by Jack Vance
“I see,” said Blantham. “Well, I’ll be on my way. Those Bounders seem to have gotten pretty well into the plantation. Do you still have hope of a sixty-nine thousand munit profit on the property?”
Magnus Ridolph permitted a smile to form behind his crisp white beard. “A great deal more, I hope. My total profit on our transaction should come to well over two hundred thousand munits.”
Blantham froze, his wide-set eyes blue, glassy. “Two hundred thousand munits? Are you—May I ask exactly how you arrive at that figure?”
“Of course,” said Magnus Ridolph affably. “First of course is the sale of my harvest. Two thousand acres of good ticholama, which should yield forty-six thousand munits. Second, two hundred forty tons—estimated—of raw resilian, at a quarter munit a pound, or five hundred munits a ton. Subtract freight charges, and my profit here should be well over a hundred thousand munits—say one hundred and ten thousand—”
“But,” stammered Blantham, his jowls red, “where did you get the resilian?”
Magnus Ridolph clasped his hands behind his body, looked across the field. “I trapped a number of the Bounders.”
“But how? Why?”
“From their habits and activities, as well as their diet, I deduced that the Bounders were either resilian or some closely allied substance. A test proved them to be resilian. In the last two weeks, I’ve trapped twenty-four hundred, more or less.”
“And how did you do that?”
“They are curious and aggressive creatures,” said Magnus Ridolph, and explained the mechanism of his trap.
“How did you kill them? They’re like iron.”
“Not during the day time. They dislike the light, curl up in tight balls, and a sharp blow with a machete severs the prime chord of their nervous system.”
Blantham bit his lips, chewed at his mustache. “That’s still only a hundred fifty or sixty thousand. How do you get two hundred thousand out of that?”
“Well,” said Magnus Ridolph, “I’ll admit the rest is pure speculation, and for that reason I named a conservative figure. I’ll collect a hundred thirty thousand munits from you, which will return my original investment, and I should be able to sell this excellent plantation for a hundred seventy or eighty thousand munits. My trapping expenses have been twelve thousand munits so far. You can see that I’ll come out rather well.”
Blantham angrily turned away. Magnus Ridolph held out a hand. “What’s your hurry? Can you stay to lunch? I admit the fare is modest, only stew, but I’d enjoy your company.”
Blantham stalked away. A moment later his copter was out of sight in the green-blue sky. Magnus Ridolph returned inside. Chook raised his head. “Eat lunch.”
“As you wish.” Magnus Ridolph seated himself. “What’s this? Where’s our stew?”
“Chook tired of stew,” said his cook. “We eat chili con carne now.”
The King of Thieves
In all the many-colored worlds of the universe no single ethical code shows a universal force. The good citizen on Almanatz would be executed on Judith IV. Commonplace conduct of Medellin excites the wildest revulsion on Earth and on Moritaba a deft thief commands the highest respect. I am convinced that virtue is but a reflection of good intent.
—Magnus Ridolph.
“There’s much wealth to be found here on Moritaba,” said the purser wistfully. “There’s wonderful leathers, there’s rare hardwoods—and have you seen the coral? It’s purple-red and it glows with the fires of the damned! But—” he jerked his head toward the port “—it’s too tough. Nobody cares for anything but telex—and that’s what they never find. Old Kanditter, the King of Thieves, is too smart for ’em.”
Magnus Ridolph was reading about Moritaba in Guide to the Planets:
The climate is damp and unhealthy, the terrain is best described as the Amazon Basin superimposed on the Lunar Alps…
He glanced down a list of native diseases, turned the page.
In the early days Moritaba served as a base and haven for Louie Joe, the freebooter. When at last the police ships closed in, Louie Joe and his surviving followers fled into the jungles and there mingled with the natives, producing a hybrid race, the Men-men—this despite the protests of orthodox biologists that such a union is impossible.
In the course of years the Men-men have become a powerful tribe occupying the section of Moritaba known as Arcady Major, the rumored site of a large lode of telex crystals…
Magnus Ridolph yawned, tucked the book in his pocket. He rose to his feet, sauntered to the port, looked out across Moritaba. Gollabolla, chief city of the planet, huddled between a mountain and a swamp. There were a Commonwealth Control office, a Uni-Culture Mission, a general store, a school, a number of dwellings, all built of corrugated metal on piles of native wood and connected by rickety catwalks. Magnus Ridolph found the view picturesque in the abstract, oppressive in the immediate.
