The Potter of Firsk and Other Stories

by Jack Vance

  “In that case, you definitely presume the absence of an independent after-life!” said Rakowsky.

  Don grinned. “I knew I wouldn’t get any applause.”

  Cogswell said sourly, “Your ‘theory’ is on its face illogical.”

  Don’s grin became a little pained. “This ‘theory’ explains spiritualistic phenomena without recourse to personal immortality. Does that make it illogical? Are we trying to delude ourselves? Or are we trying to get at the truth, no matter how cheerless it may turn out to be?”

  “We want the truth, of course,” said Rakowsky. “But so far—”

  Cogswell interrupted. “I maintain that the simplest explanation is the best—the usually accepted theory—”

  Head said impatiently, “Let’s hear Mr. Berwick out.”

  They all looked at Don, faintly hostile.

  Don laughed. “Any theory that doesn’t go to prove after-life runs into trouble. Let’s be frank with ourselves. Most of us can’t swallow religious dogma—but we still want to believe in after-life. That’s why we’re mixed up in this kind of research. We’re trying to prove something to ourselves—not disprove it. It’s pretty hard to be dispassionate. But if we’re not—if we don’t lean over backwards, we’re not scientists. We’re mystics.”

  “Go ahead,” growled Rakowsky. “Let’s hear some details to this theory of yours.”

  “Hypothesis is probably a safer word. It makes a minimum number of assumptions, and it applies to supernatural phenomena the same rationale that we apply to the traditional sciences. We need no occult propositions about the ‘purpose of life’, ‘the pre-determined direction of evolution’, ‘the Ultimate Unknowables’. We can approach the problem with dignity, as self-determined men trying to systematize a mass of data, rather than humble seekers after an off-hand revelation or ‘divulgences’.”

  “A fine speech,” grumbled Cogswell. “Go on.”

  “Just one minute,” interposed Godfrey Head. “I want to say that I heartily agree with Mr. Berwick in one respect. I’ve read some of the psychic research literature and a lot of it rather turned my stomach. Other-world beings are always making statements like ‘this much I have been instructed to tell you—’, ‘you are not ready to learn more—’, ‘you are hardly at the threshold of knowledge’. I’ve always wondered, if they had any knowledge to impart, why they didn’t impart it.”

  “Betty White described what she called ‘the unobstructed universe’,” said Rakowsky.

  Head nodded. “So she did—with ostentatiously difficult terminology and ideas which she assured Mr. White were very, very difficult—and which Mr. White dutifully found difficult. They’re really not so difficult. When Mr. White asks after matters which Betty thinks he’s not entitled to ask about, he’s reprimanded and told to keep to the subject…Excuse me for side-tracking. But it’s a characteristic of spiritualistic writing which has always exasperated me.”

  Don laughed. “Me too. Well, to proceed. What does the collective unconscious contain? First, the actual contemporary scene: our cities, roads, automobiles, airplanes, the current celebrities. Second, imaginary places or localities distant in time and place which we’re all more or less acquainted with: Heaven, Hell, Fairyland, The Land of Oz, the Greece and Rome of antiquity, Tahiti, Paris, Moscow, the North Pole. Third, famous men, or rather, stereotypes of famous men: George Washington as painted by Gilbert Stuart; Abraham Lincoln as on the dollar bill—or is it the five-dollar bill? Fourth, the concepts, conventions, symbols of the racial unconscious—as distinct from the collective unconscious. The American unconscious is naturally a part of the greater unconscious of the race. In turn it’s built up of smaller blocks. The California unconscious is different from the Nevada unconscious. The San Francisco unconscious is different from the Los Angeles unconscious. The unconscious of the six of us is different from that of six people next door. So—we have this fabric. From a distance it appears uniform—the collective unconscious of Genus Homo. As we approach, it becomes variegated, till at its limit we find the unconscious mind of a single man. When a single man becomes aware of a person, the person takes his place as an image in the man’s unconscious. The greater the number of men that know this person, the stronger their feelings toward him, the more intense becomes the image.

  “Imaginary ideas become a part of the collective unconscious—such as ghosts, fairies. The images intensify with belief, until finally, under certain conditions, even people who don’t believe can see these imaginary concepts.

