The Potter of Firsk and Other Stories

by Jack Vance

  Now Naos slipped into Irremedial Ocean and lime-green evening flowed like syrup down out of the badlands which formed the northern boundary of the plantation. Magnus Ridolph half-turned in the doorway, glanced within. Chook, his dwarfish servant, was sweeping out the kitchen, grunting softly with each stroke of the broom. Magnus Ridolph stepped out into the green twilight, strolled down past the copter landing to the first of the knee-high ticholama bushes.

  He froze in his tracks, cocked his head.

  “Ow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow,” in a yelping chorus, wild and strange, drifted from across the field. Magnus Ridolph strained, squinted through the dusk. He could not be sure…It seemed that a tumult of dark shapes came boiling down from the badlands, vague sprawling things. Olive-green darkness settled across the land. Magnus Ridolph turned on his heel, stalked back to the cottage.

  Magnus Ridolph had been resting quietly in his hotel—the Piedmont Inn of New Napoli, on Naos V—with no slightest inclination toward or prospect of an agricultural life. Then Blantham knocked and Magnus Ridolph opened the door.

  Blantham’s appearance in itself was enough to excite interest. He was of early middle-age, of medium height, plump at the waist, wide at the hips, narrow at the shoulders. His forehead was pale and narrow, with eyes set fish-like, wide apart under the temples, the skin between them taut, barely dented by the bridge of his nose. He had wide jowls, a sparse black mustache, a fine white skin, the cheeks meshed, however, with minute pink lines.

  He wore loose maroon corduroy trousers, in the ‘Praesepe Ranger’ style, a turquoise blouse with a diamond clasp, a dark blue cape, and beside Magnus Ridolph’s simple white and blue tunic he appeared somewhat overripe.

  Magnus Ridolph blinked, like a delicate and urbane owl. “Ah, yes?”

  “I’m Blantham,” said his visitor bluffly. “Gerard Blantham. We haven’t met before.”

  Watching under his fine white eyebrows, Magnus Ridolph gestured courteously. “I believe not. Will you come in, have a seat?”

  Blantham stepped into the room, flung back his cape. “Thank you,” he said. He seated himself on the edge of a chair, extended a case. “Cigarette?”

  “Thank you.” Magnus Ridolph gravely helped himself. He inhaled, frowned, took the cigarette from his lips, examined it.

  “Excuse me,” said Blantham, producing a lighter. “I sometimes forget. I never smoke self-igniters; I can detect the flavor of the chemical instantly, and it annoys me.”

  “Unfortunate,” said Magnus Ridolph, after his cigarette was aglow. “My senses are not so precisely adjusted, and I find them extremely convenient. Now, what can I do for you?”

  Blantham hitched at his trousers. “I understand,” he said looking archly upward, “that you’re interested in sound investment.”

  “To a certain extent,” said Magnus Ridolph, inspecting Blantham through the smoke of his cigarette. “What have you to offer?”

  “This.” Blantham reached in his pocket, produced a small white box. Magnus Ridolph, snapping back the top, found within a cluster of inch-long purple tubes, twisting and curling away from a central node. They were glossy, flexible, and interspersed with long pink fibers. He shook his head politely.

  “I’m afraid I can’t identify the object.”

  “It’s ticholama,” said Blantham. “Resilian in its natural state.”

  “Indeed!” and Magnus Ridolph examined the purple cluster with new interest.

  “Each of those tubes,” said Blantham, “is built of countless spirals of resilian molecules, each running the entire length of the tube. That’s the property, naturally, which gives resilian its tremendous elasticity and tensile strength.”

  Magnus Ridolph touched the tubes, which quivered under his fingers. “And?”

  Blantham paused impressively. “I’m selling an entire plantation, three thousand acres of prime ticholama ready to harvest.”

  Magnus Ridolph blinked, handed back the box. “Indeed?” He rubbed his beard thoughtfully. “The holding is evidently on Naos Six.”

  “Correct, sir. The only location which supports the growth of the ticholama.”

  “And what is your price?”

  “A hundred and thirty thousand munits.”

  Magnus Ridolph continued to pull at his beard. “Is that a bargain? I know little of agriculture in general, ticholama in specific.”

