The Potter of Firsk and Other Stories

by Jack Vance

  Schmidt clucked. “Nothing, Abel?”

  Abel shrugged. “A microvolt or two. Nothing to speak of. Insufficient to arouse images. And—in all probability—as we imagined—the brain would automatically compensate.”

  Schmidt shook his head. “A pity.”

  “However,” said Ruan, “a set of equally interesting results has appeared.”

  Schmidt glanced uncomfortably toward Zoltan Vec, who had inclined his massive head forward. “Indeed?”

  “The difficulty arose in the coupling,” said Ruan, smiling in a broad display of long white teeth. “Each brain wished to generate the master cycle; there was no consonance. In an effort to circumvent this conflict, I joined the brain of a canary to Jean’s brain.”

  “And—”

  Abel Ruan shrugged his thin shoulders. “Nothing occurred—until, and mark this, gentlemen, until one of the other birds chanced to become excited, whereupon Jean exhibited signs of restlessness.”

  Schmidt’s old face looked suddenly eager, passionate, with all the fatigue erased. “Telepathy?”

  Abel Ruan nodded. “Consistently.”

  Zoltan Vec rubbed his chin. Schmidt, becoming aware of him, diminished, lost the zest he had displayed, became gray and old once more.

  Vec inquired sarcastically, “Does your government pay you to dabble in spiritualism, too?”

  Schmidt hunched his head between his shoulders; Abel Ruan flung his arms out, turned away.

  Schmidt said, “You speak in ignorance, General. Here at the Institute we feel that any means to establish understanding between the two camps of the world deserves all attention. If men understood each other freely, there would be no tension, no hostility, no war…Telepathy would be the ideal means to this end.”

  Abel Ruan’s glasses glinted as he tilted his narrow head back. He met Zoltan Vec’s unsmiling gaze. “Doctor Schmidt, as you see, is an idealist. He believes in the essential decency of men.”

  Zoltan Vec nodded shortly. He noticed a chair, pulled it to him, seated himself, one booted leg advanced farther than the other. “Just how far have you progressed with these telepathy experiments?”

  Abel Ruan leaned back against the wall, tapped his teeth with a pencil. “We’ve made a number of empirical discoveries, a few theoretical essays.”

  “Such as?”

  “We find that birds are more sensitive, on the whole, than men. Possibly you have watched a flock of blackbirds, for instance, flying and suddenly all veering together as if guided by one brain.”

  Zoltan Vec nodded. “I was born on a farm in the Kerkhaz Valley.”

  “We’ve been using the idea of wavelength, loosely of course, since we are not aware of the fundamental nature of telepathy. Imagine telepathy as high frequency radiation, imagine the human brain as a transmitter and receiver only of low frequency, but a bird’s brain as a transmitter and receiver of the correct wavelength. When we couple a bird’s brain to the human, the bird’s brain acts as an amplifier.”

  Director Schmidt coughed. “It’s getting late, General. Perhaps you’d care to visit our observatory?”

  Zoltan Vec made a brusque sign without turning his head. “Suppose there were two men, both with brains joined to the brains of birds?”

  Abel Ruan smiled slightly. “We have made that experiment. The results are limited only to the conceptual faculties of the birds. Hunger, fear, curiosity, colors, numbers up to five—they may be sent into the bird’s brain, transmitted, received and given to another human brain. Any ideas more complex than these are impossible to telepathize.”

  “Can these bird brains be housed in portable units?” inquired Zoltan Vec. “Is it necessary that the men involved be incapacitated?”

  Abel Ruan said without interest, “Only a small nerve-graft is necessary—leading from the requisite chord to a—let us say—‘wall-plug’ on the neck. Then the portable unit containing the bird’s brain may be connected and disconnected at will…However, General,” he added, glasses glinting sardonically, “for any military communication, I’m sure your radio equipment will provide better service.”

  Zoltan Vec rose to his feet. “Methods of war,” he observed drily, “change as well as the frontiers of science. Any future victory will be won in the first hour of war, by that power which can concentrate sufficient offensive potential above the opponent’s territory. If one combatant can devastate the other at will, while sealing off its own frontiers, the other power must instantly surrender.”

