The Potter of Firsk and Other Stories

by Jack Vance

  Carol said, “Since when has Mother cared two cents one way or the other?”

  “She’s very fond of you, Carol,” Martinon said patiently. “And she’s a sick woman.”

  Carol’s face took on a bleak look. “Probably only a hangover.”

  Aiken said conversationally, “I didn’t know you were still thick with Marya Leone.”

  “I’ve known her for years,” Martinon said with simple dignity. “I gave her her last part—in They Didn’t Know Beans.”

  Krebius pushed open the laboratory door. Carol went in, walked directly to a heavy black ophthalmologist’s chair, seated herself. Krebius unlocked a cabinet, rolled out a heavy device with two long binocular eye-pieces. “Just one moment,” said Krebius, and left the room.

  Martinon seated himself in a chair at the far wall, crossed his legs with an expression of patient boredom. “Everybody figures me for a cad, I see.”

  Aiken said, “I can’t speak for anybody else. As for myself—”

  Martinon made a careless gesture with his cigarette. “Don’t bother. The trouble is, you don’t see what I’m trying to accomplish.”

  “Money?”

  Martinon nodded slowly. “Money, of course. But also a new way of making pictures. Somebody’s got to start. There’s a whole new industry ready to spring to life.”

  Martinon fell silent.

  Aiken patted Carol’s hand. “You look scared.”

  “I am scared. What’s going to happen?”

  “Nothing very much.”

  “Do you think I’m crazy? And that’s why I can’t see?”

  “No. But there may be something in your mind that doesn’t want to see.”

  “But I do want to see! If I want to see, why can’t I? It doesn’t make sense!”

  “Theories come and theories go,” said Martinon in a tired voice.

  After a moment Carol said, “I’m afraid of that Opticon. I’m afraid to think.”

  Aiken glanced at Martinon, who met his eyes blandly. “I imagine you would be.”

  “You lack the scientific outlook,” said Martinon.

  “You lack something too,” said Aiken.

  Krebius came in with a loaded hypodermic.

  “What’s that?” Aiken asked.

  “Scopolamine.”

  “The truth drug,” said Martinon.

  Krebius ignored him. He swabbed Carol’s arm with alcohol. “Now, Carol. A little prick. And pretty soon you’ll relax.”

  Half an hour passed in dead silence. Carol lay with her head back, a small pulse showing in her throat.

  Krebius leaned forward. “How do you feel, Carol?”

  “Fine,” she said in a leaden voice.

  “Good,” said Krebius briskly. “Now, we make our arrangements.” He laid her arms in her lap, clamped her head gently between two foam-rubber blocks, wheeled the Opticon close, adjusted it so that the binoculars pressed against her eyes. “There. How does that feel?”

  “All right.”

  “Can you see anything?”

  “No.”

  “Do you want to see?”

  There was a pause, as if Carol were groping for several different answers. “Yes. I want to see.”

  “Is there any reason why you can’t see?”

  Another pause, longer. “I think there’s a face I don’t want to see.”

  “Whose face?”

  “I don’t know his name.”

  “Now, Carol,” said Dr. Krebius, “let’s go back five years. Where were you?”

  “I was living in Beverly Hills with Mother. I was going to junior high school.”

  “You could see?”

  “Oh yes.”

  Krebius pressed a switch; the Opticon began to hum and click. Aiken recognized the sound of film winding past a shutter. Krebius reached to the wall, turned out the lights. A faint neon night-light glowed ruby-red beside Martinon. The room was nearly pitch dark.

  Krebius said gently, “Do you remember when you went to the lodge by Holly Lake, up in the Sierras?”

  Carol hesitated. “Yes. I remember.” She seemed to go gradually rigid. Even in the dark Aiken could sense her hands tightening on the arms.

  “Don’t be frightened, Carol,” said Krebius. “No one will hurt you. Tell us what happened?”

  “I don’t remember very well.”

  “What happened, Carol?”

  Tension began to build up. Everyone in the room felt it. Krebius’ voice was sharper; Martinon had stopped smiling.

  Carol spoke in a low voice. “Mother was desperate. Her last picture was a flop. The studios wouldn’t take up her option…She was drinking.”

  “What happened the night of the thunderstorm?”

  A pause of five seconds. The chair creaked where Martinon leaned forward.

