The Potter of Firsk and Other Stories

by Jack Vance

  Jean said in a sharp voice, “Why don’t you press the doorbell, Hugh? Why do you look through the window?”

  “You know why,” said Hugh. “I came to see with my own eyes what goes on at this house.”

  “See anything worthwhile?” Don asked.

  “I saw evil men and women leaving this place.”

  Don said in a voice that was light and dry and edged, like sandpaper, “I hear you’ve been including us in your invective.”

  “I’ve been preaching the Holy Lord God’s word as I understand it.”

  Don studied him a moment, his mouth set in a disdainful smile. “You may be a power-mad hypocrite, Hugh—or you may just be a plain fool. One thing you’re certainly not—that’s a Christian!”

  Hugh stared back, his eyes like kettles of hot blue glass. He said in a heavy voice, “I’m a Christian minister. I walk four-square down the Holy Path. And no sneering atheist like yourself can turn me aside.”

  Don shrugged, turned to go inside.

  “Wait!” commanded Hugh hoarsely.

  “What for?”

  “You spoke ill of me just now. You reviled me. You denied my Christianity—”

  “Christ taught kindness, the brotherhood of man. You’re no Christian. You’re a demagogue. A rabble-rouser. A hate merchant.”

  Now Hugh grinned, a painful uncomfortable grimace that showed long yellow teeth. “You’ll be sorry,” he said simply. Then he turned on his heel, his feet crunched down the gravel path.

  Don looked back at Jean. “Let’s go home.”

  XI

  Instead of driving home Don and Jean drove out on the desert, passing Indian Hill. Jean looked up toward the invisible hulk of the Freelock house. Don slowed the car. “Want to go up and hunt ghosts?” he asked, wanly facetious.

  “No thanks,” said Jean decidedly.

  “Scared?”

  “No, not any more. I’m not afraid of the ghosts: it’s the atmosphere which hangs around the house…” She hugged his arm. “I can’t feel unkindly about the place—because that’s where I decided to marry you.”

  Don laughed mournfully. “You probably thought you were picking a nice normal junior executive.”

  “No,” said Jean. “I knew you were nice and—well, sufficiently normal—but I knew you’d never be the sort of man to plump for security and routine.”

  “Didn’t you give up hope when the exaggerated report of my death came through from Korea?”

  “In a way…But somehow I couldn’t believe it. I had a feeling you’d turn up.”

  “Like a bad penny…That was a tough three years. I think I was half out of my mind the whole time…Mmf!”

  “What’s the trouble?”

  “I’ve forgotten all the Russian and Chinese I learned so diligently. I doubt if I could ask for a drink of water now…”

  They turned off on a side-road, drove two miles into the dark desert, parked, got out of the car.

  The night was clear and quiet; constellations rode across the sky, the air smelled fresh of sage and creosote bush.

  “We should be in bed,” said Don.

  “I know.” Jean leaned back against him. “But I wouldn’t be able to sleep…Not after tonight.” She looked up into the sky. “Look, Don: all the stars, and the galaxies beyond—and beyond and beyond. Could the after-life world be as enormous as ours?”

  Don shook his head. “We’ll have to ask the question at another mass seance.”

  “And where is it, Don? In our minds? All around us? Off in another dimension?”

  “All we can do is guess. I don’t believe it’s inside our minds, or in another set of dimensions. At least no dimensions with any formal or mathematical relationship to our own.”

  “‘If it exists—it exists somewhere!’—to quote that eminent student of the occult, Professor Donald Berwick.” Smiling, she looked up over her shoulder into his face.

  “Right! Where that somewhere is, is the problem. Perhaps we’ll have to go there to find out.”

  She turned around, faced him. “Now look here, Mr. Berwick—I don’t want you toying with such ideas…Such as dying in order to make a personal investigation.”

  Don laughed. “No. I don’t want to die for a while.” He kissed her. “It’s too much fun being alive…But maybe it might be possible to tiptoe along the borderline—during a period of extreme stupor, or unconsciousness. Even sleep.”

  “Donald!” exclaimed Jean. “Sleep! Dreams! Do you think—?”