  “When a person dies, he figures strongly in the minds of the people who have loved him. By virtue of their devotion and faith the unconscious image gathers strength; he materializes, sends messages, and so forth. But we’ve got to remember that the spirit image is only a function of the living minds who knew the dead person. It talks and acts as the persons still alive think it should talk.”

  “But look here,” cried Cogswell, “there are a dozen authenticated cases of spirits giving information outside the knowledge of any living person!”

  Don nodded. “I’m hypothesizing that the spirits—call them spirits for lack of a better name—that they act by the personalities the living persons endow them with. Let’s assume that John Smith is bad, in a hundred detestable secret ways. No one knows this. To his family and friends he poses as a man of benevolence and generosity. He dies; he’s mourned by all. Statues are erected to him; his spirit sends back messages. But do these manifestations show John Smith’s covert badness? No—they only corroborate John Smith’s overt goodness.”

  Cogswell shuddered. “You picture a situation as detestable and incredible as the character of John Smith.”

  Godfrey Head said with a grin, “Dr. Cogswell is equating ‘detestable’ and ‘incredible’.”

  Cogswell started to sputter; Don held up his hand for peace. “We’ve got to be sure in our own minds why we’re engaged in psychic research. If it’s only to reinforce our hopes we’d better get out, go join a church. If we’re after the truth—”

  Cogswell was angry, his round face was red. “Your theory is interesting, Berwick—but it’s too pat. It’s unconvincing.”

  Rakowsky laughed. “Take it easy, Doctor. Berwick’s idea isn’t unconvincing—what he says makes sense—but it just isn’t in line with facts.”

  “‘Facts’?” asked Don. “What facts?”

  Cogswell pulled at his lips. “Betty White has given us a very circumstantial picture of the after-life. The details she presented are—incontrovertible.”

  “Well,” said Don, “I don’t want to argue the matter exhaustively…However, one point in regard to the ‘Unobstructed Universe’—Betty White’s spirit spoke to White; but she spoke as the idealized version of Betty White. She described the collective unconscious only as White and his friend Darby conceived it.”

  “I must concede,” said Rakowsky, “that there are other equally substantial accounts of the after-life—and that Berwick’s theory has ingenious elements to it…But like all the other theories—it gives no foothold for verification.”

  “I’m not so sure.” Don rose to his feet. “Suppose a person wanted to explore this collective unconscious, this after-life; how would he go about it?”

  “The classic response is: die,” said Rakowsky.

  “After he’s dead—then what?”

  “Then he’s there.”

  “True. But exactly as the people still alive remember him. He suffers whatever weakness and hardships they endow him with.”

  “I see what you’re getting at,” said Head. “For a spirit—call it a spirit—to function at the optimum in this presumable after-life, he has to be remembered as a person with optimum qualities.”

  “Right! Strong, intelligent, resourceful!”

  Jean grinned. “He’s got to be curious—so that he’ll want to investigate. Also he must be endowed with the will to communicate back.”

  Dr. Cogswell struck his fist into his palm. “What about Houdini? He had all thes
e qualities. He was well-known. But he never showed himself.”

  “It’s a good point,” said Don. “But I think it can be circumvented. How was Houdini known? What was his reputation?”

  “He was known as an intelligent resourceful man, certainly.”

  “Yes,” said Don. “But he was known as a profound skeptic—a man who claimed that spiritualism was 100 percent falsity.”

  “Well, yes.”

  “A few men and women expected to hear from him. The public was beset by Houdini’s own skepticism. Houdini to this day roams the after-life as the eternal embodiment of skepticism, believing nothing, not even in his own existence.”

  Cogswell gave Don a look of grudging admiration. “You talked yourself out of that one.”

  Don said, “I’m not just giving glib answers. I’m trying to show that my theory can meet objections.”

  “It hasn’t met all of them. Just what, concisely, do you plan to do?”

  “I want to explore the after-life. That means, I want to explore the collective unconscious. No doubt dangers exist: bogey-men, dragons, demons, television horrors, all the stereotypes of terror. They may even be dangerous; I don’t want to go as a weakling.”

  “Don!” said Jean softly.