A voice at his elbow said, “Quarantine’s lifted, sir. You may go ashore.”
“Thank you,” said Magnus Ridolph and turned toward the door. Ahead of him stood a short barrel-chested man of pugnacious aspect. He darted Magnus Ridolph a bright suspicious glance, then hunched a step closer to the door. The heavy jaw, the small fire-black eyes, the ruff of black hair were suggestive of the simian.
“If I were you, Mr. Mellish,” said Magnus Ridolph affably, “I would not take any luggage ashore until I found adequate thief-proof lodgings.”
Ellis B. Mellish gave his briefcase a quick jerk. “No thief will get anything from me, I’ll guarantee you.”
Magnus Ridolph pursed his lips reflectively. “I suppose your familiarity with the tricks is an advantage.”
Mellish turned his back. There was a coolness between the two, stemming from the fact that Magnus Ridolph had sold Mellish half of a telex lode on the planet Ophir, whereupon Mellish had mined not only his own property but Magnus Ridolph’s as well. A bitter scene had ensued in Mellish’s office, with an exchange of threats and recriminations—the whole situation aggravated by the fact that the field was exhausted. Coincidentally both found themselves on the first packet for Moritaba, the only other known source of telex crystal.
Now the port opened and the pungent odor of Moritaba rolled into their faces—a smell of dank soil, exultant plant-life, organic decay. They descended the ladder, blinking in the hot yellow light of Pi Aquarii.
Four natives squatted on the ground nearby—slender wiry creatures, brownish-purple, more manlike than not. These were the Men-men—the hybrid race ruled by Kanditter, the King of Thieves. The ship’s purser, standing at the foot of the gangplank, turned on them a sharp glance.
“Be careful of those boys,” he told Magnus Ridolph and Mellish. “They’ll take your eyeteeth if you open your mouth in front of them.”
The four rose to their feet, came closer with long sliding steps.
“If I had my way,” said the purser, “I’d run ’em off with a club. But—orders say ‘treat ’em nice’.” He noticed Mellish’s camera. “I wouldn’t take that camera with me, sir. They’ll make off with it sure as blazes.”
Mellish thrust his chin forward. “If they get this camera, they’ll deserve it.”
“They’ll get it,” said the purser.
Mellish turned his head, gave the purser a challenging look. “If anyone or anything gets this camera away from me I’ll give you another just like it.”
The purser shrugged. A buzzing came from the sky. “Look,” he said. “There’s the copter from Challa.”
It was the oddest contraption Magnus Ridolph had ever seen. An enormous hemisphere of wire mesh made a dome over the whole vehicle, an umbrella of close-mesh wire under which the supporting blades swung.
“That’s just how fast these johnnies are,” said the purser in grudging admiration. “That net is charged—high voltage—as soon as the copter lands. If it wasn’t for that there wouldn’t be a piece left of it an hour after it touched ground.”
Mellish la
ughed shortly. “This is quite a place. I’d like to be in charge here for a couple of months.” He glanced to where Magnus Ridolph stood, quietly watching the copter. “How about you, Ridolph? Think you’re going to leave with your shirt?” He laughed.
“I am usually able to adapt myself to circumstances,” said Magnus Ridolph, observing Mellish with detached curiosity. “I hope your camera was not expensive?”
“What do you mean?” Mellish reached for the case. The lid hung loosely; the case was empty. He glanced at the purser, who had tactfully turned his back, then around the field. The four natives sat in a line about thirty feet distant, watching the three with alert amber eyes.
“Which of them got it?” demanded Mellish, now suffused with a red flush.
“Easy, Mr. Mellish,” said the purser, “if you hope to do business with the king.”
Mellish whirled on Magnus Ridolph. “Did you see it? Which one—”
Magnus Ridolph permitted a faint smile to pull at his beard. He stepped forward, handed Mellish his camera. “I was merely testing your vigilance, Mr. Mellish. I’m afraid you are poorly equipped for conditions on Moritaba.”
