by Jack Vance
The door opened, Magnus Ridolph entered quietly, nodded. “Good evening, gentlemen. Busy, I see. Go right ahead. Don’t let me interrupt.”
“Ridolph!” bellowed Thifer. “Where have you been?”
Magnus Ridolph raised his eyebrows. “Why, pursuing my mission, of course.”
“But—you disappeared!”
Magnus Ridolph stroked his beard complacently. “In a sense, yes. But only temporarily as you see.”
Thifer frowned and his red-brown eyes bored at Magnus Ridolph. Suddenly they glowed, became dangerously hot. “Do you mean to tell me you sneaked off the station?”
Magnus Ridolph made a brusque angry gesture. “Silence, man, silence! How in thunder can I talk while you bleat like a sheep?”
Thifer’s face took on the maroon tinge of near-hysteria. In the lowest of voices he said, “Go ahead. It had better be good.”
Said Magnus Ridolph, “I disappeared—just as all your other men disappeared. I was taken by the same agency that took them.”
“And what is this agency?”
Magnus Ridolph settled into a chair. “It is a large black object. It exerts a tremendous urgency. It will brook no contrary will.”
“Get to the point, Ridolph!”
“It is the dark star Noir—the world which you erroneously believe revolves around the white sun.”
“But it does!” cried Thifer blankly. “You can see it in opposition and it eclipses—” his voice became a murmur “—every eighty-four days.”
“The dark star follows a very peculiar orbit,” said Magnus Ridolph. “An orbit in the shape of a figure-eight—around Blanche, across, around Rouge. The orbit brings it only a few thousand miles outside the orbit of Jexjeka. Close enough for its gravity to sweep the face of Jexjeka clean.”
“Nonsense,” snapped Thifer. “Impossible. If it came close enough to counter the gravitational field of Jexjeka it would pull the whole planet after it.”
Magnus Ridolph shook his head. “Jexjeka is nine thousand miles in diameter. At the surface Noir’s gravity is stronger than that of Rouge combined with the gravity of Jexjeka. At the center of the planet, forty-five hundred miles away, Rouge’s gravity is dominant and Jexjeka continues in its orbit, though there are perturbations.
“Jexjeka’s year is eighty-two days. Noir’s cycle is eighty-four days, so that every year it passes Jexjeka at a different spot in the orbit. In ten or fifteen more years, Jexjeka should be far enough around so that when Noir swings around in back of Rouge, the effect should no longer be dangerous.”
Thifer frowned, drummed on the table. He looked up at Magnus Ridolph. “What happened to you?”
“Well, first I felt a peculiar visceral sensation of lightness, which increased with amazing speed. Noir approached, passed very swiftly. Then I felt as if I were falling head downward. So I was—falling away from Jexjeka to Noir. The support-jets of the hopper, which had been turned against Jexjeka, were adding to the acceleration.
“I suppose a half-minute passed before I grasped what was occurring. And then I was out in space, falling against a great black sphere.”
“Why can’t we see it,” said Thifer sharply. “Why is it not visible, like a moon?”
Magnus Ridolph considered. “Noir probably is composed of cold star-stuff—dovetailed protons, incredibly heavy, surrounded by an envelope of compacted gas which absorbs most of the incident light.”
“Well,” grumbled Thifer, “that may or may not be. Go on with your story.”
“There’s not much more to it. I righted the hopper, turned on all the power at hand. It was just barely enough to edge me back toward Jexjeka. It took two days to return.”
“I suppose all the other men are dead?”
“I don’t see how they could possibly have survived.”
For a few moments there was silence in the room. Then Thifer pounded on the table with a fist like a small tub. “Well, if so, that’s that. We know what it is and we can be careful.”
“Such being the case,” said Magnus Ridolph, “I have fulfilled my obligation to you. I have given you your money’s worth. Now I would appreciate your returning me either to Azul or to one of the Gamma Scorpionis planets, whichever is more convenient to you.”
Thifer growled. “There’s an ore ship leaving pretty soon. You can stow aboard that.”
Magnus Ridolph’s eyebrows leveled. “How soon is pretty soon?”
“Depends on how fast we load her, how the ore runs. A month or two, maybe a little longer if we don’t bring in a new vein.”
“And where does this ore-ship unload?”