  “‘Your money or your life’,” suggested Abel Ruan.

  Zoltan Vec paced several steps back and forth unheeding. “All our plans are directed toward winning this quick war. Then we shall reorganize the world on the Moltroy pattern, with order, discipline, purpose, replacing aimlessness—” the sweep of his hand included the environs of the Institute “—dilettantism, irresponsibility.”

  Director Schmidt had sagged. His mouth moved feebly. “But war? Why need there be war? At the Grenaden Conference Moltroy and the World Federation agreed…” His voice trailed off.

  Zoltan Vec stared briefly at him, then past. Abel Ruan showed his teeth in the smile that seemed more a nervous mannerism than a reflection of inner enjoyment, and which made him appear like a dentist, or an accountant eager to ingratiate himself.

  Director Schmidt was gazing into a far nothingness. “Even so,” he muttered, “Suare will naturally retain its neutrality. That is traditional.” He seemed to take comfort in the thought, and his voice became stronger. “Suare need not be involved, regardless of outcome.”

  Zoltan Vec finished writing in his notebook. “Continue with your work,” he said to Abel Ruan. “You may find yourself richly rewarded.” He turned to Director Schmidt. “Come, let us continue.”

  III

  Head bent, Edvard Schmidt came walking, from his little cottage on the first slope of Mt. Hellenbraun, up the gravelled road to the gate.

  The guard saluted.

  “Good morning, Leon,” said Schmidt in a flat automatic tone.

  “Good morning, Director.” Leon held up a newspaper. “Seen the news? Lesmond and Couch already have fled to Varly. The People’s Rights party is in power, and they’ve jailed Renner.”

  Schmidt nodded dismally. “I just turned off the radio…A terrible thing, Leon. I don’t know—I hope it won’t affect us here.”

  Leon pointed high at a flight of three airplanes. “Look, they don’t waste any time, the insolent scoundrels! Those are Blatchats—Moltroy fighters!”

  Schmidt turned away. “I suppose we’ll see a lot more of them. It’s the new way of invasion, Leon—no longer armies storming the borders, but cunning minds festering like tumors in the body of the government.”

  The telephone in the guard’s cabin rang. Leon said, “Hello.” Then: “It’s for you, Director.”

  “Hello,” said Schmidt. “Yes…Ah, what?…Effective immediately, you say?…I see…”

  He returned outside. “Orders from the new Minister of the Interior. No one is to be permitted to leave the Institute, under any circumstances, until the new director arrives.”

  “New director?” gasped Leon. “But…?”

  Schmidt flung out his long arms. “That’s the way it goes, and there are your orders; no one is to leave.”

  Baze Roseau, the new director, was a small fat man, with a reedy voice, small wide-set eyes which constantly seemed to be peering sidewise. Immediately on his arrival he summoned the personnel of the Institute to a conference, and without ceremony made a speech. He proved to be a quick incisive speaker.

  “Friends, as you all know, the party of progress has assumed control in Suare, and our nation becomes a new dynamic entity. Now we must join the tide to the future, set our faces to the light, march against the forces of reaction and oppression. To this end the People’s Rights central committee has formulated a new program for the Institute, one which will advance the cause. I’m sure you’ve all been dissatisfied with the previous aimless, irresolute policy; n
o longer will this be true. A goal will be set for us all to work toward, united and enthusiastic in our common devotion to the new life. I have here a number of changes which must be effected immediately; I will read them to you now, openly and for us all to know. That is the new policy at the Institute, no more interdepartmental jealousy and back-biting. We will all be working for our common goal, and if there are any shirkers or malcontents, I will be pleased to learn of them…Here then is our new program.”

  He unfolded a crackling sheet of paper. “First, Edvard Schmidt will be Assistant Director in Charge of Administration, while Abel Ruan is promoted to Assistant Director in Charge of Research. Everyone on the research staff will work under Ruan’s orders, including a number of exchange students arriving today from Moltroy. Now that is all for the present. Let me say however, that while liberal bonuses will be awarded for good work and cooperation, there is no place in the new life for sluggards or reactionaries. We must all throw ourselves, heart and soul, into the struggle, all working for the inevitable victory over our enemies. That is all, thank you.”

