fence. Here at A there’s some underbrush that keeps them out. Full of thorns.”

  A sound in the foliage attracted his attention. He craned his neck. “Look! There’s one right now—an ape!” And Magnus Ridolph and the captain, looking where he pointed, glimpsed a monstrous black barrel, a hideous face with red eyes and a fanged mouth. The brute observed them, hissed softly, took a challenging step forward. Magnus Ridolph and the captain jerked back. Rogge laughed.

  “You’re safe. Watch him.”

  The ape lunged nearer, then suddenly halted, with a roar. He struck out a great arm at the air, roared again. He charged forward, stopped short, howling, retreated.

  Rogge threw the core of the fruit at him. “If this were at B, he’d have killed the three of us.” He peered through the foliage. “Gah! Get away from here, you ugly devil!” And Rogge ducked in alarm as a length of stick hurtled past his head.

  “The creature apparently has a comparatively high order of intell
igence,” suggested Magnus Ridolph.

  “Mmph,” snapped Rogge. “Well—perhaps so. We killed one at Diggings B, and two others dug a grave for him under a tree, buried him while we were watching.”

  Magnus Ridolph looked soberly into the forest. “I can tell you how to stop these murders.”

  Rogge jerked his head around. “How?”

  “Survey off an area of land, in such a way that both diggings, A and B, are a mile inside the perimeter. Around the boundary erect a charged steel fence, and clear the land inside of all vegetation.”

  Rogge stared. “But how—” His belt radio buzzed. He flipped the switch.

  “Superintendent Rogge!” came a voice.

  “Yes!” barked Rogge.

  “Foundry-foreman Jelson’s got it!”

  Rogge turned to Captain Julic and Magnus Ridolph. “Come along. I’ll show you.”

  Ten minutes later they stood staring down at the naked body of Foreman Jelson. He had been taking a shower and his body still glistened with the wet. A red and blue bruise ringed his neck, his eyes popped, and his tongue lolled from the side of his mouth.

  “We was right here, sittin’ in the dressin’ room,” babbled a red-headed mechanic. “We didn’t see a thing. Jelson went in to shower. The next thing, we heard him flop—and there he was!”

  Rogge turned to Magnus Ridolph. “You see? That’s what’s been going on. Do you still think that building a fence will stop the murders?”

  Ridolph mused, a hand at his white beard. “Tonight, if I am not mistaken, there will be a murder attempted at Diggings A.”

  Rogge’s mouth opened slackly, then snapped shut. From behind came the sobbing breath of the red-headed mechanic.

  “Diggings A? How? Why do you say that?”

  “No one will be killed, I hope,” said Magnus Ridolph. “Indeed, if I’m wrong my theory has been founded on a non-comprehensive survey of the possibilities, and there may be no attempt upon my life.” He stared thoughtfully at the corpse. “Perhaps I overestimate the understanding and ability of the murderer.”

  Rogge turned away. “Call the medics,” he snapped to the mechanic.

  They rode back to Diggings A in a jeep, and Rogge took Captain Julic and Magnus Ridolph to his apartment for the evening meal.

  “I could easily clear the land,” he told Ridolph, “but I can’t understand what you have in mind.”

  Magnus Ridolph smiled slowly. “I have an alternate proposal.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Armor the necks of your personnel in steel bands.”

  Rogge snorted. “Then the murderer would go to smashing skulls or poisoning.”

  “Bashing heads, no—poisoning, possibly,” said Magnus Ridolph. He reached for an enormous purple grape. “For instance, it would be an easy matter to poison the fruit.”

  “But why—why!” cried Rogge. “I’ve pounded my brain night after night, and all I can get is ‘homicidal maniac’.”

  Magnus Ridolph shook his head, smiled. “I think not. I believe that these killings have a clear, very simple purpose behind them. So simple perhaps that you overlook it.”

  Rogge grunted, glared at the benign countenance. “Suppose you are murdered tonight—then what?”

  “Then you’ll know that my recommendation was founded on a correct analysis of the problem, and you’ll do as I suggested.”

  Rogge grunted again, and for a moment there was silence.

  “How long a job do you have here, Superintendent?” Magnus Ridolph asked mildly.

  Rogge stared sourly out the window past the gray, black, white foliage, out to where a knife-edge horizon divided the bright white sea from the dark-blue sky. “About five years if I can keep men working. Another week of these killings, they’ll break their contract.”

  Captain Julic chuckled. Rogge turned snapping black eyes on him.

  “Already,” said Captain Julic, “I’ve refused twenty men passage back to Starport.”

  “Contract-jumpers, eh?” snorted Rogge. “Just point them out to me, and I’ll make them toe the mark!”

  Captain Julic laughed, shook his head.

  At last Magnus Ridolph rose to his feet. “If you’ll show me to my quarters, I think I’ll take a little rest.”

  Rogge pushed a button to summon the steward, quizzically eying the white-bearded sage. “You still think your life is in danger?”

  “Not if I’m careful,” said Magnus Ridolph coolly.

  “So far there’s been no killings at Diggings A.”

