The Potter of Firsk and Other Stories

by Jack Vance

  Magnus Ridolph ignored the race-track, turned into the hall where card-games were in progress—poker, planetta, black-jack, botch, rhumbo. He watched a poker game a moment, but passed on. Winning money at poker was a long-range affair, requiring patience and careful attention to statistics.

  Chuck-a-luck he passed with a sardonic glance, and also the craps tables, and entered a wing where a dozen roulette wheels clicked and glittered. Red and black, mused Magnus Ridolph, red and black on green felt, traditional effects of gambling since the eighteenth century.

  He turned his eyes around the room, enjoying the thousand various hues and tones. He looked up to the ceiling, ground-glass glowing in the patterns projected by a monster kaleidoscope, wonderfully intricate, ever-changing—plasma-yellow, blues, bottle-greens, ardent red; blazing orange rosettes, shimmering waves of violet-blue, dart-pointed stars, bursting and fading, merging into expanding circles, bars and bands.

  In contrast, the carpet was a dull dark gray, without shadow, and across walked richly clad men and women in gorgeous tunics, jackets of pigeon-blood, the blue-green of moderate ocean depth, black. Along the far wall ran three tiers of balconies, and here small parties ate, drank, watched the play below.

  Magnus Ridolph surveyed the vast hall from end to end, speculated on the profits yielded by the multifarious tables. They must be enormous, he mused, looking down the ranks of flushed, nervous faces, alternately elated and dejected. And all funneled into the pocket of Acco May. Acco May was a man feared everywhere in the Commonwealth, a man linked in the public imagination to a thousand crimes. And yet, whatever form Acco May’s raids took, he was never within reach when the accounting came, and no positive proof existed to incriminate him.

  Magnus Ridolph brought himself back to the matter at hand. He carefully inspected one of the roulette wheels, timed the spin of the wheel, estimated the mass and radial throw of the ball, undertook a few mental calculations, turned away. The margin of error was such that he might as well gamble outright.

  He retraced his steps past the race-track, catching as he passed the flash of tiny dark-brown forms, and entered the other wing. He passed more roulette tables, a device of meshing whirling disks, and paused beside a large globe full of liquid and swimming balls of various colors—a game known in the hall as Lorango.

  As he watched, the balls slowed, floated jostling up to the top of the globe, where they formed a pyramid, one ball at the apex, three immediately below, then seven, and finally a layer of thirteen, all glowing like jewels in a shaft of light from beneath.

  The device was operated by a young man with seal-smooth blond hair and narrow brown eyes, dressed in the green and white uniform of the hall. The balls having settled into their places, he called the winning colors.

  “Silver wins; vermilion, sapphire and flame, under; gold, royal, topaz, zebra, opal, emerald and jet, third.”

  Magnus Ridolph stepped closer. A ball selected correctly for top place, he noted, paid 24 to one; in the second layer, eight to one; in the third layer, three to one. Even money, he thought, except for the odds in the third layer, which slightly favored the house. Then he noticed a small sign:

  When white ball wins, house collects all bets, except those bets placed on white.

  “Make your bets,” called the blond operator. He pressed a button, the globe spun. “No more bets.” The globe stopped short, the balls spun on, finally sought their places. The operator called the results.

  “Indigo wins; jet, fawn, ruby, under; harlequin, diorite, aqua, ivory, amethyst, teal and olivine, third.”

  Chips changed hands.

  “Make your bets,” called the operator. Magnus Ridolph unobtrusively pulled a stop-watch from his pocket.

  “No more bets.” The globe spun, reached its maximum speed, halted. The balls whirled on. Magnus Ridolph looked at the stopwatch. 10.23 seconds. The balls settled into place. He checked his watch again. 32.01 seconds.

  “White at top,” called the operator. “House takes all bets.”

  Magnus Ridolph timed the globe several times more, noted the results in a small black book.

  Next he turned his attention to the globe. From his case he took a camera, and filmed the entire sequence three times.

  He replaced the camera, considering what other information he needed. The liquid evidently was water. From the photographs he could calculate the speed of rise of the balls and consequently their specific gravity. The photographs would likewise disclose the dimensions of the balls and the globe, and the equation of curvature of the globe.

