The Potter of Firsk and Other Stories

by Jack Vance

  “Antone—Arthur—Paul!” bellowed the head-waiter, and three waiters hurried forward. “Lay hold of this mad-man, take him to the corridor while I call the police. Great heavens, what is to be next?” He righted the table, assisted the three gangsters to their seats.

  “My apologies, sirs, I assure you that things like this are infrequent at the Cafe Ventique. Permit me to order you more liqueur.”

  Magnus Ridolph was hustled away, and presently a brace of police officers took him into custody. The head-waiter volubly explained the offense, and demanded the severest of penalties. Magnus Ridolph leaned in unruffled dignity against the cashier’s desk, watched the three men march past with set faces.

  At police headquarters Magnus Ridolph called the T.C.I. station, asked for Commander Efrem.

  “Magnus Ridolph!” barked the commander, peering at the bland features on his telescreen. “What are you doing in jail?”

  “I have been arrested for hooliganism,” said Magnus Ridolph.

  “What’s that?” The commander’s jaw tightened. “Who’s responsible? Let me talk to the lieutenant, I’ll straighten him out.”

  An hour later Magnus Ridolph, sitting at his ease, had told his story to Commander Efrem, a small thin man with a very lean dark face, a jaw jutting forward like a plow.

  “We’ve finally got a lead on Acco May, ourselves,” said the commander. “We’re trying to link him to the Calhoun piracy. There’s positive identification of a photograph from several of the crew, but his alibi is good. Sanatoris Beta is three-hundred-eighty light-years away. The hold-up took place exactly—let’s see, twelve and a half days ago.”

  He then pointed out that the fastest a ship can go in free space, c2÷e3, is 42½ light-years a day, which totaled almost nine days, with a rock-bottom minimum of two days acceleration and two days deceleration.

  “That makes it thirteen days from here to there at the absolute minimum,” the commander went on. “But Acco May came in out of space today, which is a day early. If he was in on the Calhoun piracy, he couldn’t have made the journey until tonight, at the very earliest.”

  Magnus Ridolph rubbed his white beard slowly. “A crime was committed at a distance of thirteen days,” Ridolph said. “You suspect a man who arrives twelve days after the crime is committed. Four possibilities present themselves. First, you have mistaken the time of the crime.”

  “No, that’s been definitely established.”

  “Second, May’s ship travels faster than light-speed squared divided by e cubed. Very unlikely. Third, Acco May is innocent of the crime.”

  Commander Efrem sat suddenly straight in his chair, hands clenched on his desk. He sighed, slowly relaxed. He lighted a cigarette.

  “I’m afraid that’s about the size of it. Acco May is innocent of this crime. But he’s done plenty of other things—the massacre of the Port Miranda natives, a dozen murders, traffic in women, narcotics, smuggling, practically every felony on the books.”

  “Including conspiracy to commit murder,” said Magnus Ridolph. “I was to be the victim.” He opened his eyes wide, touched his chest gravely. “Me!”

  Commander Efrem grinned. “And now you want his hide too?”

  Magnus Ridolph tapped his fingers gently on the arm of his chair. “‘The wine of revenge tastes richest to the vain.’ Revenge is essentially a selfish gratification for which I have little taste. However, I agree with you that the criminal career of Acco May has proceeded to an intolerable length.”

  Commander Efrem nodded soberly, a hint of a smile on his thin mouth. “In other words, you want his hide.”

  When he left the police station, Magnus Ridolph resisted the temptation to visit the Lorango globe. Instead he passed under the arch into the ante-room to Acco May’s office.

  An exquisite red-haired girl receptionist was stroking a yellow kitten which walked back and forth on her desk with a tautly raised tail. She looked up at the old man with little interest.

  “Magnus Ridolph to see Acco May,” the scientist said. He scratched the kitten under the chin while the girl spoke into the microphone. She motioned him to a white panel in the dark hardwood wall. As he stepped forward it opened, revealing Acco May sitting cross-legged on a leather-upholstered couch. He looked up, nodded as Magnus Ridolph stepped forward.

  “Sit down.” Magnus Ridolph did so. “To what do I owe this honor?”