  Carol’s voice was a husky whisper. “Mother had a friend visiting her. Her lover. I never knew his name. They were in the kitchen mixing drinks and laughing…My father drove up…I loved my father; I wanted to stay with him, but the court gave me to Mother…Outside it was thundering. The wind howled—first loud, then it died altogether. And the clouds came in very low, thick and wet. You could feel them pressing down.”

  Martinon said, “You’re scaring the poor kid to death!”

  “Shut up!” Aiken said softly.

  “Go on,” said Krebius. “Go on, Carol. Tell us. Get it off your chest. Then you can see. Once you look the truth in the face.”

  Carol’s voice began to rise. “Daddy walked in. I talked with him, told him what I had seen. He was very angry. Mother came out laughing, staggering. Daddy said he was going to take me away, that Mother wasn’t fit to keep me. Then he saw Mother’s lover.” Carol was wailing now, in grief and terror. “Outside was lightning. And the lights went out.” She screamed. “He shot Daddy. I saw him during the lightning flashes. And then—there was the most terrible sound. The whole world exploded…” Her voice rasped, she panted. “And the flash of lightning—right in my eyes…”

  Was it Aiken’s imagination? Or did he see white light flicker from Carol’s eyes? Carol had sagged. She was inert.

  Krebius rose to his feet. “Phew!” he muttered, “that is awful. All this time she carries knowledge deep in her little head—her father murdered before her eyes!”

  “And goes blind, so she won’t have to look at her mother’s face,” said Aiken.

  Martinon said, “Aren’t you jumping to conclusions? Maybe the lightning made her blind. Maybe she’ll always be blind.”

  “We’ll soon find out,” said Aiken. He felt Carol’s forehead; it was hot and damp with sweat; the hair clung to his fingers.

  Krebius turned the lights on dim.

  Martinon went over to the Opticon. “In any event, it’s an interesting session. I’ll develop this film; I’d like to see what’s on it.”

  “No,” said Aiken suddenly. “You keep away from those films.”

  “Why should I?” Martinon asked. “They’re films which I’ve provided for this machine. My films!”

  “They’re evidence,” said Aiken. “Bannister never killed himself. You heard what Carol said. He was murdered. The man’s face is on that film.”

  “Yes,” said Krebius, “I’d better take charge of the film, Victor.”

  “I hate to insist,” said Martinon. “But they’re my films. You can see them whenever they’re developed.” He busied himself at the Opticon.

  Aiken came forward. “I also hate to insist, Martinon. But I want these films. I’m anxious to see who that lover was.”

  “Keep your distance,” said Martinon levelly.

  Aiken pushed him away from the Opticon. The film came with Martinon; the roll clattered to the floor, unwound in lazy coils.

  Martinon said, “Now you’ll never see the man’s face!”

  Aiken could no longer bear Martinon’s look of complacent self-possession. He aimed a punch at the neat gray mustache. Martinon blocked it expertly, struck back, set Aiken sprawling among the coils
of film.

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen!” cried Krebius. “We must act like gentlemen!”

  Aiken rose to his knees, crouched, butted Martinon, who staggered across the room, flung his arms out against the wall to catch himself. At this moment Carol’s eyes opened, and Victor was right in front of her.

  She stared into Martinon’s face and screamed, a hoarse, cracked cry of fear. She struggled to escape from the chair, but the rubber blocks held her head in place. She was pointing at Martinon.

  “I know you. I know your face! You shot my father!”

  “Well,” said Martinon, “this is a pretty pickle. I’ve got a nasty job here.” He reached into his pocket and came out with a pocket-knife. He gave it a switch, the blade snapped out. He strode toward Carol.

  “Martinon!” cried Aiken. “You’re crazy!” He pushed the Opticon; it toppled into Martinon, crashed over on top of him. Aiken stepped on his wrist; the knife clattered over the floor. Aiken grabbed the knot of Martinon’s tie, twisted, ground his knuckles into the jugular, banged Martinon’s head on the floor.

  Presently Martinon lay still. Aiken released him. “Call the cops.” He got to his feet. Martinon rolled over, groaned, lay limp.

  Krebius ran out into the hall. Aiken turned, looked at Carol. She was crouched, her legs drawn up on the chair, her eyes wide.

