The Potter of Firsk and Other Stories

by Jack Vance

  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 Communications 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 ocean.

  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.

  The bands around his arms and legs severed, Magnus Ridolph snatched a knife from his belt, slashed at the band around his neck. With the strength ebbing from his body, he hacked and hewed until he felt a pulsing along the knife, a doubt, a reluctance.

  The knife cut through, and the garrote relaxed. Magnus Ridolph gave a great gasp. Tottering, he leaned his back against the wall, staring at the reality of the murdering agency, plain before his eyes.

  He rang for the steward.

  “Fetch Rogge at once.”

  Rogge, gaunt and ungraceful, came on the lope.

  “Yes, what is it?”

  Magnus Ridolph pointed. “Look.”

  Rogge stared, then reached to the floor, lifted a length of the severed thong.

  “I don’t understand,” he said in a husky voice.

  “It is very clear,” said Magnus Ridolph. “In fact, it is a logical necessity. You yourself would have arrived at the solution if you had manipulated your thoughts with any degree of order.”

  Rogge stared at him, anger smouldering in his eyes. “I would be obliged,” he said stiffly, “if you would explain what you know of this business.”

  “With pleasure,” said Magnus Ridolph. “In the first place, it was clear that the killings were calculated to obstruct development of Diggings B. It was not the work of a homicidal maniac for you had changed the entire personnel, and still the killings continued. I asked myself, who profited from the abandonment of Diggings B? Clearly the agency cared nothing about Diggings A, for the work progressed smoothly. Then what was the distinction between the diggings?

  “At first glance, there seemed little. Both were volcanic necks, barren juts of rock, and approximately equal. About the only difference was in your projected disposition of the waste. The rubble from Diggings A was to fill in the bay, that from Diggings B was to fill a wooded canyon. Now,” and Magnus Ridolph surveyed the glowering Rogge, “do the facts presented in this light clarify the problem?”

  Rogge chewed at his lips.

  “I asked myself,” Magnus Ridolph continued softly, “who or what suffers at Diggings B who does not suffer, or profits, at Diggings A? And the answer to my question came instantly—the trees.”

  “Trees!” barked Rogge.

  Magnus Ridolph nodded. “I examined the situation in that light. At Diggings A the trees provided fruit and also erected for you a barrier against the beasts. There was neither fruit nor protection at Diggings B. The trees encouraged Diggings A because removing the volcanic neck and filling the bay would provide at once an added area for the growth and also removal of an obstacle to sunlight. The trees approved.”

  “But you are assuming intelligence in the trees?” gasped Rogge.

  “Of course,” said Magnus Ridolph. “What other alternative is there? I warned you not to expect on this planet the same conditions existent on Earth. You saw how the apes buried their comrade under a tree? Undoubtedly they were led to do so by the trees—persuaded, enticed, forced: that is a matter for speculation—in order that the trees might benefit by the enrichment of the soil. In any event, I reasoned that if the trees were intelligent, after seven months they very likely would comprehend human speech. In the presence of a tree I recommended that a large area of vegetation be cleared away—a wholesale murder of trees. Naturally I was marked as a threat, an individual to be removed. The attempt was made this evening.”

  “But how?” said Rogge. “A tree can’t walk into a building and throw a rope around a man’s neck!”

  “No,” said Magnus Ridolph. “But a tree has roots, and every room in the diggings has a drain or a ventilator, some sort of minute crevice. And I strongly suspect the presence of spy cells in the wood panels of every room—small eyes and ears. Not an action escapes the surrounding intelligences. And at this minute I suspect they are preparing to kill us both, by poison gas, possibly, or—”

  A splintering crash sounded. A section of the floor broke open, and from the dark gap uncoiled a dull-brown hawser-like object. It threshed, wove, swung toward Rogge and Magnus Ridolph.

  “Wait,” said Magnus Ridolph calmly. “Wait. You are intelligent beings. Wait, listen to what I have to say to you.”

  The great root swung toward them with no pause.

  “Wait,” said Magnus Ridolph calmly. “There will be no clearing and all rubble will be dumped into the bay.”

  The root hesitated, wavered in mid-air.

  “What malignant creatures!” breathed Rogge.

  “Not at all,” said Magnus Ridolph. “They are merely the denizens of a world defending their lives. Cooperation can be to our mutual benefit.” He addressed himself to the root.