  Magnus Ridolph looked at him without expression.

  “I’m trying to prove you guilty of the John Calhoun piracy.”

  Acco May snorted, then laughed in real amusement.

  “Not a chance. I’ve been nowhere near Sanatoris for years.”

  “Can you prove it? Survivors of the Calhoun identify your picture absolutely.”

  May shrugged. “They’re wrong. I wasn’t there.”

  “You were away from here while the piracy occurred. Where were you?”

  Acco May’s mouth hardened. “What’s it to you?”

  “At the moment I represent the Terrestrial Corps of Investigation.” He reached forward, handed Acco May a card. May read it, contemptuously handed it back.

  “You guys never give up on me, do you? Once and for all, get it through your collective noggins, I’m a poor ordinary business man, running my business here in Mylitta. I get taken by sharpshooters just like anybody else—yesterday for about twelve million munits.”

  Magnus Ridolph slowly fixed his gaze on the ancient Martian scarab which May wore as a ring.

  “That ring you wear—I recognize it. It resembles a ring worn by my old friend, Rimmer Vogel, killed in his space yacht by a pirate.”

  “Picked it up at Frog Junction,” said Acco May. “The froggo said he’d just dug it out of the ruins.”

  Magnus Ridolph nodded.

  “I see. Well. A man’s soul is pictured in his possessions.”

  Acco May languidly poured himself a glass of water from the spout at the side of his desk. “Is that all you came for? To pin the Calhoun job on me? It couldn’t have been me. Sanatoris is two weeks or more away from here. I got home yesterday.”

  “Which proves nothing. The distance can be traveled in twelve days.”

  Acco May narrowed his eyes, reached for the Astrogation Almanac, opened it to the index, leafed back through the book, read, scribbled a few figures. He shook his head, grinned crookedly.

  “You’re out of your head, pop. If you made it in thirteen days you’d be killing yourself—unless you rode a c-three ulrad beam.”

  “No,” said Magnus Ridolph. “In an ordinary space-boat.”

  Acco May’s smile became wider. He sat up on the couch.

  “Like to make a little bet? If I remember right, you hold my check for twelve million munits.”

  Magnus Ridolph deliberated. “Yes, I’ll make you a wager—of a sort. I’ll dictate, and you write.”

  “What?”

  “‘I admit participation in the boarding and looting of the John Calhoun—’”

  Acco May looked up sharply. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “‘—the murder of several crew members, if it can be proved that a space-boat is able to make the journey from Mylitta on Fan to the Space Survey station at Sanatoris Beta in or under twelve days. I make this conditional confession of guilt in consideration of the sum of twelve million munits, receipt of which from Magnus Ridolph is hereby acknowledged.’”

  Acco May stared at Magnus Ridolph a long minute, suddenly turned once more to the Astrogation Almanac. His mouth twitched.

  “You give me back the check if I write that confession, is that it?” he asked.

  “Exactly,” Ridolph said with a nod.

  “Who’s going to make the trip to Sanatoris?”

  “I am.”

  “In what?”

  “In a regulation T.C.I. patrol boat.”

  Acco May glanced once again at the Almanac. “You can’t make it in twelve days.”

  “I’m willing to pay twelve million munits for the privilege
of trying.”

  Acco May smiled wryly. “You can’t make it.”

  “Then you’ll write the conditional confession?”

  Acco May hesitated an instant. “Yes, I’ll write it.”

  Magnus Ridolph said, “May I use your screen? I want this done within the view of witnesses.”

  “Go ahead,” said Acco May.

  A large man with loose ruddy cheeks, tangled dank black hair, wearing space clothes, sat in the chair Magnus Ridolph had vacated several hours ago. Acco May paced up and down the room, kneading his fist into his palm.

  “I don’t trust the old goat,” mused May. “He’s got something up his sleeve.”

  “He gave you his check, didn’t he?”

  “Yes,” said Acco May sardonically, “and he got my confession. Of course, he can’t make no three-eighty-year-trip in twelve days.”

  “But you made the trip in twelve days,” said the big man.

