The Potter of Firsk and Other Stories

by Jack Vance

  So he charged a respirator with appropriate filters and jumped out on the planet to inspect the steering jets. He sank to his ankles in an impalpable black dust like soot, which every passing puff of air blew into whirls of black smoke.

  As he walked, he stirred up clouds of this dust, which settled in his clothes and into his boots. Holderlin cursed. He could see that a grimy period lay before him. He plodded around to the steering jets.

  They were both better and worse than he had expected. The linings were split and broken, and fragments had wedged across the throat of the tube. The electron filaments were destroyed but the backplates of telex crystal were still whole.

  The tubes themselves were sound, neither belled, warped nor cracked, and apparently the field coils were not burnt out. Holderlin surmised that a small charge of vanzitrol had been exploded in each.

  He could not recall seeing any spare linings aboard, but to make sure he ransacked the ship—to no avail. However, the Naval Regulation Lining Oven and a supply of flux was in its place as provided by Article 80 of the Astronautic Code, a law from the early days of space-flight, when durable linings were unknown.

  Then every ship carried dozens of spares—yet often as not these would burn out or split in the heat and pressure, and the ship would be forced to land on a convenient planet and mold another supply. Now Holderlin’s concern was to find a bed of clean clay.

  The ground at his feet was covered by the black dust. Perhaps, if he dug, he might find clay.

  As he stood by the jets, Holderlin heard a heavy shuffling tread through the forest. He ran back to the entrance port, knowing that on strange planets prudence and agility are better safeguards than a needle-beam and steel armor.

  The creature of the footsteps passed close beside the ship, a thin shambling being fifteen feet high, vaguely manlike, with a spider’s gaunt construction. The arms and legs were skin and bone, the skin was greenish-black, the face peculiarly long and vacant.

  It had a fierce shock of reddish hair at the back of its head, the eyes were bulging milky orbs, the ears were wide and extended. It passed the Perseus with hardly a glance and showed neither awe nor interest.

  “Hey!” cried Holderlin, jumping to the ground. “Come here!”

  The thing paused a moment to regard him dully through the red light, then slowly shambled off in its original direction, stirring up black clouds of dust. It disappeared through the feathery black jungle.

  Holderlin returned to the problem of repairing the tubes. He must find clay enough to mold four new linings—three or four hundred pounds. He brought a spade from the ship and dug into the surface.

  He worked half an hour and turned up nothing but hot black humus. And the deeper he dug, the thicker and tougher grew the roots of the fungus trees. He gave up in disgust.

  As he climbed, sweating and dusty, from his hole, a little breeze raced along the top of the jungle stirring the fronds, and in the black fog which floated down, Holderlin discovered the origin of the black powder at his feet—spawn.

  He must find clay, clean yellow clay, the nearer the better. He did not fancy carrying this clay on his shoulder any great distance. He looked to where the lifeboat dangled by its nose from the bow of the Perseus.

  He saw that the shackle, with the entire weight of the lifeboat hanging on it, was locked. Holderlin scratched his head. He would have to balance the boat on the gravity units, releasing the shackle from all strain, to remove it.

  But when he finally poised the boat in mid-air and climbed out on the nose, he discovered that his shift of position had weighted the bow and that if he unscrewed the shackle, the boat very likely would nose down and throw him to the ground.

  Cursing both shackle and lifeboat, Holderlin let the boat hang against the hull as before and made his way to the ground. He entered the ship and outfitted himself with a sack, a light spade, a canteen of water and spare charges for his respirator.

  “Aboard the Perseus! Aboard the Perseus! Respond, Perseus!”

  Holderlin chuckled grimly and sat down beside the speaker.

  “Aboard the Perseus!” came the call again. “This is Captain Creed speaking. If you are alive and listening, respond immediately. You have bested us fair and square, and we hold no grudge. But no matter how you reached this planet you cannot go farther.

  “A detector screen surrounds you, and we will heterodyne any distress call you broadcast.”

  Evidently Captain Creed had not yet surmised who had run off with his ship, or how it had been accomplished. Another voice broke in, harder and sharper.