“At our plant on Hephaestos.”
Magnus Ridolph said mildly, “That would be as inconvenient for me as Jexjeka.”
“Sorry,” said Thifer. “Right now I can’t take time off to send you back. I’ve got other things to think of. That dark star—”
The engineer spoke. “Just what are you thinking of, chief?”
Thifer said slowly, “I don’t know. I don’t see that there’s much we can do except leave and take everything movable with us every time the dark star comes around.” He thudded his fist thoughtfully on the table. “Damned nuisance.”
Magnus Ridolph said, “An orbit such as Noir’s—a figure-eight—must be in the most exquisite balance. A comparatively slight force might have the effect of changing the orbit completely. It’s very rare, the figure-eight—in fact I’ve never seen anything like it before.”
Thifer looked at him woodenly and then comprehension dawned. “If Noir were slowed just a trifle while approaching Blanche it might change its orbit from a parabolic-type curve to an ellipse.” He looked at his engineer. “What do you think, Edson?”
“Sounds reasonable,” said Edson blinking rapidly.
“Maybe a big atomic explosion?” suggested Thifer. “Think there’d be enough jolt?”
Edson grimaced. He disliked being put on the spot. “Well—the system must certainly be in delicate adjustment. Like a big boulder balanced on its end. Blow it, it falls over.”
Thifer stood up with excitement in every deep line of his face. “We’ll try it! Think of it! Think of the headlines! ‘Howard Thifer changes star’s orbit to protect men.’ Sounds good, hey, men? Good publicity.
“By golly, Ridolph—” and he thumped Magnus Ridolph’s thinly-fleshed back “—you do come up with an idea once in a while!” He turned to the foreman. “We got lots of atomite around, haven’t we?”
Smitz nodded. “Lots of centaurium too. There’s about five hundred tons waiting to be shipped.”
“Crate it up. All of it. We’ll use the atomite as a primer. We’ll drop it on the front side of Noir. A two-billion-ton kick in the teeth for Noir.”
He thought, added “Best time to drop the bomb is right now while it’s leaving Rouge, approaching Blanche. Get her after the swing-around, she might start circling Rouge, and that would be bad. Yep, we’ll drop her right now. Get busy, boys, this is something I want to do.”
The explosion! A horrible rending blast, whiter than the heart of Blanche—Thifer and Magnus Ridolph witnessed it on the telescreen, from an image transmitted by Edson in the ore-ship.
Thifer in his excitement thumped Magnus Ridolph on the back. Magnus Ridolph moved away. Thifer bellowed into the mesh, “Did it do any good? Can you tell yet?”
“Hard to say,” came Edson’s voice. “We’d have to wait awhile—a few hours at least. Say chief.” His voice took on a peculiar note. “The explosion is spreading—spreading fast. It’s like the whole star’s caught fire.”
And in the screen Thifer and Magnus Ridolph saw the face of Noir glowing, glistening, blasting out in white lambent gouts.
“What’s going on?” roared Thifer. “What did you do?”
“Nothing, chief!” came Edson’s remote voice. “Looks like we’ve got a little nova.”
Thifer turned his boar’s head toward Magnus Ridolph. His voice was low, quiet. “What’s going on out there, Ridolph?”
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br /> Magnus Ridolph scratched his beard thoughtfully. “Evidently the energy of the explosion has jarred loose some of the protons of the star-matter and they’re escaping with a great deal of kinetic energy. No doubt some of the energy has been molded—by the tremendous positive charge—into free electrons. I wouldn’t be surprised if the entire star flares up. I don’t imagine the blast has appreciably affected the orbit.”
“How so?”
“If you slowed it it would fall toward Blanche in a steeper parabola, snap back at a steeper angle. I’m afraid all that you could possibly do was disturb the balance of the system. On its next time around it might even collide with Jexjeka. In any event it will singe us rather thoroughly.
“Of course there’s no need for alarm. A nova of this type should die down to nothing in a few years more or less. And then your mines can be operated again as good as new.” He rose to his feet. “Right now I think I’ll pack my baggage. The sooner we leave Jexjeka the better.”
“Ridolph,” whispered Thifer, “was this one of your tricks? If so I’ll kill you with my two hands.”