  “No, I didn’t!” cried Acco May in exasperation. “We used faked radio-vision shots and one of my men, who’s the living image of me, entered port on a forged passport, a day ahead of time. Later we also bribed two space inspectors at the port of entry, to give perjured testimony supporting my allegations. Even Ridolph hasn’t found out how it was worked. The whole thing was fool-proof.”

  The big man nodded. “That was clever. Doesn’t Ridolph suspect your alibi is a phony?”

  “Sure, he suspects—that’s why he’s out to get me,” snarled Acco May. “But he can’t prove anything. Therefore I can’t risk having Ridolph return here alive. And that’s where you come in. Get hold of Herb and Corvie and Steuben. Post their ships out along the course to Sanatoris. You take your ship out there too, and place yourselves so that, if one misses him, the others will be sure to get Ridolph. And don’t fail! Understand?”

  The large man got to his feet. “Sure do.”

  “You’ve got to hurry, he’s leaving at midnight.”

  “We’ll be waiting for him to come past.”

  “Tell the boys, a million munits to the ship that downs him.”

  At three o’clock the next day the large man again entered Acco May’s office. His eyes were blood-shot, his jowls sagged, and he walked with an air of extreme fatigue.

  “Well,” snapped Acco May, “what’s the story?”

  The large man slumped into the chair. “He got past us.”

  Acco May sprang to his feet. “How in thunder did that happen?…Four boats!”

  The space-man shook his head. “I thought you said he was heading for Sanatoris Beta.”

  “He is, you dumb sheepherder!”

  The large man glared sullenly at the passionate May.

  “We was strung out along course, straight as the Galactic Liners. He came out, we saw that, but nowhere near us. Looked like he was going off more toward Alcyone.”

  Acco May chewed his lip. “Well, it’s a cinch once he gets off course he’s out of the running entirely…Okay then, Rock. I guess you’re not to be blamed. He’s off course, you say?”

  “Way off course,” said Rock the space-man.

  Acco May smiled grimly. “Well, it’s a quick way to make twelve million munits. Almost as quick as he made it off me.”

  Several months later, the judge read sentence: “By your own admission guilty of piracy, grand larceny, assault and murder, I sentence you to comprehensive cerebral correction and five years close observation. Have you anything to say?”

  Acco May stared at the judge, eyes like tiger-slits. “No.”

  The guards stepped forward. Acco May turned his head toward where Magnus Ridolph sat in dignity. He thrust aside the guards.

  “Just a minute,” he said. “I want to talk to that old hellion sitting yonder.”

  The guards hesitated, glanced for permission to the judge. But the judge was sweeping for his chambers.

  Magnus Ridolph decided the matter by stepping forward.

  “You wish to speak to me?”

  “Yeah. I know there’s about two hours of Acco May left, and after that a man looking like me goes around wearing my clothes. First I want to know how the devil did you make Sanatoris in twelve days?”

  Magnus Ridolph raised his eyebrows. “By correct astrogation.”

  Acco May made an impatient gesture. “Yes, yes, I know. But what’s the inside?”

  Magnus Ridolph’s gaze wandered to the Martian scarab on Acco May’s finger. “The ring your—ah, frog-man found—I confess it has struck my fancy. I always envied my old friend Rimmer Vogel when he wore the ring which was so like it.”

  Acco May wrenched it off his finger with a savage smile. “No tickee no washee, hey? Okay, here’s your fee. Now what’s the pitch?”

  Magnus Ridolph gestured eloquently. “Ordinary astrogation, nothing more. With the exception, possibly, of a small refinement I have developed.”

  “What’s the refinement?”

  Magnus Ridolph turned Acco May the blandest of stares.

  “Have you ever examined a Mercator projection of, let us say, the planet Earth?”

  “Naturally.”

  “The shortest course between two points, when charted on a Mercator projection, appears as a curve, does it not?”

  “Yes.”

  “Classical space charts,” said Magnus Ridolph, “are constructed after the pattern of a Mercator projection. The coordinates meet rectilinearly, the grid components running perfectly parallel but to infinity. This is an admirable system for short voyages, just as use of the Mercator projection results in little error on a cruise across Long Island Sound.