  As the personnel filed silently, glumly, from the room, Baze Roseau signalled to Abel Ruan. When they were alone, the new director motioned Ruan to a seat, while he walked back and forth, rubbing his hands briskly.

  “Ah, Ruan—it would hardly be fair to keep from you the fact that your work has made a great impression in higher quarters; you are well on the way to honor and wealth.”

  “Indeed?” Abel Ruan scratched the sparse hair at the back of his head.

  Baze Roseau nodded. “It has been decided that your work on telepathy will be continued here at the Institute, to be concentrated on intensively. All else will be suspended.”

  “Hm.” Abel Ruan removed his glasses, polished them musingly. “I see…It has been decided then, that there is a military application to my work?”

  Roseau smiled craftily. “Between you and me, it might be said to be true. I understand General Zoltan Vec was impressed by the possibilities, and in this time of militancy anything which will contribute to our eventual victory over the imperialists must be utilized.”

  “Ah!” Abel Ruan nodded sagely. “And what, precisely, is desired?”

  “Think of it this way,” said Baze Roseau. “In the eventual war, the first hour is crucial. Our bombers and missile-carriers, our fighter swarm will take off. They will attack at several points, and will be met by the defenses of the enemy, and his offensive force will take to the air. There will be a monstrous air battle over the ocean, and the side that breaks through will win the war. Now the weakest spot in our attack, in any attack, is coordination—since both sides automatically jam the other’s radio channels. If we could maintain absolute control over all elements of our attacking force, the organization thus achieved would give us a decisive superiority, and we would have won the war. Telepathy functioning to perfection would completely solve the problem.”

  “Quite true, quite true,” said Abel Ruan. “But—as I pointed out to General Vec—the medium through which we must act, the brain of a bird, permits no precision to the messages.”

  “The objection has been noted in higher places, and the suggestion made that intensive breeding and selection be tried to improve the type of brains involved.”

  Abel Ruan grinned, drawing aside his lips. “Something of the sort has occurred to me; however it is a long-range program.”

  “How long?” inquired Baze Roseau, eyes sharp and cold.

  “Impossible to say. Several years, at least.”

  Baze Roseau nodded, began to pace once more. “That, of course, is unavoidable. Well, we will advance along those lines, as rapidly as possible. You will be in charge of the entire program. No effort, no expense is too great. There will of course be a substantial increase in your salary. If you succeed in developing a workable system, you will receive a pension of ten thousand marks a year, elite status and the Order of Butin.”

  “But,” Ruan put forward, “suppose the idea is unsound? Suppose I fail?”

  Baze Roseau swelled his plump chest. “The Movement recognizes no such word…Let us not talk of unpleasantness…”

  “Persuasive arguments,” was Abel Ruan’s comment. “On both hands. Well, we shall see; we shall see.”

  On the afternoon of the same day, Edvard Schmidt, knocking at the door and entering, found Abel Ruan seated in a chair leaning back on two legs with his own feet on a desk, arms clasped behind his head.

  Schmidt quietly took a seat, leaned forward, sat bewildered when Ruan held up a hand for silence, picked up his portable phonograph, carried it to the wall, turned it on rather loudly.

  Grinning his bare-toothed smile, Ruan returned to his seat. “That’s where Roseau has installed his eavesdrop button. If he’s listening he will be treated to the Moltroy anthem played con brio, with encores till you leave.”

  Schmidt shook his head. “I had no idea…”

  “It pays to be suspicious,” said Ruan, “even when you are working your soul out for them.”

  Schmidt leaned forward. “That’s what I came to see you about. Abel, you’ll succeed in this project!” And he eyed Ruan accusingly.

  “Of course. That is my business, to make progress. They are paying me well, they offer me honors—”

  “But heavens, man!” and Schmidt’s old eyes glittered. “Do you mean to help those beasts? Do you understand what you are doing?”

  Abel Ruan shrugged. “The sooner war comes, the sooner it will be over.”

  “But if you succeed—the slave state will be the model for the world.”