Magnus Ridolph raised his eyebrows. “Trick? The explosion was your idea.”
“By your suggestion.”
“Pooh!” said Magnus Ridolph. “I came out to Jexjeka for one purpose, to find where your men were disappearing. I did so. Thereupon you refused to return me to a civilized center, electing instead to drop bombs on a dark star.”
“At your suggestion,” repeated Thifer meaningfully.
Magnus Ridolph smiled thinly. “That statement has no legal foundation of truth. However, I suggest that instead of bickering with me you commence evacuating your crew. If Noir becomes a nova in actuality—even a small one—Jexjeka will be uncomfortably warm the next time it passes.” He turned toward the door, paused.
“It might be wise to keep the publicity at a minimum. The news agencies would be apt to ridicule you mercilessly.” Magnus Ridolph half-closed his eyes. “‘Dark star fights fire with fire! Thifer smokes self out.’”
“Shut up,” said Thifer. “Get out.”
“‘Thifer gives self cosmic hotfoot. Thought it was dark star, says miner,’” said Magnus Ridolph, passing through the doorway.
“Get out!” yelled Thifer. “Get out!”
The Spa of the Stars
Joe Blaine sat, limp as a pillow, in his swivel chair, chewing morbidly at a dead cigar. The desk supported his feet. He stroked his pink jowl with a hand that was all flesh and no bone. His mood was one of gloom.
Many extremes had enlivened Joe Blaine’s life: triumphs, failures, vicissitudes of many sorts. But never such an abysmal piece of cheese as the Spa of the Stars.
Outside, the white sun Eta Pisces shone with a tingling radiance on a landscape sparkling white, blue and green. (“Enjoy the zestful light of the Cluster’s healthiest sun in surroundings of inexpressible beauty”—excerpt from the Spa’s brochure.)
A lazy sea folded surf along a beach of pure sand behind which a wall of jungle rose four hundred feet, steep as a cliff. (“Vacation at the edge of unexplored jungle mysteries,” read the brochure, and the illustration showed a lovely nude woman with apple-green skin standing under a tree blazing with red and black flowers.)
A big hotel, miles of beach, a hundred orange and green cabanas, an open-air dance pavilion, a theater, tennis courts, sail boats, an arcade of expensive shops, a race-track with grandstand and stables—this was the Spa of the Stars just as Joe Blaine had conceived it. Nothing was lacking but the nude green woman. If Joe Blaine had known where to get one, she’d have been there too.
There was another discrepancy. Joe had envisioned the lobby full of stylish women, the beach covered with bronze flesh. In his mind’s-eye he had seen the grandstand black with sportsmen, all anxious to dispute the wisdom of the odds he had set. Each of the seven bars—as he had pictured them—were lined three deep, with the bartenders sweating and complaining of overwork…Joe Blaine grunted and threw his cigar out the window.
The door split back and Mayla, his secretary, entered. Her hair was bright as the sands of the beach; she had eyes blue as the sea before it toppled to surf. She was slender, flexible, and her flesh had the compelling, clutchable look of a marshmallow. She was a creature of instinct, rather than intellect, and this suited Joe Blaine very well. Crossing the room, she patted the pink spot on his scalp.
“Cheer up, Joe, it can’t be that bad.”
The words catalyzed Joe’s smouldering dejection to an angry bray.
“How could it be worse? You tell me…Ten million munits sunk into the place and three paying guests!”
Mayla settled herself into a chair, thoughtfully puffed alight a cigarette.
“Just wait till the noise of those accidents dies down…They’ll be back like flies. After all, we got a lot of publicity—”
“Publicity! Huh! Nine bathers killed by sea-beetles the first day. The gorilla-things dragging those girls into the jungle; not to mention the flying snakes and the dragons—Lord, the dragons! And you talk about publicity!”
Mayla pursed her lips. “Well—maybe you’re right. I suppose it would look bad to somebody who didn’t know the circumstances.”
“What circumstances?”
“I mean about Kolama being a wild planet, and not explored or civilized.”
“You think, then,” said Blaine with great earnestness, “that people don’t mind being chewed up by horrible creatures so long as it’s out on a wild planet?”
She shook her head. “No, not that exactly—”
“Good,” said Joe. “I’m relieved.”