  Don laughed. “It would be amusing, wouldn’t it? If every night everybody made little excursions into the after-world?…It’s not impossible, not unthinkable. Our dream-world certainly is a world of the mind. It’s palpable, sensible—we feel, hear, see, taste. But dream-worlds—” he thought, laughed. “I was about to point out that dream-worlds are a function of individual experience, and couldn’t possibly be the after-life…Then I remembered the results of Question One.”

  Jean took his shoulders in her hands, shook him. “If the after-world is the dream-world, I don’t want you going. Because some terrible things happen.”

  “Sure! But we always wake up safe and sound, don’t we? But I’m not convinced of this dream-world—after-world equation. The dream-world shifts so rapidly.”

  “How do we know that the after-world doesn’t behave the same way?”

  “We have the answers to Question One. And other reports, in the books of Eddy, Stewart Edward White, Frank Mason. They—or I should say, the spirits they contacted—describe the after-world as Utopia—more beautiful, more glorious, more happy than our own.”

  Jean nodded. “That accords, more or less, with what we heard tonight.”

  “More or less. There are differences. Peculiar differences.” He took Jean’s hand, they walked slowly along the pale ribbon of road. “These men are honest and intelligent, and they’ve tried to be objective. Stewart Edward White’s Betty, Mason’s Dr. MacDonald, Eddy’s—I’ve forgotten his name—Reverend something-or-other; they give pictures of the after-world which are similar but not exact. Their hows and whys differ considerably.”

  “I suppose we have to make allowances for the medium, the control and even the predisposition of the author.”

  Don agreed. “Another point: consider the curious way in which the after-life seems to keep pace with contemporary sciences; never ahead, sometimes behind. For instance, Dr. MacDonald, a spirit, is asked to treat the medium Bib Tucker. He prescribes herbs which are unknown at the time, but used sixty years before. Still, in 1920 when Mason asks him about the nature of electricity, Dr. MacDonald gives a contemporary answer—describes it as a phase of atomic energy. It’s inconsistent and unconvincing—if we assume Dr. MacDonald to be a true spirit.”

  They stopped. Don picked up a stone, tossed it out into the dark. “If we think of Dr. MacDonald as a function of the author Mr. Mason, the medium Bib Tucker, and the other members of the particular group—he becomes more credible.”

  “You mean that this Dr. MacDonald is an illusion—that Molly Toogood and all the others are illusions?”

  “No. I think that they’re real enough. Actually, I’m only speculating. But perhaps they’ve been created, brought into being…This may be the way ghosts, apparitions, spooks in general appear. Enough people believe in them—and suddenly they’re real.”

  Jean maintained a dubious silence. Don slipped his arm around her waist. “Don’t like it, eh?” They started back toward the car.

  “No,” said Jean. “There’s so much that your theory doesn’t explain. The acts of free-will—like my father coming to us, telling us to continue drilling.”

  Don nodded. “True. But on the other hand, consider young Myron Hogart’s control, Lew Wetzel. So far as we know, he never existed outside of a novel. Think of ghosts—the grotesque ones: the chain-rattlers, the women in shrouds, the luminous monks, carrying their heads in their arms. Isn’t it reasonable to suppose that these are the concreted product of minds? It may be possible.”
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  “Whatever they are,” said Jean, “I don’t really want to see any…I must admit, that in spite of my brave words, two-thirds of the time I’m scared as blazes…I suppose we should be starting back.”

  “Cold?”

  “A little…It’s not the air…Sometimes the work we’re doing frightens me. It’s so remote from normal life. And death has such a close connection with it. I don’t like death, Don.”

  Don kissed her. “I don’t either…Let’s go home.”

  XII

  Don, Jean, Dr. Cogswell, Kelso, Godfrey Head and Howard Rakowsky, met at 26 Madrone Place at eight o’clock the next evening. Cogswell introduced Rakowsky, a short dark man of forty-five, resilient and active as a ping-pong ball, as a fellow member of the Society for Psychic Research from San Francisco. Don inquired as to Rakowsky’s personal theories regarding spiritualistic phenomena, as he did of most people interested in the subject.

  Rakowsky shrugged. “I’ve seen so much I’m confused. Ninety-five percent is fake. But that hard five percent—” he shook his head. “I suppose I take it at its face value: communication from the souls of the dead.”