  Several quantities yet remained unknown—the coefficient of skin friction of the balls and the globe in water, their mutual elasticity, the rate of revolution of the globe, the equation of its acceleration. He must also correct for the centrifugal force of the planet’s rotation, the variations caused by the motion of the sun across the sky, the change in temperature of the water due to agitation. He must also investigate the possibility of any strong or unusual electrical, gravitational or magnetic fields. He opened his case, glanced at the dials of an instrument within, moved around the globe, watching the action of the needles. He snapped the case shut, approached the attendant.

  “What is the composition of the balls?” he asked.

  The operator looked down at the old man under arched eyebrows. “Vitrine, sir.”

  “And the globe?”

  “Also vitrine, sir.” The operator looked away. “Place your bets, please.”

  It was unlikely, reflected Magnus Ridolph, that the operator would know the precise rate of revolution of the globe. He looked for power leads, then turned away, realizing that he had no means to determine the efficiency of the motor. Direct measurement would be necessary.

  He strolled from the hall, entered a drug store.

  “A gram of fluorescin, please,” he told the clerk. “Also fifty meters of Pan-Ang film, two millimeters.”

  He returned to the hall with his purchases, touched a pinch of the powder to the globe, and with his camera he filmed three more cycles. Then he checked once more the period that the globe was in rotation. No change—10.23 seconds till the globe stopped, and 32.01 seconds until the balls settled into their places.

  Magnus Ridolph left the Hall of Doubtful Destiny, wandered down tree-shaded Mokalemaaka Way to his hotel.

  The next day his calculations, facilitated by a small integrating machine and differential analyzer, were complete, with a margin of error that was sufficiently narrow to please him.

  He returned to the Hall of Doubtful Destiny, and now bought ten hundred-munit chips at the cashier’s wicket. He turned to the left, toward the twenty-four Lorango balls dancing and bouncing, swirling and wheeling apparently at haphazard, but actually in courses ruled by laws as exact as those determining their surface area.

  Those laws Magnus Ridolph had reduced to concrete terms, computing the probability of the ball in each of the twenty-four positions winning on the succeeding play.

  The percentage total of the four highest probabilities was 62. In other words, Magnus Ridolph, inspecting the pyramid and playing the balls he found in the four positions of highest probability had a 62 percent chance of winning 24 to one or, in the long run, of multiplying his money 12 to one at every play.

  Before he bet he checked once more the period of the cycle; then, satisfied, he put a chip apiece on the colors ivory, teal, diamond and indigo to win. The globe whirled, the balls surged, plunged through the limpid flux.

  “Ivory wins,” called the blond operator. “Indigo, vermilion, jet, under; silver, lime, fawn, diorite, topaz, zebra and opal third.”

  Magnus Ridolph took possession of his winnings and the chip he had bet on ivory—a net gain of 2,100 munits. Glancing at the globe, he bet three chips apiece on ruby, white, amethyst, and olivine to win.

  The globe whirled.

  “White wins—all bets to the house, except those on white.”

  With 94 chips stacked in front of him, Magnus Ridolph bet ten chip
s each on jet, aqua, diorite, emerald and gold, adding the fifth most favored position which slightly increased the odds in his favor and would confuse any attempted analysis of his play.

  He lost, and immediately bet ten chips on fawn, jet, royal and ruby.

  “Jet wins,” called the operator.

  Magnus Ridolph calmly stacked his chips, 254 in all. Ignoring the onlookers gathering at his shoulder, the old man bet fifty chips each on sapphire, lime, topaz and vermilion. The globe whirled. The operator watched the results, silently grimaced, glanced at Magnus Ridolph.

  “Sapphire wins.”

  The house paid off with thousand-munit chips. Magnus Ridolph signaled for the cashier’s cart, changed his winnings for ten-thousand-munit tokens. His stack now included 13 tokens and four hundred-munit chips. For a change of pace he played his four hundred-munit chips on balls of low probability and lost. Then he bet a ten-thousand-munit token on each of the colors emerald, olivine, fawn and silver. The operator hesitated, set the globe in motion.

  He smiled faintly. “Ruby wins.”

  Magnus Ridolph played ten-thousand-munit tokens on vermilion, opal, harlequin and gold.

  The globe whirled, the balls wheeled, jeweled motes through the lambent fluid.