  “Respond immediately,” said the new voice, “giving your position, and you will receive a share in the venture. If you do not, we shall know how to act when we find you, and we will find you if it means searching the planet foot by foot!”

  All during this pronouncement, the strength of the radio carrier wave had increased rapidly, and now Holderlin heard a low mutter, rapidly waxing to a roar. Running to the port, he spied the black pirate ship sweeping toward him across the green sky, just under the canopy of many-colored clouds.

  Almost overhead the brake blasts spewed forward, and the ship slowed in its majestic course. Trapped—thought Holderlin. With racing pulse he leapt for the lifeboat. The shackle he’d blast away with his needle-beam!

  But the black ship passed across the mountain, where it slowly sank from sight, sunlight glinting from its sides. Holderlin breathed easily again. This world was small, and the mountain made a prominent landmark. Probably the same reasons that had brought him here to hide, led them here to seek him.

  At least he knew where his enemies were stationed, a matter of some advantage. How to escape them, he as yet had no notion. They seemed invulnerable with a fast well-armed ship against his wrecked hulk, and certainly no less than thirty or forty in the crew.

  Holderlin shrugged. First he must repair the tubes. Then he would try his luck at winning clear. And if he could bring that scented cargo only as far as Laroknik on Gavnad, the sixth of Delta Aquila, the universe lay open to him.

  He’d buy a space-yacht, a villa on Fan, the Pleasure Planet. He’d buy an asteroid and create a world to his whim, as did the Empire’s millionaires. Holderlin put aside his dreaming. He took his sack and plodded off through the black dust in the direction of the mountain, seeking clay. A half mile from the ship, the feathery black canopy overhead thinned, and he entered a clearing.

  Within the clearing moved a score of the tall manlike creatures. But their hair was not reddish like that of the creature that had passed him in the wood. It was a greenish-black. They stood busy with an enormous beast, evidently domesticated.

  This had a great round body, as big as a house, supported on a circle of wide arching legs. With two long tentacles it stuffed the black tree-fronds into a maw on top of its hulk. Below hung a number of teats at which the black things worked, squirting a thin green liquid into pots.

  Holderlin passed through the clearing, full in the red sunglow, but beyond a few dull glances, they took no heed of him. Continuing a mile or so, he came to the edge of the forest and the steep rises of the mountains.

  Almost at his feet he found what he sought. In the diminished gravity he loaded into his sack a great deal more than he might have carried on Earth—perhaps a half of his needs—and set out in return.

  But as he waded through the black dust the sack grew heavy, and by the time he reached the clearing where the natives tended their beast, his arms and his back ached.

  He stood resting, watching the placid natives at their work. It occurred that possibly one of them might be induced to serve him.

  “Hey—you!” he called to the nearest, as best he could through the respirator. “Come here!”

  This one looked at Holderlin without interest.

  “Come here!” he called again, although plainly the creature could not understand him. “I need some help. I’ll give you—” he fumbled in his pockets and pulled out a small signal mirror “—this.”


  He displayed it, and presently the native shambled across the glade to him. It stooped to take the mirror, and a hint of interest came over the long doleful face.

  “Now take this,” said Holderlin, giving over the sack of clay, “and follow me.”

  At last the creature understood what was required of him, and with no show of either zeal or reluctance, took the bag in its rickety arms and shuffled along behind Holderlin to the ship. When they arrived, Holderlin went within and brought out a length of shiny chain, and showed it to his helper.

  “One more trip, understand? One more trip. Let’s go.” The creature obediently followed him.

  Holderlin dug the clay, loaded the bag into the native’s arms.

  Above them came the sound of voices, footsteps, scuffling and grating on the rock. Holderlin crept for cover. The native stood stupidly, holding the sack of clay.

  Three figures came into sight, two of them panting through respirators—Blaine and a tall man whose pointed ears and high-arched eyebrows proclaimed Trankli blood. The third was a native with a red mop of hair.

  “What’s this?” cried the Trankli half-breed, spying Holderlin’s helper. “That sack is—”

  They were the last words he spoke. A needle-beam chattered and cut him down. Blaine whirled about, grabbing for his own weapon. A voice brought him up short.