  Don nodded. “I’m a hard-headed Scot. I was skeptical until I had an experience that practically rattled my teeth. Our teeth, I should say. Jean and I saw a beautiful fiery ghost one night. I was startled enough to do some reading. I found lots of honest accounts—but none of them conducted under what a scientist would call test conditions. Our Exercise One the other night, so far as I know, is the first of its kind.”

  “You were confounded lucky,” said Rakowsky. “Good mediums are gold.”

  “Not to mention cooperative controls,” said Cogswell.

  “We did pretty well,” said Don, “even though we still proved nothing, in a rigorous sense.”

  Kelso blinked. “Surely you’ve proved some sort of post-death existence!”

  “I’m afraid not,” said Don. “In fact I’d like to discourage that particular emphasis. The average dabbler in parapsychology, when he strikes a bit of evidence, thinks he’s proved that death isn’t final; that he’s demonstrated life beyond the grave. Being human, he’s overjoyed. He doesn’t worry about verification, or if he does, he interprets it to corroborate what he wants to believe.”

  Rakowsky had raised his black eyebrows. “You sound as if you yourself have doubts.”

  “I don’t think it’s proved,” said Don. “Not until there are no more alternative, equally consistent, theories.”

  “I’ve heard lots of ’em,” said Rakowsky. “By and large it’s simpler to postulate an after-life. Especially,” he glanced impishly around the room, “since that’s what we all want to believe. Including Mr. Berwick.”

  Don nodded. “Including me.” He turned to the tape recorders. “I’ll give you another theory as soon as we finish tonight’s work.” He looked at his list. “Question Three: ‘What does our world look like?’”

  Berwick turned on recorder No. 1. The voice of the observer asked the question; the rich heavy voice of Kochamba responded, as different from Henry Bose’s dry husky tones as honey from vinegar. “We have left your world behind,” said Kochamba. “We rejoice up here at the feet of the disciples.” He said no more.

  “Now,” said Don, “Sir Gervase Desmond, on No. 2.”

  “Your world?” drawled Sir Gervase in contempt and astonishment. “Well, I must say I haven’t turned back a second glance. I assume it’s still there—but I assure you, old fellow, I haven’t a farthing’s worth of interest. ‘What do you look like?’ There you have me. I’ve never thought to notice…Ugly chap, now that I look. Face like a sick lizard.”

  Molly, speaking through Ivalee Trembath, was kindlier. “Why, just as it’s always looked. And Ivalee herself—why, I hear her pretty voice; it comes to me along the vibrations, as they say, and the first thing I know I’m talking with strangers.”

  Such was the pattern for Question 3.

  Don paraphrased Question 4: “‘Is ex-President Franklin D. Roosevelt there? Can you see him, feel him? What does he think of the present administration?’” He looked around the faces. “The reason for the question is obvious. We want to find if a number of the controls can contact the same man simultaneously—and if they can, if they bring back identical messages from him.”

  “Still proves nothing, one way or the other,” Godfrey Head pointed out. “Nothing is proven until we can rule out telepathy. Which is hard to do, if not impossible.”

  Cogswell laughed. “If we ever turn up evidence that satisfies you—then we’ll know we’re on solid ground.”

  Head said doggedly, “We can’t pretend to be scientists if we lapse into mysticism.”

  “I quite agree,” said Cogswell ponderously.

  “No argument on that point,” said Don. “Well—let’s listen to the answer…”

  He played the tapes. The responses were confused. Sir Gervase Desmond damned Alec Dillon’s eyes for his insolence; other controls mumbled and muttered; Ivalee Trembath’s equable Molly said that she saw him once in a while, off in the distance, wearing a black cloak, usually sitting at a desk or in a chair.

  “Is he still crippled?” the observer asked.

  “He’s a great man,” said Molly. “Full of power.”

  None of the controls reported Roosevelt’s opinion of the current administration, nor showed any willingness to inquire.

  The remainder of the tapes were played back, the data organized. Sometime after midnight the job was finished. The table was littered with beer-cans, ash-trays were full.

  Don wearily took up the compilation, leaned back in his chair. “In outline here’s what we’ve got. ‘Is Hitler in the after-world?’ Yes. According to two reports he appears as a shape of great solidity. Apparently he’s being punished. Kochamba says he’s in good old-fashioned Hell. Wetzel says he wanders the outer regions like a lost soul.”