  “Opal wins!”

  The crowd behind sighed.

  There were now an even 300,000 munits in front of Magnus Ridolph, and the operator was watching him through eyes slitted like a cat’s.

  Magnus Ridolph bet five tokens apiece on lime, diorite, flame and silver.

  The operator shook his head. “I’m afraid I’ll have to limit your bet, sir.”

  Magnus Ridolph eyed him coolly. “I understood that there were no limits to the play in the hall.”

  The blond operator licked his lips. “Well, sir, that’s true in most cases, but—”

  “Please call the manager.”

  The operator turned away from Magnus Ridolph’s stare. “He’s not available at the moment, sir. In fact he’s not on the planet, he’s been away on a business trip.”

  “Who is in charge then?”

  The operator, glancing over Magnus Ridolph’s head, caught sight of a man striding purposefully toward a door in the wall.

  “There’s Mr. May! He must have just returned! Mr. May!”

  Acco May paused and turned his pale triangular face to the operator. May was a slender man of medium height, handsome in a tense metallic manner, though his mouth had a peculiar droop. His eyebrows rose in saturnine loops and his ears were very small, very close to his dark head.

  “Yes, Jorge? What’s the trouble?”

  “This gentleman has been winning regularly. I’m afraid he’s thrown a gimmick into the system.”

  Acco May turned to Magnus Ridolph, looked him up and down. The quietly-garbed elderly man with white hair and short beard seemed eminently respectable.

  “Nonsense,” said Acco May. “Lorango is gimmick-proof. Non-magnetic, non-everything. No limit. Let him play.” But he paused, watched as Magnus Ridolph replaced his chips on lime, diorite, flame and silver, and he raised his eyebrows at the stakes, 50,000 munits per ball.

  The globe whirled, the balls swung, slowed, shouldered, stopped.

  “Lime wins!”

  There was a pause while the house counted out the winnings, a great sigh as the tokens changed hands, 1,200,000 munits.

  Acco May mounted the operator’s pedestal, scrutinized the globe, narrowly eyed Magnus Ridolph.

  “Make your bets,” he said in a sharp voice.

  Magnus Ridolph glanced at the globe, bet twenty tokens apiece on amethyst, zebra, white and fawn.

  The globe whirled, the balls stopped.

  “Ruby wins!”

  Acco May’s drooping mouth twisted into a derisive smile.

  “Make your bets.”

  Magnus Ridolph bet ten tokens apiece on emerald, vermilion, harlequin, and aqua.

  “Vermilion wins!”

  Acco May bit his lip. The operator whispered in his ear.

  “Call the cashier’s desk,” said May.

  After a moment a messenger returned breathless, handed May a small black leather bag. May counted out 24 packets of Commonwealth notes.

  “There you are, my friend. Quite a killing.” Head slightly lowered, he turned a dark gaze on Magnus Ridolph.

  Magnus Ridolph appeared to hesitate, fumbled with the chips in front of him.

  “Are you going to play?”

  Magnus Ridolph bet four ten-thousand-munit tokens on balls of little probability and lost. He did so again, and lost again. Acco May’s shoulders relaxed slightly.

  Magnus Ridolph, glancing at the globe, blandly counted out 500,000 munits each on diamond, jet, teal and zebra. Acco May leaned forward, looked, turned, inspected the globe, turned back to Magnus Ridolph, straightened, suddenly turned, pushed the button.

  A hundred people watched the balls in utter absorption. The globe slowed, stopped. The balls circled, slowed. Jet rode on top.

  “Twelve million munits,” said Acco May between clenched teeth. He turned to the blond operator. “Close the machine. Get McNutt, tell him to look it over.” He turned slowly to Magnus Ridolph. “Will you come to my office? I haven’t that much cash on hand.”

  Magnus Ridolph stared calmly into the set triangle-face.

  “Just write me a check, if you please. I’ll wait here.”

  Acco May turned on his heel. Ten minutes passed, and the crowd around the Lorango layout dissipated. Acco May returned. He handed a check to Magnus Ridolph.

  “I’ll have to ask you not to cash this for three days. My balance is two or three million short.”

  Magnus Ridolph nodded graciously. “Certainly, I’ll be glad to oblige.”