  Blantham moved his head solemnly. “It’s a giveaway. An acre produces a ton of ticholama. The selling price, delivered at Starport, is fifty-two munits a ton, current quotation. Freight, including all handling, runs about 21 munits a ton. And harvesting costs you about eight munits a ton. Expenses twenty-nine munits a ton, net profits, twenty-three munits a ton. On three thousand acres that’s sixty-nine thousand munits. Next year you’ve paid the land off, and after that you’re enjoying sheer profit.”

  Magnus Ridolph eyed his visitor with new interest, the hyper-developed lobe in his brain making its influence felt. Was it possible that Blantham intended to play him—Magnus Ridolph—for a sucker? Could he conceivably be so optimistic, so ill-advised? “Your proposition,” said Magnus Ridolph aloud, “sounds almost too good to be true.”

  Blantham blinked, stretching the skin across his nose even tauter. “Well, you see I own another thirty-five hundred acres. The plantation I’m offering for sale is half the Hourglass Peninsula, the half against the mainland. Taking care of the seaward half keeps me more than busy.

  “And then, frankly, I need money quick. I had a judgment against me—copter crash, my young son driving. My wife’s eyes went bad. I had to pay for an expensive graft. Wasn’t covered by Med service, worse luck. And then my daughter’s away at school on Earth—St. Brigida’s, London. Terrible expense all around. I simply need quick money.”

  Magnus Ridolph stared keenly at the man from beneath shaggy brows, and nodded. “I see,” he said. “You certainly have suffered an unfortunate succession of events. One hundred thirty thousand munits. A reasonable figure, if conditions are as you state?”

  “They are indeed,” was Blantham’s emphatic reply.

  “The ticholama is not all of first quality?” inquired Magnus Ridolph.

  “On the contrary,” declared Blantham. “Every plant is in prime condition.”

  “Hm-m!” Magnus Ridolph chewed his lower lip. “I assume there are no living quarters.”

  Blantham chortled, his lips rounded to a curious red O. “I forgot to mention the cottage. A fine little place, native-style, of course, but in A-One condition. Absolutely livable. I believe I have a photograph. Yes, here it is.”

  Magnus Ridolph took the paper, saw a long building of gray and green slate—convex-gabled, with concave end-walls, a row of Gothic-arch openings. The field behind stretched rich purple out to the first crags of the badlands.

  “Behind you’ll see part of the plantation,” said Blantham. “Notice the color? Deep dark purple—the best.”

  “Humph,” said Magnus Ridolph. “Well, I’d have to furnish the cottage. That would run into considerable money.”

  Blantham smilingly shook his head. “Not unless you’re the most sybaritic of sybarites. But I must guard against misrepresentation. The cottage is primitive in some respects. There is no telescreen, no germicide, no autolume. The power plant is small, there’s no cold cell, no laundromat. And unless you fly out a rado-cooker, you’d have to cook in pots over heating elements.”

  Magnus Ridolph frowned, glanced sharply at Blantham. “I’d naturally hire a servant. The water? What arrangements, if any, exist?”

  “An excellent still. Two hundred gallons a day.”

  “That certainly seems adequate,” said Magnus Ridolph. He returned to the photograph. “What is this?” He indicated a patch in the field where one of the spurs from the badlands entered the field.

  Blantham examined the photograph. “I really can’t say. Evidently a small area where the soil is poor. It seems to be minor in extent.”

  Magnus Ridolph studied the photograph a minute
longer, returned it. “You paint an arresting picture. I admit the possibility of doubling my principal almost immediately is one which I encounter rarely. If you’ll tick off your address on my transview, I’ll notify you tomorrow of my decision.”

  Blantham rose. “I’ve a suite right here in the hotel, Mr. Ridolph. You can call me any time. I imagine that the further you look into my proposition, the more attractive you’ll find it.”

  To Magnus Ridolph’s puzzlement, Blantham’s prediction was correct. When he mentioned the matter to Sam Quien, a friend in the brokerage business, Quien whistled, shook his head.

  “Sounds like a steal. I’ll contract right now for the entire crop.”

  Magnus Ridolph next obtained a quotation on freight rates from Naos VI to Starport, and frowned when the rate proved a half munit less per ton than Blantham’s estimate. By the laws of logic, somewhere there must be a flaw in the bargain. But where?

  In the Labor Office he approached a window behind which stood a Fomalhaut V Rhodopian. “Suppose I want to harvest a field of ticholama on Naos Six,” said Magnus Ridolph. “What would be my procedure?”

  The Rhodopian bobbed his head as he spoke. “You make arrangements on Naos Six,” he lisped. “In Garswan. Contractor, he fix all harvest. Very cheap, on Naos Six. Contractor he use many pickers, very cheap.”