Mellish glared a moment, then grinned wolfishly. “Are you a gambling man, Ridolph?”
Magnus Ridolph shook his head. “I occasionally take calculated risks—but gamble? No, never.”
Mellish said slowly, “I’ll put you this proposition. Now—you’re going to Challa?”
Magnus Ridolph nodded. “As you know. I have business with the king.”
Mellish grinned his wide yellow-toothed smile. “Let us each take a number of small articles—watch, camera, micromac, pocket screen, energizer, shaver, cigarette case, cleanorator, a micro library. Then we shall see who is the more vigilant, the more alert.” He raised his bushy black eyebrows.
“And the stakes?” inquired Magnus Ridolph coolly.
“Oh—” Mellish made an impatient gesture.
“You owe me a hundred thousand munits for the telex you filched from my property,” said Magnus Ridolph. “I’ll take double or nothing.”
Mellish blinked. “In effect,” he said, “I’d be placing two hundred thousand munits against nothing—since I don’t recognize the debt as collectable. But I’ll bet you fifty thousand munits cash to cash. If you have that much.”
Magnus Ridolph did not actually sneer but the angle of his fine white eyebrows, the tilt of his thin distinguished nose, conveyed an equivalent impression. “I believe I can meet the figure you mention.”
“Write me a check,” said Mellish. “I’ll write you one. The purser will hold the stakes.”
“As you wish,” said Magnus Ridolph.
The copter took Mellish and Magnus Ridolph to Challa, the seat of Kanditter, the King of Thieves. First they crossed an arm of the old sea-bottom, an unimaginable tangle of orange, purple and green foliage, netted by stagnant pools and occasional pad-covered sloughs. Then they rose over an army of white cliffs, flew low over a smooth plateau where herds of buffalo-like creatures on six splayed legs cropped mustard-colored shrubs. Down into a valley dark with jungle, toward a grove of tall trees looming above them like plumes of smoke. A clearing opened below, the copter sat down and they were in Challa.
Magnus Ridolph and Mellish stepped out of the copter, looked out through the cage of charged wire. A group of dark, big-eyed natives stood at a respectful distance, shuffling their feet in loose leather sandals with pointed toes. On all sides houses sat off the ground on stilts, houses built of a blue white-veined wood, thatched with slabs of gray pith. At the end of a wide avenue stood a larger taller building with wings extending under the trees.
Three Earthmen stood watching the arrival of the copter with listless curiosity. One of these, a sallow thin man with a large beak of a nose and bulging brown eyes, suddenly stiffened in unbelief. He darted forward. “Mr. Mellish! What on earth? I’m glad to see you!”
“I’m sure, Tomko, I’m sure,” said Mellish. “How’s everything going?”
Tomko glanced at Magnus Ridolph, then back to Mellish. “Well—nothing definite yet, sir. Old Kanditter—that’s the king—won’t make any concessions whatever.”
“We’ll see about that,” said Mellish. He turned, raised his voice to the copter pilot. “Let us out of this cage.”
The pilot said, “When I give you the word, sir, you can open that door—right there.” He walked around the copter. “Now.” Mellish and Magnus Ridolph passed outside, each carrying a pair of magnesium cases.
“Can you tell me,” inquired Magnus Ridolph, “where lodging may be found?”
Tomko said doubtfully, “There’s usually a few empty houses around. We’ve been living in one of the wings of the king’s palace. If you introduce yourself he’ll probably invite you to do likewise.”
“Thank you,” said Magnus Ridolph. “I’ll go pay my respects immediately.”
A whistle came to his ears. Turning, he saw the copter pilot beckoning to him through the wire. He went as close to the charged mesh as he dared.
“I just want to warn you,” said the pilot. “Watch out for the king. He’s the worst of the lot. That’s why he’s king. Talk about stealing—whoo!” Solemnly shaking his head, he turned back to his copter.
“Thank you,” said Magnus Ridolph. He felt a vibration through his wrist. He turned, said to the nearby native, “Your knife makes no impression in the alloy of the case, my friend. You would do better with a heat-needle.”