  “Drop it, Blaine! You’re as good as dead!”

  Blaine slowly dropped his hands to his sides, glaring madly in the direction of the voice, his malformed lip twitching. Holderlin stepped from the shadow into the scarlet sunlight, and his face was as ruthless as death itself.

  “Looking for me?”

  He walked over and took Blaine’s needle-beam. He noted the native’s reddish mop of hair. This was the one that had passed him in the woods, who was evidently in league with his enemies.

  The needle-beam spoke once more, and the tall black body crumpled like broken jack-straws. Holderlin’s worker watched impassively.

  “Can’t have any tale-bearers,” said Holderlin, turning his ice-blue eyes on Blaine.

  “Why don’t you give it up, Holderlin?” snarled Blaine. “You can’t get away alive.”

  “Do you think you’ll outlive me?” mocked Holderlin. “What’s that you’ve got? A radio, hey? I’ll take that.” He did so. “The native was taking you to the Perseus, and you were going to flash back the position. Right?”

  “That’s right,” admitted Blaine sourly, wondering at what moment he was to be killed.

  Holderlin mused.

  “What ship are you in?”

  “The Maetho—Killer Donahue’s. You can’t get away, Holderlin. Not with Donahue after you.”

  “We’ll see,” said Holderlin shortly.

  So it was Killer Donahue’s Maetho! Holderlin had heard tales of Donahue—a slight man of forty years, with dark hair and a pair of black eyes which saw around corners and into men’s minds. He had a droll clown’s face, but past deeds of blood and loot did not echo the humor of his countenance.

  Holderlin thought a moment, staring at the flaccid Blaine. The surviving native stood disinterestedly holding the clay.

  “Well, you wanted to see the Perseus,” Holderlin said at last. “Start moving.” He gestured with the needle-beam.

  Blaine went slowly, sullenly.

  “Do you want to die now,” inquired Holderlin, “or are you going to do as I say?”

  “You got the gun,” growled Blaine. “I got no say at all.”

  “Good,” said Holderlin. “Then move faster. And tonight we’ll cook linings for the steering jets.” He motioned to the waiting native. With Blaine ahead, they plodded off toward the ship.

  “What’s over the mountain? Donahue’s hideout?” Holderlin asked.

  Blaine nodded dourly, then decided he had nothing to lose by truckling to Holderlin.

  “He gets thame-dust here, sells it on Fan.”

  Thame was an aphrodisiac powder.

  “The natives collect it, bring it in little pots. He gives them salt for it. They love salt.”

  Holderlin was silent, saving his energy for plowing the black dust.

  “Suppose you did get away,” Blaine presently put forward, “you never could sell those oils anywhere. One whiff of syrang and you’d have the Tellurian Corps of Investigation on your neck.”

  “I’m not selling them,” said Holderlin. “Think I’m a fool? What do you think I got that certification of shipwreck for? I’m going to claim salvage. That’s ninety percent of the value of ship and cargo, by law.”

  Blaine was silent.

  When at last they arrived, weary and begrimed with black dust, the native dropped the sack and held out a gangling arm.

  “Fawp, fawp,” it said.

  Holderlin looked at him in puzzlement.

  “It wants salt,” said Blaine, still intent on ingratiating Holderlin. “They do anything for salt.”

  “Is that so?” said Holderlin. “Well, we’ll go in the galley and find some salt.”

  So Holderlin gave the native the bit of chain and a handful of salt and dismissed it. He turned back to Blaine and gave him the radio.

  “Call up Creed or Donahue and tell them that the native says you won’t reach the ship till tomorrow night—it’s that far off.”

  Blaine hesitated only an instant, long enough for Holderlin to lay a significant hand on his needle-beam. He did as he was told. He called Creed, and Creed seemed satisfied with the information.

  “Tell him you won’t call again till tomorrow night,” said Holderlin. “Say that’s because Holderlin might catch an echo of the beam from the mountain.”

  Blaine did so.

  “Good,” said Holderlin. “Blaine, we’re going to get along very well. Maybe I won’t even kill you when I’m done with you.”