  “For an excellent reason—if my hypothesis is correct. A very manifest reason, if I may say so.”

  Rogge leaned back in his chair, curled his lip. “So far it has not been manifest to me, and I have been intimately concerned with the matter since we broke ground at Diggings B.”

  “Perhaps,” said Magnus Ridolph, “you are too close to the problem. You must remember that this is not Planet Earth, and conditions—the psychological, the biological, and,” he turned a vastly impassive stare at Rogge, “the essentially logical circumstances—are different from what you have been accustomed to.”

  He left the room. Rogge arose, paced up and down, kneading the palm of one hand with the fist of the other.

  “What a pompous old goat!” he said between clenched teeth. He darted a burning glance at Captain Julic, who sat quietly smiling across a glass of liqueur. “Have you ever seen anything like it? Here I’ve been on the job seven months now, fighting this problem night and day—and he arrives, and in one hour delivers his opinion. Have you ever heard the like? Why, I believe I’ll beam Starport this very minute! I asked for an Intelligence operative, not a tourist!” He started for the door.

  Captain Julic arose from his seat. “I advise you, Superintendent—” But Rogge was gone. Captain Julic followed the tall wide-pacing figure to the Comm-unications room. He knocked at the door, and as his signal was disregarded, quietly entered.

  He found Rogge barking at the screen, where the space-blurred image of the chief of the Terrestrial Intelligence Corps showed.

  “—and he’s gone off to bed now,” Rogge was bellowing. “And all he tells me is to build a fence!”

  There was a short pause, while the message raced at near-instantaneous speed to Starport and back. Rogge stood like a great snapping-turtle temporarily without its shell, frozen, glaring at the image. The loudspeaker buzzed, crackled.

  “Superintendent Rogge,” came the words of the Corps chief, “I earnestly advise you to follow the advice of Magnus Ridolph. In my opinion you are fortunate to have him at hand to help you.”

  The image faded. Rogge turned slowly, looked unseeingly past Julic.

  Julic approached, tapped the rigid arm. “If you’d asked me, I could have told you the same.”

  Rogge wheeled. “What about this Magnus Ridolph? Who is he?”

  Captain Julic made an easy gesture. “Magnus Ridolph is an eminent mathematician.”

  “What’s that got to do with the T.C.I.?” demanded Rogge bitterly. “Or the present case? He won’t stop the killings with a slide-rule.”

  Captain Julic smiled. “I think he carries a slide-rule in his brain.”

  Rogge turned, stalked slowly from the Communications room. “How is it that the Corps commander sent him—a mathematician?”

  Julic shrugged. “I imagine that he’s an unofficial consultant, something of the sort.”

  Rogge jerked his long white fingers. “Suppose he’s right? Suppose he’s killed tonight?”

  A steward approached, whispered in his ear. Rogge straightened up, clamped his thin lips together. “Sure. Get him anything he wants.”

  He and Captain Julic returned to the apartment.

  After leaving Rogge, Magnus Ridolph had gone to his room, locked the door, and made a thoughtful survey of his surroundings. One wall was glass, framed on either side by the sharp gray and black foliage of two tall trees. Visible beyond was the curve of a hill down to the beach, the luminescence of the pallid o
cean.

  Darkness was falling, the sky deepened to a starless black, and the ocean, by contrast, shone softly bright as lamp-lit parchment.

  Magnus Ridolph turned, inspected the remainder of the room. Empty, beyond all question. To the right was his couch, ahead the tiles of the bathroom glistened through an open door.

  Ridolph closed the bathroom door, polarized the glass panels behind him, and pressed the call button for the steward.

  “Bring me, quickly, please, a small power-pack, about twenty feet of glochrome wire, and three rolls of heavy insul.”

  The steward stared, then said, “Yes, sir,” turned and closed the door.

  Magnus Ridolph waited with his back to the door, looking ruminatively at the walls.

  The steward presently returned. Magnus Ridolph removed his tunic, then on sudden thought, closely inspected the walls.

  He donned his tunic once more, rang for the steward.

  “Is there anywhere in the building a room with metal walls and a metal door?”

  The steward blinked. “The refrigerator room, sir.”

  Magnus Ridolph nodded. “Take me there.”

  A short while later he returned to his room, walking stiffly, for his arms and legs were now wrapped with insul tape. He depolarized the glass wall, and in the wan light from the ocean, selected a chair, lowered himself into it, waited.

  An hour passed, and Magnus Ridolph’s eyelids grew heavy. He slept.

  He awoke with a slight start, a sense of dissatisfaction. Were his deductions at fault? Why had not—

  He stiffened, strained his ears, twisted slowly in his seat, glanced toward the bathroom. Nothing was visible. He relaxed in his chair.

  Cable-like thongs snapped home—around his ankles, his chest, his throat, constricting with terrible angry strength.

  Magnus Ridolph reacted instantly, fighting with primitive fright. Then the discipline of his brain took control. His big toe pressed a switch inside his shoe. Instantly up and down his arms and legs glochrome wires under his tunic burnt blue-hot, cutting the cloth like a razor, lighting the walls in the brilliance of their heat.