  “However on voyages of some duration, it is necessary to remember that the earth and—on a larger scale—space is curved, and to make the necessary correction. Then we find a very significant saving of time. A journey which by classical astrogation requires thirteen days,” said Magnus Ridolph, turning upon Acco May his wide guileless gaze, “may be accomplished in twelve days by use of the proper correction—though to the ignorant eye, it would appear as if the astrogator is far off his course.”

  Acco May turned his back on Magnus Ridolph, his mouth like an inverted V. “Take me away,” he muttered. “Maybe the new me will be brighter. If he is, he’s going to go after that old goat and make him swallow his own whiskers.”

  “Get goin’,” said the guard.

  Magnus Ridolph dispassionately watched them leave. Then, turning his eyes to his hand, he inspected the ancient Martian scarab—breathed on it, polished it on his sleeve.

  The Unspeakable McInch

  ‘Mystery’ is a word with no objective pertinence, merely describing the limitations of a mind. In fact, a mind may be classified by the order of the phenomena it considers mysterious…The mystery is resolved, the solution made known. “Of course, it is obvious!” comes the chorus. A word about the obvious: it is always obvious…The common mind transposes the sequence, letting the mystery generate the solution. This is logic in reverse; actually the mystery relates to the solution as the foam relates to the beer…

  —Magnus Ridolph.

  The Uni-Culture Mission had said simply, “His name’s McInch; he’s a murderer. That’s all we know.”

  Magnus Ridolph would have refused the commission had his credit balance stood at its usual level. But the collapse of an advertising venture—sky-writing with luminescent gases across interplanetary space—had left the white-bearded philosopher in near-destitution.

  A first impression of Sclerotto Planet reinforced his distaste for the job. The light from the two suns—red and blue—struck discordantly at his eyes. The sluggish ocean, the crazy clutter of a slab-sided rock suggested no repose, and Sclerotto City, a wretched maze of cabins and shacks, promised no entertainment. Finally, his host, Klemmer Boek, chaplain-in-charge of the Uni-Culture Mission, greeted him with little warmth—in fact seemed to resent his presence as if it were due to some private officiousness of Magnus Ridolph’s own.

  They rode in a battered old car up to the Mission, perched high on
a shoulder of naked stone, and the dim interior was refreshingly cool after the dust and dazzle of the ride.

  Magnus Ridolph took a folded handkerchief from his pocket, patted his forehead, his distinguished nose, his neat, white beard. To his host he turned a quizzical glance.

  “I’m afraid I find the illumination disturbing. Blue, red—three different shadows for every stick and stone.”

  “I’m used to it,” said Klemmer Boek tonelessly. He was a short man, with a melon-sized paunch pressing out the front of his tunic. His face was pink and glazed, like cheap chinaware, with round blue eyes and a short lumpy nose. “I hardly remember what Earth looks like.”

  “The tourist guide,” said Magnus Ridolph, replacing the handkerchief, “describes the effect as ‘stimulating and exotic’. It must be that I am unperceptive.”

  Boek snorted. “The tourist guide? It calls Sclerotto City ‘colorful, fascinating, a commonwealth-in-miniature, a concrete example of interplanetary democracy in action’. I wish the man who wrote that eyewash had to live here as long as I have!”

  He pulled out a rattan chair for Magnus Ridolph, poured ice-water into a glass. Magnus Ridolph settled himself into the chair and Boek sank into another opposite.

  “Now then,” said Magnus Ridolph, “who or what is McInch?”

  Boek smiled bitterly. “That’s what you’re here for.”

  Magnus Ridolph airily glanced across the room, lit a cigar, said nothing.

  “After six years,” said Boek presently, “all I know about McInch I can tell you in six seconds. First—he’s boss over that entire stinking welter out there.” He gestured at the city. “Second, he’s a murderer, a self-seeking scoundrel. Third, no-one but McInch knows who McInch is.”

  Magnus Ridolph arose, walked to the window, depolarized it, looked out over the ramshackle roofs, stretching like a tattered Persian rug to Magnetic Bay. His gaze wandered to the shark-tooth crags stabbing the sky opposite, down the bay to where it opened into the tideless ocean, out to a horizon shrouded in lavender haze.