  Aiken said, “Hello, Carol. You can see, can’t you?”

  “Yes. I can see.”

  “Do you know me?”

  “Of course, you’re James Aiken.”

  “Lots of excitement for a while.”

  “Who’s that?” she whispered, looking at the man on the floor. “Is it—Victor?”

  “Yes.”

  “All this time he’s worked on me…” Her lids fell shut. “I’m so sleepy and tired…”

  “Don’t go to sleep yet.”

  “I won’t…”

  A squad car squealed to a stop outside the door, and Victor Martinon was taken away.

  In Krebius’ office Carol drank black coffee. “Now I don’t want to go to sleep. I’m afraid I might wake up blind.”

  “No,” said Aiken. “You never will again. Because the spell is broken. Vasillissa is free again.”

  “Magic!” said Carol. She looked at him smiling. And she was the real Vasillissa, as gay and clever and daring as ever had been the enchanted princess. She reached out, took his hand.

  “Magic,” said Aiken. “Magic.”

  The Potters of Firsk

  The yellow bowl on Thomm’s desk stood about a foot high, flaring out from a width of eight inches at the base to a foot across the rim. The profile showed a simple curve, clean and sharp, with a full sense of completion; the body was thin without fragility; the whole piece gave an impression of ringing well-arched strength.

  The craftsmanship of the body was matched by the beauty of the glaze—a glorious transparent yellow, luminescent like a hot summer afterglow. It was the essence of marigolds, a watery wavering saffron, a yellow as of transparent gold, a yellow glass that seemed to fabricate curtains of light within itself and fling them off, a yellow brilliant but mild, tart as lemon, sweet as quince jelly, soothing as sunlight.

  Keselsky had been furtively eying the bowl during his interview with Thomm, personnel chief for the Department of Planetary Affairs. Now, with the interview over, he could not help but bend forward to examine the bowl more closely. He said with obvious sincerity: “This is the most beautiful piece I’ve ever seen.”

  Thomm, a man of early middle-age with a brisk gray mustache, a sharp but tolerant eye, leaned back in his chair. “It’s a souvenir. Souvenir’s as good a name for it as anything else. I got it many years ago, when I was your age.” He glanced at his desk clock. “Lunch-time.”

  Keselsky looked up, hastily reached for his brief case. “Excuse me, I had no idea—”

  Thomm raised his hand. “Not so fast. I’d like you to have lunch with me.”

  Keselsky muttered embarrassed excuses, but Thomm insisted.

  “Sit down, by all means.” A menu appeared on the screen. “Now—look that over.”

  Without further urging Keselsky made a selection, and Thomm spoke into the mesh. The wall opened, a table slid out with their lunch.

  Even while eating Keselsky fondled the bowl with his eyes. Over coffee, Thomm handed it across the table. Keselsky hefted it, stroked the surface, looked deep into the glaze.

  “Where on earth did you find such a marvelous piece?” He examined the bottom, frowned at the marks scratched in the clay.

  “Not on Earth,” said Thomm. “On the planet Firsk.” He sat back. “There’s a story connected with that bowl.” He paused inquiringly.

  Keselsky hurriedly swore that nothing could please him more than to listen while Thomm spoke of all things under the sun. Thomm smiled faintly. After all, this was Keselsky’s first job.

  “As I’ve mentioned, I was about your age,” said Thomm. “Perhaps a year or two older, but then I’d been out on the Channel Planet for nineteen months. When my transfer to Firsk came I was naturally very pleased, because Channel, as perhaps you know, is a bleak planet, full of ice and frost-fleas and the dullest aborigines in space—”

  Thomm was entranced with Firsk. It was everything the Channel Planet had not been: warm, fragrant, the home of the Mi-Tuun, a graceful people of a rich, quaint and ancient culture. Firsk was by no means a large planet, though its gravity approached that of Earth. The land surface was small—a single equatorial continent in the shape of a dumbbell.

  The Planetary Affairs Bureau was located at Penolpan, a few miles in from the South Sea, a city of fable and charm. The tinkle of music was always to be heard somewhere in the distance; the air was mellow with incense and a thousand flower scents. The low houses of reed, parchment and dark wood were arranged negligently, three-quarters hidden under the foliage of trees and vines. Canals of green water laced the city, arched over by wooden bridges trailing ivy and orange flowers, and here swam boats each decorated in an intricate many-colored pattern.