The native slid quietly away. Magnus Ridolph set out for the king’s palace. It was a pleasant scene, he thought, reminiscent of ancient Polynesia. The village seemed clean and orderly. Small shops appeared at intervals along the avenue—booths displaying yellow fruits, shiny green tubes, rows of dead shrimp-like insects, jars of rust-colored powder. The proprietors sat in front of the booths, not behind them.
A pavilion extended forward from the front of the palace, and here Magnus Ridolph found Kanditter, the King of Thieves, sitting sleepily in a low deep chair. He was to Magnus Ridolph’s eye distinguishable from the other natives only by his headdress—a coronet-like affair woven of a shiny red-gold metal and set with telex crystals. Unaware of the exact formalities expected of him, Magnus Ridolph merely approached the king, bowed his head.
“Greetings,” said the king in a thick voice. “Your name and business?”
“I am Magnus Ridolph, resident of Tran, on Lake Sahara, Earth. I have come—to state the matter briefly—to—”
“To get telex?”
“I would be foolish to deny it.”
“Ho!” The king rocked back and forth, pulled back his sharp dark features in a fish-like grin. “No luck. Telex crystal stay on Moritaba.”
Magnus Ridolph nodded. He had expected refusal. “In the meantime may I trespass on the royal hospitality?”
The king’s grin slowly faded. “Eh? Eh? What you say?”
“Where do you suggest that I stay?”
The king made a sweep of his arm toward the end of his palace. “Much room there. Go around, go in.”
“Thank you,” said Magnus Ridolph.
To the rear of the palace Magnus Ridolph found suitable quarters—one of a row of rooms facing out on the path like stalls in a stable. The resemblance was heightened by the stable-type door.
It was a pleasant lodging with the trees swaying far overhead, the carpet of red-gold leaves in front. The interior was comfortable though Spartan. Magnus Ridolph found a couch, a pottery ewer filled with cool water, a carved chest built into the wall, a table.
Humming softly to himself Magnus Ridolph opened the chest, peered within. A soft smile disturbed his beard as he noted the back panel of the chest. It looked solid, felt solid, but Magnus Ridolph knew it could be opened from the outside. The walls seemed sound—poles of the blue wood were caulked with a putty-like resin and there was no window.
Magnus Ridolph opened his suitcases, laid the goods out on the couch. From without he heard voices and looking forth he saw Mellish rockin
g on his short legs down the center of the path, bulldog jaw thrust out, hands clenched, elbows swinging wide as he walked. Tomko came to the rear, carrying Mellish’s luggage.
Magnus Ridolph nodded courteously, withdrew into his room. He saw Mellish grin broadly to Tomko, heard his comment: “They’ve got the old goat penned up for sure. Damned if he doesn’t look natural with that beard hanging over the door.”
Tomko snickered dutifully. Magnus Ridolph frowned. Old goat? He turned back to his couch—in time to catch a dark flicker, a glint of metal.
Magnus Ridolph compressed his lips. His micromac and powerpack had disappeared. Peering under the couch Magnus Ridolph saw a patch of slightly darker fiber in the matting. He straightened his back, just in time to see his pocket screen swinging up through the air into a hole high in the wall. Magnus Ridolph started to run outside and into the adjoining room, then thought better of it. No telling how many natives would be pillaging his room if he left for an instant. He piled everything back into his suitcases, locked them, placed them in the middle of the floor, sat on the couch, lit a cigarette. Fifteen minutes he sat in reflection. A muffled bellow made him look up.
“Thieving little blackguards!” he heard Mellish cry. Magnus Ridolph grinned ruefully, rose to his feet and, taking his suitcases, he stepped out into the street.
He found the copter pilot reading a newspaper inside his thief-proof cage. Magnus Ridolph looked through the mesh. “May I come in?” The pilot arose, cast the switch. Magnus Ridolph entered, set his suitcases on the ground.
“I just been reading about you,” said the pilot.
“Is that right?” asked Magnus Ridolph.
“Yeah—in one of these old newspapers. See—” he pointed out the article with a greasy forefinger. It read:
GHOST-ROBBER APPREHENDED
STARPORT BANK LAUDS
EARTH CRIME-DOCTOR
A million munits looted from the Starport Bank were recovered by Magnus Ridolph, noted savant and freelance troubleshooter, who this morning delivered the criminal, Arnold McGurk, 35, unemployed spaceman, to Starport police.