  “‘Go’? What do you mean ‘go’?” asked Rakowsky. “In the classic sense?”

  “Good heavens no!” said Don. “I’m not planning to kill myself. I’m talking about heavy unconsciousness, drugged or otherwise. Of course there are methods to kill a body—to make it legally, finally dead—and then revive it. Dr. Cogswell knows more about the subject than I do.”

  Dr. Cogswell spoke with care. “These processes exist—but they’re purely experimental. We’ve only killed and revived dogs so far; no human volunteers have been available.”

  Don said, “Naturally we’ll try the least drastic methods first…Incidentally, would anyone else care to make the journey? I’m only putting myself forward from a sense of responsibility.”

  “The honor’s all yours,” said Godfrey Head. “At least, so far as I’m concerned.”

  “What’s the best way for attaining a deep stupor, the metabolism just barely ticking, the brain inert?” Don asked Dr. Cogswell.

  “There’s a new anaesthetic—Calabrisol—which meets your requirements.”

  “Do you have any objection to using it?”

  “No. None whatever. When do you wish to—go? Is ‘go’ the right word?”

  “It serves the purpose. Do you think we could be ready as soon as next Saturday?”

  “I’ll be in surgery Saturday,” said Dr. Cogswell. “It would have to be Sunday.”

  “All right, Sunday, then.”

  Kelso broke in. “I don’t understand this. When you awake from the anaesthetic, do you expect to remember your experiences?”

  “No,” said Don. “Whatever is discovered must be reported through the controls of three or four of our most dependable mediums—Ivalee, Myron Hogart, Mr. Bose, Mrs. Kerr. If I am able to leave my corporeal body and wander around the after-world, perhaps Kochamba or Molly Toogood or Lew Wetzel will notice. I hope so anyway.”

  “It sounds interesting,” said Kelso. “I suppose there’s no way you could take a camera along?” he added hopefully.

  “You think of a way. I’ll take it.”

  Kelso shook his head helplessly. Dr. Cogswell said, “We’ll have to make certain preparations…The hospital would be most convenient. But there I’d fear for my professional reputation…”

  “Eventually the Foundation will own the proper equipment,” said Don. “But in the meantime if we can perform the experiment here, so much the better.”

  “It’ll cost money,” said Dr. Cogswell.

  “No trouble there,” said Don. “Whatever it costs, we’re good for it.”

  XIV

  At eleven o’clock Sunday morning all was in readiness. In three of the upstairs bedrooms Ivalee Trembath, Myron Hogart and Mrs. Kerr sat relaxed, eyes closed, trying to make contact with their controls. With them were Godfrey Head, Rakowsky and Tom Ward. On a couch in the living room Don Berwick lay, with Jean sitting close beside him. Contacts were fixed to his chest, wrists and neck; his respiration, heart action and blood pressure were registered on nearby dials. Dr. Cogswell had arranged his equipment around the room: various drugs, hypodermics, an oxygen mask, oxygen tank and the flask of anaesthetic. He had hired a professional anaesthetist for the occasion, a mystified young woman who was unable to understand why a healthy man wanted to be rendered unconscious on a fine summer morning.

  “Ready?”

  “Ready.”

  Vivian Hallsey, at the control table, flashed signals to the upstairs rooms. Dr. Cogswell administered the hypodermic; the anaesthetist applied the mask.

  In five minutes Don lay inert. Dr. Cogswell sat beside him, watching the dials which registered his vital processes. Respiration was shallow and slow; pulse and blood pressure were low.

  Vivian Hallsey grimaced toward Jean, motioned above-stairs, shook her head. Ivalee Trembath had failed to contact the dependable Molly Toogood; Mrs. Kerr’s Marie Kozard was off somewhere on business of her own. Only Myron Hogart had entered a trance. He lay almost as quiet as Don, lips twitching, fingers jerking.

  Godfrey Head spoke quietly, gently. “Is Lew Wetzel there, Myron? Can we talk to Lew Wetzel?”

  From Myron Hogart’s lips came a cackle of harsh gibberish. Then a deep easy voice laughed. “Hear that? That was an Injun talking.”

  “Hello, Lew.”