  Blaine swallowed nervously. He disliked this kind of talk. Holderlin stretched his arms.

  “Now we’ll make tube linings. And because you ruined the last set, you’ll do most of the work.”

  All night they baked linings in the atomic furnaces, Blaine, as Holderlin had promised, working the hardest. His bald head glistened in the glow from the furnace.

  As soon as the linings were finished—no longer clay, but heavy metallic tubes—Holderlin clamped them in place. And when the angry little sun came over the horizon, the Perseus was once more in condition to navigate.

  With Blaine’s help, Holderlin unshackled the lifeboat from the hull and brought it to the ground beside the Perseus. Then Holderlin locked Blaine in a storage locker.

  “You’re lucky,” he observed. “You can sleep. I have to work.” Holderlin had seen a ten-pound can of vanzitrol in the Perseus armory—a compound stable chemically, but uncertain atomically. Holderlin ladled about a pound into a paper sack, enough to blast the Perseus clear through the planet.

  He found a detonator, and entering the lifeboat took off. Feeling safe from observation after Blaine’s information, he skimmed low over the black jungle until, about thirty miles from the Perseus, he found a clearing which suited him, not too large, not too small.

  He landed and buried the vanzitrol and the detonator in the center. Then he returned to the Perseus and slept for four or five hours.

  When he awoke, he aroused Blaine. They got in the lifeboat, flew to the mined clearing. Holderlin set the lifeboat down two hundred yards out in the jungle.

  “Now Blaine,” he said, “you’re to call Creed and tell him you’ve found the Perseus. Tell him to take a bearing on the radio beam and come at once. Tell him there’s a clearing handy for him to land in.”

  “Then what?” asked Blaine doubtfully.

  “Then you’ll wait in the clearing until the Maetho is about to land. After that I’ll give you a choice. If you want to return aboard the Maetho, you can stay where you are. If you want to stay with me, you’ll run like mad for the lifeboat. Suit yourself.”

  Blaine did not answer, but a suspicious look crept into his eyes, and his lips curled
craftily.

  “Send the message,” said Holderlin.

  Blaine did so, and Holderlin was satisfied. They had cornered Holderlin in the Perseus, said Blaine, and Mordang, the Trankli half-breed, was holding him while Blaine radioed.

  “Very good, Blaine!” came back Creed’s voice. Then Donahue asked a few sharp questions. Had the Perseus crashed? No, replied Blaine, she was sound. Could the Perseus bring her needle-beam to bear on the clearing? No, the clearing was quite safe, a half mile astern of the Perseus. Donahue ordered Blaine to wait in the clearing for the ship.

  Twenty minutes later Holderlin, hidden in the jungle, and Blaine standing nervously in the clearing, saw the hulk of the Maetho come drifting overhead.

  It hovered about five hundred yards above. Blaine, nakedly caught in the red sunlight, waved an arm to the ship at Holderlin’s brittle command.

  There was a pause. The cautious Donahue apparently was inspecting the situation.

  Presently Holderlin, waiting tensely at the edge of the forest, saw a small scout boat leave the Maetho, drift down toward the clearing. His mouth tightened. He cursed once, bitterly.

  This meant Creed or Donahue had smelled a rat. His plan could not succeed—he’d have to move fast to escape with his skin! Blaine also knew the jig was up, was uncertain which way to jump.

  He decided that under the circumstances Holderlin offered the least immediate danger, and casually began to leave the clearing. At once Donahue’s voice crackled from a loud speaker.

  “Blaine! Stay where you are!”

  Blaine broke into a frightened run, but the black dust hampered him. From the Maetho a needle-beam spoke, and amid a great puff of black dust, Blaine exploded to his component atoms.

  Holderlin was already to the lifeboat. A slim chance remained that the scout boat on landing would miss the mine, and the Maetho would land and be blown to scrap. But this he doubted, as the detonator was sensitive, the clearing small.

  An air-rending blast as he entered his boat assured him he was right. The ground swayed like jelly, and a hail of earth, rocks, bits of trees spattered far over the jungle. The Maetho was tossed upward like a toy balloon. A tremendous choking pall of black dust thickened the sky.