  “I see,” said Magnus Ridolph. “Thank you.”

  He slowly returned to the hotel. At the mnemiphot in the reading room he verified Blantham’s statement that an acre of land yielded a ton of ticholama, which, when processed and the binding gums dissolved, yielded about five hundred pounds of resilian. He found further that the demand for resilian exceeded by far the supply.

  He returned to his room, lay down on his bed, considered an hour. At last he stood up, called Blantham on the transview. “Mr. Blantham, I’ve provisionally decided to accept your offer.”

  “Good, good!” came Blantham’s voice.

  “Naturally, before finally consummating the sale, I wish to inspect the property.”

  “Of course,” came the hearty response. “An interplanet ship leaves day after tomorrow. Will that suit you?”

  “Very well indeed,” was Magnus Ridolph’s reply…

  Blantham pointed. “That’s your plantation, there ahead, the entire first half of the peninsula. Mine is the second half, just over that cliff.”

  Magnus Ridolph said nothing, peered through the copter window. Below them the badlands—arid crags, crevasses, rock-jumble—fell astern, and they flew out over Hourglass Peninsula. Beyond lay Irremedial Ocean, streaked and mottled red, blue, green, yellow by vast colonies of colored plankton.

  They put down at the cottage. Magnus Ridolph alighted, walked to the edge of the field, bent over. The plants were thick, luxuriant, amply covered with clusters of purple tubes. Magnus Ridolph straightened, looked sidelong at Blantham, who had come up behind him.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” said Blantham mildly.

  Magnus Ridolph was forced to agree. Everything was beautiful. Blantham’s title was clear, so Magnus Ridolph had verified in Garswan. The harvester agreed to a figure of eight munits a ton, the work to begin immediately after he had finished Blantham’s field. In short, the property at the price seemed an excellent buy. And yet—

  Magnus Ridolph took another look across the field. “That patch of poor soil seems larger than it appeared in the photograph.”

  Blantham made a deprecatory noise in his nose. “I can hardly see how that is possible.”

  Magnus Ridolph stood quietly a moment, the nostrils of his long distinguished nose slightly distended. Abruptly he pulled out his checkbook. “Your check, sir.”

  “Thank you. I have the deed and the release in my pocket. I’ll just sign it and the property’s yours.”

  Blantham politely took his leave in the copter and Magnus Ridolph was left on the plantation in the gathering dusk. And then—the wild yelling from across the field, the vaguely seen shapes, pelting against the afterglow. Magnus Ridolph returned into the cottage.

  He looked into the kitchen, to become acquainted with his servant Chook, a barrel-shaped anthropoid from the Garswan Highlands. Chook had gray lumpy skin, boneless rope-like arms, eyes round and bottle-green, a mouth hidden somewhere behind flabby folds of skin. Magnus Ridolph found him standing with head cocked to the distant yelping.

  “Ah, Chook,” said Magnus Ridolph. “What have you prepared for our dinner?”

  Chook gestured to a steaming pot. “Stew.” His voice came from his stomach, a heavy rumble. “Stew is good.” A gust of wind brought the yelping closer. Chook’s arms twitched.

  “What causes that outcry, Chook?” demanded Magnus Ridolph, turning a curious ear toward the disturbance.

  Chook looked at him quizzically. “Them the Howling Bounders. Very bad. Kill you, kill me. Kill everything. Eat up ticholama.”

  Magnus Ridolph seated himself. “Now—I see.” He smiled without humor. “I see!…Hmph.”

  “Like stew?” inquired Chook, pot ready…

  Next morning Magnus Ridolph arose early, as was his habit, strolled into the kitchen. Chook lay on the floor, curled into a gray leathery ball. At Magnus Ridolph’s tread he raised his head, showed an eye, rumbled from deep inside his body.

  “I’m going for a walk,” said Magnus Ridolph. “I intend to be gone an hour. When I return we shall have our breakfast.”

  Chook slowly lowered his head and Magnus Ridolph stepped out into the cool silence, full into the horizontal light of Naos, just rising from the ocean like a red-hot stove-lid. The air from the ticholama fields seemed very fresh and rich in oxygen, and Magnus Ridolph set off with a feeling of well-being. A half-hour’s walk through the knee-high bushes brought him to the base of the outlying spur and to the patch of land which Blantham had termed poor soil.