  “Hello, mister. You understand that Injun talk?”

  “No, I’m afraid not, Lew. How’s everything up above?”

  “’Bout as always. Nice day today.”

  “Do you see my friend Don Berwick there?”

  “Don Berwick. Scout, is he? Or trapper?”

  “He’s from my own time. He’s a scientist trying to learn things.”

  “Don’t see him around.”

  “I guess he hasn’t passed over to you yet. He’s unconscious now, and will be up there temporarily. Look for him.”

  “Can’t be bothered with them off-again gone agains. Why don’t he handle himself more carefully?”

  “He wanted to see you. He wants to shake hands.”

  “He’s welcome, he’s welcome.”

  “Look around for him, will you, Lew?”

  “Can’t worry too much about him, mister,” said Lew fretfully. “If he hasn’t passed over, he’ll be hard to find. It sucks all a man’s vitality out of him living down there with you folks…Yeah, there’s someone here. He’s pale and wan—too weak to talk.”

  “Ask him what his name is.”

  “He says his name is Donald Berman.”

  “Donald Berman, eh? Are you sure?”

  “Course I’m sure, you scalawag.”

  “It wouldn’t be Donald Berwick, would it?”

  “I’ve heard enough of you, mister, and your doubtin’ ways. I ain’t talkin’ no more to you.”

  Godfrey Head pleaded and cajoled, but Lew Wetzel remained obstinately silent. Myron Hogart twitched, whimpered, gave a jerk, opened his eyes. “Did you talk to Lew?”

  Godfrey nodded. “He came; we talked a bit.”

  “Learn what you wanted?”

  “He was a little touchy today.”

  Myron sighed. “He gets that way sometimes.”

  In the other rooms Ivalee Trembath and Mrs. Kerr still sat. Mrs. Kerr sang hymns, but Ivalee was quiet. Their controls refused to appear.

  Two hours later Don returned to consciousness, assisted by a few whiffs of oxygen. He lay looking up at the ceiling, deep in thought, then turned his head, searched the faces standing over him.

  “Do you remember anything?” asked Jean.

  Don frowned. “It’s like coming out of a dream. There were shapes, lights. There was a face: a man with pale blue eyes. He seemed to tower over me, as if I were a child. He wore fringed buckskin…Lew Wetzel?”

  Jean nodded. “He�
��s the only one who came through.”

  “What did he say?”

  “You tell us what you saw first.”

  “That’s all. Except I seemed to fly…It’s completely vague. Like last week’s dream.”

  XV

  “Well, we can’t expect dramatic successes every time,” said Don. “Today was just a teaser…Confound that Lew Wetzel! Donald Berman!”

  The group sat at the back of the old Marsile house in Orange City. Charcoal glowed in the barbecue pit; steaks marinated in oil, garlic, herbs and wine.

  Kelso asked Dr. Cogswell, “Do you think some other anaesthetic might work better? One of the hypnotics?”

  Dr. Cogswell shook his head. “I’m sure I don’t know. We’re just prodding around in the dark.”

  “How about opium?”

  “Opium? You mean—opium?”

  “Yes. According to the lore, it turns the mind out to canter through flowering fields. Or perhaps mescaline?”

  Dr. Cogswell shook his head doubtfully. “Opium and mescaline induce hallucinations, true, but the mechanism is purely cerebral.”

  Don sighed fretfully. “Doctor, how much effort would be involved in setting up a simulated-death tank at 26 Madrone?”

  “Considerable effort, a great deal of money.”

  Jean turned away quickly, went to fork the steaks out over the coals.

  Dr. Cogswell’s eyes took on a thoughtful glint. “Our present equipment is obsolete. We’ve a dozen ideas which we’d like to introduce into a new system. However, funds are short, and my colleagues would be delighted if I reported that funds were forthcoming.”

  “Okay,” said Don. “You can take over the old dining room and kitchen—make any alterations you like.”

  Kelso asked, “You’re seriously planning to try this artificial death, Don?”

  “I don’t plan to check out the new equipment, no. I want to see it tested backwards and forwards. If they kill and revive a dozen dogs, a dozen primates, including a few orang-utans, I might take a chance.”