  Abel Ruan lit a cigarette. “Who knows? Moltroy may not win the war. After all, scientists work for the World Federation, too.”

  “But none of them are perfecting an instrument as decisive as the one you prepare…I ask you, Abel, do you intend to complete the project?”

  Abel Ruan’s eyes glinted warily as he watched the older man. “That is my job.”

  Schmidt pulled out a gun, levelled it, fired. Ruan ducked, toppled from his chair, reached under the desk, pulled at the old man’s legs. Schmidt fell, and the gun clattered to the floor out of his reach. Ruan picked it up, returned to his seat.

  Schmidt rose stiffly. “Well, why don’t you call the guards?”

  Ruan shook his head. “Edvard—you misjudge me. First and foremost, my guiding principle is—trust no one! Except now, perhaps you—for you have expressed your sentiments forcefully. I would like to point out that no man is indispensable; that if you shot me, there are a thousand who could fill my shoes with equal effect. That is one reason I’m pursuing these experiments. Here I control the situation. I am on top of it, I guide it. If I refused to cooperate—one of the other thousand would be in my shoes, and we would not be a whit the better off.”

  Schmidt had been absorbing as much of this as possible. “Abel, you cleverly avoid stating anything specific. Do I understand that you—you have some sort of plan?”

  “Opportunities suggest themselves to a thoughtful man,” said Ruan. “But not—” he held up the gun “—of this nature.”

  Schmidt stood stiffly. “I did what my conscience told me…I’m not sure that I’m glad I failed, because you promise nothing definite—”

  “The universe, down to the most negligible electron, is indefinite, my dear director,” was Ruan’s cheerful statement. “Absolute decision is out of my hands. And never forget my motto is—trust no one.”

  “But in the meantime,” remarked Schmidt glumly, “you perfect the weapon Moltroy will use to win the world.”

  IV

  General Zoltan Vec unsnapped the clip at his neck, removed the high-domed helmet.

  “Well?” demanded Marshal Koltig, chief of staff of the Moltroy armed forces.

  “Perfect,” said Zoltan Vec. “When I shut my eyes, I see the same scene the pilot sees. With my eyes open, I can transmit orders which need no acknowledgment, because I feel the impact in the pilot’s mind.”

  “Excellent.” Marsh
al Koltig turned to Abel Ruan, who stood quietly in the background. “How many of these have you prepared?”

  “About four hundred and fifty, sir,” replied Abel Ruan after a moment’s hesitation. He appeared thin, tired, his color had become pasty.

  Marshal Koltig pondered. “Four hundred and fifty…Hm. We are ordering two hundred flight-groups into action. That means four hundred helmets—one for each flight captain and one for his intermedium here at headquarters. That leaves fifty spares…Is it not possible to obtain another fifty?”

  Abel Ruan shook his head. “Not for several months, sir. These brains are exceedingly delicate things, and for every brain large and complex enough to serve, we must discard ten thousand faulty ones.”

  The Marshal reflected further. “Well, we will make do. If necessary we can double up in non-critical areas, or use radio.” He turned back to Zoltan Vec. “General, you will conduct exhaustive tests and report to me.” Zoltan Vec bowed his head.

  Abel Ruan cleared his throat. “I have some ideas for an improved model of the helmet. If I work hard, I possibly can complete a few in time for—an emergency. Perhaps enough for the top officers, or at least you and General Vec.”

  The Marshal gestured cordially. “By all means. Spare no expense; you have done handsomely so far, Abel Ruan, and will be well rewarded.”

  The scientist bowed, withdrew.

  The morning of I Day. On a hundred fields bombers sat like great drone bees, gorged not with pollen but with nucleonic explosives, poison-foams and mists, violent bacterial cultures, propaganda leaflets prepared by renegade Federates. Fighter-jets and rockets ranged in long glinting rows, fueled, dangerous, willing.

  Within the barracks, pilots sat smoking, talking or silent, as their temperaments prompted, while in the command centers flight captains donned their new high-domed helmets. And at the staff headquarters deeper within Moltroy, two hundred intermediums donned helmets each containing a brain habituated to the brain in a corresponding flight captain’s helmet.