  Magnus Ridolph shook his head sadly at the devastation. Ticholama plants had been stripped of the purple tubes, ripped up, thrown into heaps. The line of ruin roughly paralleled the edge of the spur. Once again Magnus Ridolph shook his head. “A hundred and thirty thousand munits poorer. I wonder if my increment of wisdom may be valued at that figure?”

  He returned to the cottage. Chook was busy at the stove, and greeted him with a grunt.

  “Ha, Chook,” said Magnus Ridolph, “and what have we for breakfast?”

  “Is stew,” said Chook.

  Magnus Ridolph compressed his lips. “No doubt an excellent dish. But do you consider it, so to speak, a staple of diet?”

  “Stew is good,” was the stolid reply.

  “As you wish,” said Magnus Ridolph impassively.

  After breakfast he retired to the study and called into Garswan on the antiquated old radiophone. “Connect me with the T.C.I. office.”

  A hum, a buzz. “Terrestrial Corps of Intelligence,” said a brisk male voice. “Captain Solinsky speaking.”

  “Captain Solinsky,” said Magnus Ridolph, “I wonder if you can give me any information concerning the creatures known as the Howling Bounders.”

  A slight pause. “Certainly, sir. May I ask who is speaking?”

  “My name is Magnus Ridolph; I recently acquired a ticholama plantation here, on the Hourglass Peninsula. Now I find that it is in the process of despoliation by these same Howling Bounders.”

  The voice had taken a sharper pitch. “Did you say—Magnus Ridolph?”

  “That is my name.”

  “Just a moment, Mr. Ridolph! I’ll get everything we have.” After a pause the voice returned. “What we have isn’t much. No one knows much about ’em. They live in the Bouro Badlands, nobody knows how many. There’s apparently only a single tribe, as they’re never reported in two places at the same time. They seem to be semi-intelligent simians or anthropoids—no one knows exactly.”

  “These creatures have never been examined at close hand?” asked Magnus Ridolph in some surprise.

  “Never.” After a second’s pause Solinsky said: “The weird things can’t be caught.
They’re elastic—live off ticholama, eat it just before it’s ready to harvest. In the day time they disappear, nobody knows where, and at night they’re like locusts, black phantoms. A party from Carnegie Tech tried to trap them, but they tore the traps to pieces. They can’t be poisoned, a bullet bounces off their hides, they dodge out of heat-beams, deltas don’t phase them. We’ve never got close enough to use supersonics, but they probably wouldn’t even notice.”

  “They would seem almost invulnerable, then—to the usual methods of destruction,” was Magnus Ridolph’s comment.

  “That’s about it,” said Solinsky brightly. “I suppose a meson grenade would do the trick, but there wouldn’t be much specimen left for you to examine.”

  “My interest in these creatures is not wholly impersonal,” said Magnus Ridolph. “They are devouring my ticholama; I want to halt this activity.”

  “Well—” Solinsky hesitated. “I don’t like to say it, Mr. Ridolph, but I’m afraid there’s very little you can do—except next year don’t raise so tempting a crop. They only go after the choicest fields. Another thing, they’re dangerous. Any poor devil they chance upon, they tear him to pieces. So don’t go out with a shotgun to scare ’em away.”

  “No,” said Magnus Ridolph. “I shall have to devise other means.”

  “Hope you succeed,” said Solinsky. “No one ever has before.”

  Magnus Ridolph returned to the kitchen, where Chook was peeling starchy blue bush-apples. “I see you are preparing lunch,” said Magnus Ridolph. “Is it—?” He raised his eyebrows interrogatively. Chook rumbled an affirmative. Magnus Ridolph came over beside him, watched a moment. “Have you ever seen one of these Howling Bounders close at hand?”

  “No,” said Chook. “When I hear noise, I sleep, stay quiet.”

  “What do they look like?”

  “Very tall, long arms. Ugly—like men.” He turned a lambent bottle-green eye at Magnus Ridolph’s beard. “But no hair.”

  “I see,” said Magnus Ridolph, stroking the beard. He wandered outside, seated himself on a bench, and relaxed in the warm light of Naos. He found a piece of paper, scribbled. A buzz reached his ears, grew louder, and presently Blantham’s copter dropped into his front yard. Blantham hopped out, brisk, cleanly-shaven, his wide-set eyes bright, his jowls pink with health. When he saw Magnus Ridolph, he shaped his features into a frame of grave solicitude.