  “In the future, if the trees will bar the animals from Diggings B and provide fruit at that location, men will in no way harm the trees. All waste will be transported to the ocean. In addition other men will come, discover your needs, make known our own desires. We will form a partnership beneficial to both our species. Men can irrigate and enrich sparse soils, curb insect parasites. Trees can locate minerals for man, synthesize complex organic compounds, grow him fruit.” He paused for a moment. The root lay flaccid on the broken floor.

  “If the trees understand and approve, let the root withdraw.”

  The root shivered, twisted, writhed—pulled itself to the gap in the floor. It was gone.

  Magnus Ridolph turned to the frozen superintendent.

  “There will be no more trouble.”

  Rogge seemed to come awake. He glanced at the splintered floor. “But the killings? Is there to be no punishment? The torment I’ve gone through—”

  Magnus Ridolph surveyed him with cool contempt. “Have not your men cut down many trees?”

  Rogge shook his head. “There’ll be an added expense taking that fill to the bay. I doubt if the diggings will pay. Why, man, with a couple incinerator tubes and a few bulldozers we could clear off the whole area—” He caught Ridolph’s eye.

  “In my opinion,” said Magnus Ridolph, “you are short-sighted and ruthless. You also flout the law. In fact you are not a fit administrator for this project.”

  Rogge knitted his brow. “What law am I flouting?”

  “The statute created over thirty years ago for the protection and encouragement of friendly autochthones.”

  Rogge said nothing.

  “You will either cooperate completely, or I will request your removal.”

  Rogge looked away. “Perhaps you are right,” he muttered.

  A faint sound came to their ears. Turning, they looked to the gap in the floor. It was fast disappearing. Even as they watched, the splinters, strangely pliant, turned themselves down, knitted to a smooth gleaming surface. Where the gap had been now shone a small gleaming object.

  Magnus Ridolph strode forward, lifted it, displayed it wordlessly to Rogge. It was a complex crystal—blood-colored fire—perfectly formed except on one side, where it had been torn away from its matrix.

  “A ruby, I believe,” said Magnus Ridolph. He looked at the staring superintendent, then coolly returned to his inspection of the jewel.

  Sanatoris Short-cut

  Gambling, in the ultimate study, stems from the passive, the submissive, the irresponsible in human nature; the gambler is one of an inferior lickspittle breed who turns himself belly-upward to the capricious deeds of Luck. Examine now the man of strength and action: he is never led by destiny. He drives on a decided course, manipulates the variables, and instead of submitting to the ordained shape of his life, creates a pattern to his own design.

  —Magnus Ridolph.

  Magnus Ridolph often found himself in want for money, for his expenditures were large and he had no regular income. With neither natural diligence nor any liking for routine, he was forced to cope with each ebb of his credit balance as it occurred, a fact which suited him perfectly. In his brain an exact logical mechanism worked side by side with a projective faculty ranging the infinities of tim
e and space, and this natural endowment he used not only to translate fact from and into mathematics, but also to maintain his financial solvency.

  In the course of the years he had devised a number of money-making techniques. The first of these was profoundly simple. Surveying the world about him, he would presently observe a lack or an imperfection. A moment’s thought would suggest an improvement, and in repairing the universe, Magnus Ridolph usually repaired his credit balance.

  At other times he accepted private commissions, occasionally acting as an unofficial agent of the T.C.I., where his white hair, his trimmed white beard, his calm impersonal gaze and mild aspect were valuable assets.

  He often visited one of the gambling resorts scattered here and there among the worlds of the Commonwealth, mingling unobtrusively with the crowds who came rich and left poor. His purpose was by no means to test his luck; his visits indeed were as unemotional as the calls of the tax-collector. Still it cannot be denied he found a certain saturnine satisfaction mulcting the latter-day gangsters in a fashion to which they could take no possible exception.

  Fan, the Pleasure-Planet, was a world slightly outside the established edge of the Commonwealth, but not so far that the Terrestrial Corps of Intelligence lacked authority; and it was to Fan that Magnus Ridolph came after a program of research in connection with telepathy had exhausted his funds. Mylitta, chief city and space-port, occupied the tip of a fertile peninsula in the warm region of the planet, and here was the Hall of Doubtful Destiny, operated by Acco May, together with the lesser casinos, bordellos, taverns, restaurants, theaters, arcades, and hotels.

  The third day after his arrival Magnus Ridolph strolled into the Hall of Doubtful Destiny carrying a small case. Through tremendous glass doors he entered the lobby, a large quiet room with walls decorated wau kema style, in the typical brown and blue leaf-patterns of the aboriginal tribes. Directly ahead, through a colonnade of green jasper pillars he glimpsed the hundred-foot track where midget ponies raced. To right and left were the various other games of skill, chance and direction.