  The inhabitants of Penolpan, the amber-skinned Mi-Tuun, were a mild people devoted to the pleasures of life, sensuous without excess, relaxed and gay, guiding their lives by ritual. They fished in the South Sea, cultivated cereals and fruit, manufactured articles of wood, resin and paper. Metal was scarce on Firsk, and was replaced in many instances by tools and utensils of earthenware, fabricated so cleverly that the lack was never felt.

  Thomm found his work at the Penolpan Bureau pleasant in the extreme, marred only by the personality of his superior. This was George Covill, a short ruddy man with prominent blue eyes, heavy wrinkled eyelids, sparse sandy hair. He had a habit, when he was displeased—which was often—of cocking his head sidewise and staring for a brittle five seconds. Then, if the offense was great, he exploded in wrath; if not, he stalked away.

  On Penolpan Covill’s duties were more of a technical than sociological nature, and even so, in line with the Bureau’s policy of leaving well-balanced cultures undisturbed, there was little to occupy him. He imported silica yarn to replace the root fiber from which the Mi-Tuun wove their nets; he built a small cracking plant and converted the fish oil they burned in their lamps into a lighter cleaner fluid. The varnished paper of Penolpan’s houses had a tendency to absorb moisture and split after a few months of service. Covill brought in a plastic varnish which protected them indefinitely. Aside from these minor innovations Covill did little. The Bureau’s policy was to improve the native standard of living within the framework of its own culture, introducing Earth methods, ideas, philosophy very gradually and only when the natives themselves felt the need.

  Before long, however, Thomm came to feel that Covill paid only lip-service to the Bureau philosophy. Some of his actions seemed dense and arbitrary to the well-indoctrinated Thomm. He built an Earth-style office on Penolpan’s main canal, and the concrete and glass made an inexcusable jar against Penolpan’s mellow ivories and browns. He kept strict office hours and on a dozen
occasions a delegation of Mi-Tuun, arriving in ceremonial regalia, had to be turned away with stammered excuses by Thomm, when in truth Covill, disliking the crispness of his linen suit, had stripped to the waist and was slumped in a wicker chair with a cigar, a quart of beer, watching girl-shows on his telescreen.

  Thomm was assigned to Pest Control, a duty Covill considered beneath his dignity. On one of his rounds Thomm first heard mentioned the Potters of Firsk.

  Laden with insect spray, with rat-poison cartridges dangling from his belt, he had wandered into the poorest outskirts of Penolpan, where the trees ended and the dry plain stretched out to the Kukmank Mountains. In this relatively drab location he came upon a long open shed, a pottery bazaar. Shelves and tables held ware of every description, from stoneware crocks for pickling fish to tiny vases thin as paper, lucent as milk. Here were plates large and small, bowls of every size and shape, no two alike, ewers, tureens, demijohns, tankards. One rack held earthenware knives, the clay vitrified till it rang like iron, the cutting edge chipped cleanly, sharper than any razor, from a thick dripping of glaze.

  Thomm was astounded by the colors. Rare rich ruby, the green of flowing river water, turquoise ten times deeper than the sky. He saw metallic purples, browns shot with blond light, pinks, violets, grays, dappled russets, blues of copper and cobalt, the odd streaks and flows of rutilated glass. Certain glazes bloomed with crystals like snowflakes, others held floating within them tiny spangles of metal.

  Thomm was delighted with his find. Here was beauty of form, of material, of craftsmanship. The sound body, sturdy with natural earthy strength given to wood and clay, the melts of colored glass, the quick restless curves of the vases, the capacity of the bowls, the expanse of the plates—they produced a tremendous enthusiasm in Thomm. And yet—there were puzzling aspects to the bazaar. First—he looked up and down the shelves—something was lacking. In the many-colored display he missed—yellow. There were no yellow glazes of any sort. A cream, a straw, an amber—but no full-bodied glowing yellow.

  Perhaps the potters avoided the color through superstition, Thomm speculated, or perhaps because of identification with royalty, like the ancient Chinese of Earth, or perhaps because of association with death or disease—The train of thought led to the second puzzle: Who were the potters? There were no kilns in Penolpan to fire ware such as this.