  Acco May burnt him with a glance. Then bending his head closer he muttered: “What’s the pitch, brother? How’d you beat that game?”

  Magnus Ridolph’s lips twitched. “Mathematics,” he said.

  “Nonsense,” spat Acco May, suddenly, like a black cat.

  Magnus Ridolph shrugged. “Every incident in the universe can be expressed in mathematical terms. Why do you imagine that so simple a device as your globe has escaped the contagion?”

  Acco May’s mouth drooped lower than ever. “I’m no mathematician, brother—I run a gambling house. After this you stick to your game, I’ll stick to mine. In other words—don’t come back.”

  Magnus Ridolph’s old lips curved thoughtfully. “Legally, you possess the right to bar me from your property.”

  Acco May nodded. “You’re tooting right I do. Except I’m not referring to my legal rights.”

  “Legality is the mathematics of social conduct,” said Magnus Ridolph. “It is equally as cogent as the mathematics of probability.”

  Acco May turned away with a scornful sneer. “Keep it for the birds, professor. And don’t forget what I told you.”

  Magnus Ridolph cashed in the chips he still held, 480,000 munits’ worth, and left the Hall.

  At the Asia-Africa-Commonwealth Bank he deposited his cash winnings, though he retained the check. Then outside in the afternoon sunlight, he turned to the right, sauntered along hibiscus-bordered Kealihanu Avenue, past the Founder’s Grove to the esplanade overlooking the ocean. At a news-vendor he dialed for Commonwealth Current Progress and Sociological Events, found a seat on one of the benches and skimmed through the news to the thunder of the towering white surf.

  But he arose after a moment, conscious of the fact that he had missed his lunch. Strolling down the esplanade to the Coral Garden Hotel, he took the elevator to the twentieth floor and the restaurant that occupied the balcony. Here he dined overlooking the vast panorama below, white-walled, blue-and-red-roofed Mylitta, with the wooded dales behind and the blue sunny sea ahead.

  Over his coffee he returned to his news-sheet, and encountered an item in the Criminal Activities section.

  AUTHORITIES ADMIT BAFFLEMENT

  IN CALHOUN PIRACY CASE

  Magnus Ridolph be
nt his old head, read the article. He vaguely recalled the facts of the case: the freighter John Calhoun, laden with 1200 tons of bonded cargo, had been waylaid in space and boarded, with death resulting to four members of the crew. The remainder had been sealed into their quarters.

  When at last they freed themselves, they found the cargo hold empty, the radio smashed, the engines disabled. They finally limped to a Space Survey station and there notified the T.C.I.

  Magnus Ridolph finished his coffee, sat back in his chair with a cigar. Now as he glanced to the side he met eyes which furtively shifted, at a table where three men sat quietly over thimblefuls of sang de Dieu.

  Letting his guileless blue gaze wander past the three, Magnus Ridolph settled more comfortably in his chair. Calmly he sat while the orange sun drifted, feather-silent, below the horizon. Dusk came quickly, and the balcony became a place of warm shadow, lighted here and there by the plangent tongues of candles.

  Magnus Ridolph speculatively eyed the balcony rail. It was waist-high, smooth native hardwood. Two hundred feet below spread concrete pavement. Three men sat behind him, watching his movements. One of these wore a cloth hood under which Magnus Ridolph had glimpsed seal-smooth blond hair, long animal eyes.

  Magnus Ridolph meditated. They would wait till he approached the rail; then would come a quick shove, and a fast departure. In the excitement no one would remember exactly what had occurred. Witnesses’ stories would conflict on every important point. Such a murder could be done with safety.

  If he departed quietly, he still must walk a hundred yards of esplanade to Kealihanu Avenue.

  The head-waiter appeared, conducting a young couple to a table by the rail where they could look out into the vast dreaming twilight.

  Magnus Ridolph arose. From the corner of his eye he noted the tensing of the three men. Taking his half-full cup in one hand, a glass of water in the other, he stepped forward, flicked his wrists, doused the three thugs with coffee and water. He seized an edge to the table, pulled up, turned it over on the roaring men.

  Quickly the anguished head-waiter was running forward, waving his arms. “What’s all this? Are you insane?” He seized Magnus Ridolph by the shoulder, but not before the white-bearded old man tossed a flaming candle upon a sprawled blond figure.