“—I just mean that maybe they’d make a few allowances.”
Blaine threw up his hands and sank back in an attitude of defeat. He reached for a new cigar and lit it.
“Maybe,” said Mayla after a short pause, “we could advertise it like a big game lodge, and people would come for excitement.”
He reproached her with a glance. “You ought to know that nobody hunts big game—or any kind of game—if there’s a chance of them getting hurt. The odds are even out here; that’ll keep away the jokers after cheap blood…”
The telescreen buzzed. Joe turned impatiently. “Now what…” He snapped the switch. The screen glowed pink. “Long distance, looks like.”
“Starport calling Joe Blaine,” came the operator’s voice.
“Speaking.”
On the screen appeared a narrow face—all eyes, nose and teeth, a face that was crafty and calculating, and yet possessed of a quality that women thought attractive. This was Blaine’s partner, Lucky Woolrich.
“Now what the devil do you want?” demanded Joe. “Do you know it costs eight munits a minute interplanet?”
Lucky said curtly, “Just wanted to find out if you’ve got it licked.”
“Licked!” yelled Joe. “Are you crazy? I’m scared to set foot outside the hotel!”
“We’ve got to do something,” Woolrich told him. “Ten million munits is an awful swipe of scratch!”
“We sure agree there.”
“I don’t get it,” said Lucky. “The place got built without accidents. Nothing bothered us until we started to operate. Don’t that seem fishy to you?”
“Fishy as all get out. I can’t figure it. I’ve tried.”
Lucky said, “Well, I called mainly to tell you I’m coming on out. Ought to be there in four days or so. I’m bringing a trouble-shooter—”
“We don’t need a trouble-shooter,” snapped Blaine. “We need a dragon-shooter and a water-beetle shooter and a flying-snake shooter. Lots of ’em.”
Lucky ignored the comment. “I’ve got the man to help us out if anyone can. He’s highly recommended. Magnus Ridolph. A well-known genius. Invented the musical kaleidoscope.”
“That’s the ticket,” said Blaine. “We’ll dance ’em to death.”
“Lay off the comics, Joe!” rasped Lucky. “Eight munits a minute is cheap when we’re talking business; for jokes it’s ext
ravagant.”
“I might as well have some fun for my money,” said Blaine peevishly. “Ten million munits and every cent buying headaches.”
“See you in four days,” said Lucky coldly. The screen went dull.
Joe stood up, walked back and forth. Mayla watched with proud possessiveness. She, who could have had forty-nine out of any fifty men, thought Joe was the cutest thing she’d ever seen.
A tall angular man in the red and blue uniform of the Spa came bounding into the office, knees raising as high as his chin with every step.
“Well, Wilbur?” snapped Blaine.
“Golly, Joe—you know that little old deaf lady? The cranky one?”
“Of course I know her. I know every one of our three guests. What about her?”
“One of them dragons just now came at her. Would have got her, too, if she hadn’t ducked under a bench. Just swung down out of the sky, big as a house. Lordy, she’s spittin’ mad! Says she’s gonna sue you, because the thing dove at her on hotel property.”
Joe Blaine pulled at his scant hair, turned his cigar up between clenched teeth. “Give me strength, give me strength…”
“How about a drink?” Mayla suggested.
Wilbur concurred. “Mix one for me too.”
Seen in the flesh, Lucky was not as tall as he looked on the telescreen—hardly as tall as Joe, but thinner, neater.
“Joe,” he said, “meet Mr. Ridolph. He’s the expert I was telling you about.” Lucky waved an arm at the slight man with the distinguished white beard who had wandered abstractedly into the lobby, looking here and there, in all directions, like a child on a circus midway.
Blaine took one look, eyed Lucky in disgust.
“Expert? That old goat? On what?” he muttered. Aloud, with effusive cordiality: “How do you do, Mr. Ridolph? So glad you could come to help. We sure need an expert out here to figure out our problems.”
Magnus Ridolph shook hands fastidiously. “Yes,” he said. “How do you do, Mr. Woolrich?”
“I’m Woolrich,” said Lucky briskly. “This is Mr. Blaine.”
“How do you do?” And Magnus Ridolph nodded, to assure them that he took the correction in good part. “You have a pleasant resort, very peaceful and quiet, just as I like it.”