  “Contradiction,” muttered Head.

  “Unless part of the time he’s in Hell, and part of the time he wanders,” Rakowsky pointed out. “Not impossible.”

  Don continued. “Question Six: religious leaders. Jesus is seen sometimes as a light of great radiance, sometimes as a man of great stature. He’s wise, kindly, a great teacher. Mohammed, Buddha are also there, and seen in much the same manner. Gandhi the same. Now for Stalin the arch-atheist. There’s two versions of Stalin apparently. One benign—the other evil. The benign shape, according to that little fragmentary sentence of Pearl’s, is fading, dwindling; the evil shape is growing more solid. He seems to be enduring punishment, like Hitler.” Don looked around the room. “I consider this significant. In fact, with the answers to the next question, it corroborates a suspicion that’s been growing on me…”

  Rakowsky, Cogswell, Head and Kelso looked speculatively at him; Jean smiled faintly into her beer.

  “Suspicion?”

  “I have a theory regarding the after-life which I’ll presently expound.”

  “Theories are cheap,” said Rakowsky.

  “There may be a critical experiment to test this one. Well—let’s go on. The Egyptian scribe. No one knows him. No one can produce him—if we discount Lula’s vague and rather facetious remarks.

  “Eighth question. It arouses amusement in those who gave an answer. ‘Of course we’re persons! Just like you!’

  “Ninth question: ‘How do you know when the medium is trying to make contact?’ It’s just like someone calling their name, so say Dr. Gordon Hazelwood, Molly and Pearl. Sir Gervase just knows.”

  “Superior son-of-a-gun.”

  “Tenth question—they need nothing, want nothing.” Don was scanning the compilation rapidly.

  “Eleven. Now they’re starting to fold up. We rely on Molly and Wetzel mostly. They say that they rest, sleep; that they have houses. Molly lives in an old ranch-house, Wetzel lives in a cabin; sometimes he camps in the wilderness. It seems that they live much as they lived in life on Earth. Eating isn’t important—not a routine affair—but they
seem to eat on occasion. Bodily processes they aren’t clear on…Pearl giggles. Molly is shocked and offended.

  “Twelve. No agreement. Apparently there’s both darkness and light. Molly says it’s always day. Wetzel says there’s day and night. Marie Kozard says the time’s always more or less evening.

  “Thirteen: ‘Does investigation annoy you? Is it wrong for you to answer our questions? Do you want to help us learn more about the after-life?’ No clear response. Molly says it’s okay; she’ll help. Wetzel doesn’t want to be bothered; Kochamba thinks it’s bad.”

  “Too bad Joanne Howe isn’t a better medium,” Cogswell grumbled. “We could learn a lot from Hazelwood. He’s the most intelligent one of the lot.”

  Don threw the compilations down on the table. “That’s it.”

  “By and large,” said Cogswell heavily, “an impressive mass of evidence. We’ve had excellent luck.”

  Rakowsky grunted. “It tells us nothing new…There’s neither striking divergence nor agreement.”

  “Well,” said Don, “I’m newer to this game than any of you—maybe a disadvantage, maybe not. It seems to me that we turned up all kinds of significant material—assuming, of course, that our mediums are honest.”

  Cogswell eyed him patiently, Head shrugged. Rakowsky said, “What’s this theory you were talking about?”

  Don settled himself in his chair, looked from face to face. “You’ve all read Jung, naturally?”

  “Naturally,” said Dr. Cogswell.

  “You’re all acquainted with the idea of the collective unconscious.”

  “Yes.”

  “Jung uses the term to describe the reservoir of human symbols and ideas. I want to expand this phrase to take in all of human thought, memories, ideals, and emotions.”

  “That’s your privilege,” said Rakowsky. “It’s your theory.”

  “I suggest,” said Don, “that the so-called after-life is identical to the collective unconscious of the human race.”

  XIII

  The faces wore different expressions. Godfrey Head pulled his chin thoughtfully; Rakowsky blinked half-angrily; Cogswell’s heavy mouth was twisted into a skeptical S; Kelso appeared saturnine and disappointed.