The Potter of Firsk and Other Stories (10 page)

“It’s saying, ‘Go away, go away’.”

Magnus Ridolph said, “You are unable to help me, then?”

The creature redoubled its angry demonstrations, suddenly lurched back, flung up its head, spewed a gout of vile-smelling fluid. Magnus Ridolph jumped nimbly back, but a few drops struck his tunic, inundated him with a choking fetor.

Boek watched with an undisguised smile as Magnus Ridolph scrubbed at the spot with his handkerchief. “It’ll wear off after a while.”

“Umph,” said Magnus Ridolph.

They returned through the dust to the car.

“I’ll take you to the Export Warehouse,” said Boek. “That’s about the center of town, and we can go on foot from there. You can see more on foot.”

To either side of the street now, the shacks and small shops, built of slate and split dried seaweed stalks, pressed ever closer, and life clotted more thickly about them. Human children, grimed and ragged, played in the street with near-featureless Capella-anthropoids, young, immature Carnegie Twelve Armadillos, Martian frog-children.

Hundreds of small Portmar multipedes darted underfoot like lizards, most of whom would be killed by their parents for reasons never quite understood by men. Yellowbirds—ostrichlike bipeds with soft yellow scales—strode quietly through the crowd, heads raised high, eyes rolled up. Like a parade of monsters in a dipsomaniac’s delirium passed the population of Sclerotto City.

Stalls at either side of the street displayed simple goods—baskets, pans, a thousand utensils whose use only the seller and the buyer knew. Other shops sold what loosely might be termed food—fruits and canned goods for men, hard brown capsules for the Yellowbirds, squirming red worm-things for the Aldebaranese. And Magnus Ridolph noticed here and there little knots of tourists, for the most part natives of Earth, peering, talking, laughing, pointing.

Boek pulled his car up to a long corrugated-metal shed, and again they stepped out into the dust.

The warehouse was full of a hushed murmur. Scores of tourists walked about, buying trinkets—carved rock, elaborately patterned fabrics, nacreous jewels that were secreted in the bellies of the Kmaush, perfumes pressed from seaweed, statuettes, tiny aquaria in sealed globes, with a microscopic lens through which could be seen weirdly beautiful seascapes peopled with infusoria, tiny sponges, corals, darting squids, infinitesimal fish. Behind loomed bales of the planet’s staple exports: seaweed resin, split dried seaweed for surfacing veneer, sacks of rare metallic salts.

“There’s the warehouse manager,” said Boek, nodding toward an antlike creature standing waist high on six legs. It had doglike eyes, a pelt of satiny gray fur, a relatively short thick thorax. “Do you want to meet him? He can talk, understand you. Mind like an adding-machine.”

Interpreting Magnus Ridolph’s silence as assent, Boek threaded the aisles to the Tau Gemini insect-thing.

“I can’t introduce you,” said Boek jovially—Magnus Ridolph noticed that he assumed affability like a cloak in the presence of the town’s citizens—“because the manager here has no name.”

“On my planet,” said the insect in a droning accentless voice, “we are marked by chords, as you call them. Mine is—” a quick series of tones came from the two flaps near the base of his head.

“This is Magnus Ridolph, representing the Mission Headquarters.”

“I’m interested,” said Magnus Ridolph, “in identifying the criminal known as McInch. Can you help me?”

“I’m sorry,” came the ant-creature’s even vibrations. “I have heard the name. I am aware of his thefts. I do not know who he is.”

Magnus Ridolph bowed.

“I’ll take you to the fire-chief,” said Boek.

The fire-chief was a tall blue-eyed Negro with dull bronze hair, wearing only a pair of knee-length scarlet trousers. Boek and Magnus Ridolph found him at an observation tower near the central square, with one foot on the bottom rung of the ladder. He nodded to Boek.

“Joe, a friend of mine from home,” said Boek. “Mr. Magnus Ridolph, Mr. Joe Bertrand, our fire-chief.”

The fire-chief darted a swift surprised glance at Magnus Ridolph, at Boek, and back again. “How do you do,” he said as they shook hands. “I think I’ve heard your name somewhere before.”

“It’s an uncommon name,” said Magnus Ridolph, “but I presume there are other Ridolphs in the Commonwealth.”

Boek looked from one to the other, shifted his weight on his short legs, sighed, looked off down the street.

“Not many Magnus Ridolphs, though,” said the fire-chief.

“Very few,” agreed the white-bearded sage.

“I suppose you’re after McInch.”

“I am. Can you help me?”

“I know nothing about him. I don’t want to. It’s healthier.”

Magnus Ridolph nodded. “
I
see. Thank you, in any event.”

Boek jerked his plump thumb at a tall building built of woven seaweed panels between bleached bone-white poles. “That’s the city hall,” he said. “The Mayor lives upstairs, where he can,
ha
,
ha
, guard the city funds.”

“Just what are his other duties?” Magnus Ridolph asked, gently beating the dust from the front of his tunic.

“He meets all the tourist ships, walks around town wearing a red fez. He’s the local magistrate, and then he’s in charge of town funds and pays the municipal salaries. Personally, I don’t think he’s got the brains to be McInch.”

“I’d like to see the safe that McInch is so free with,” said Magnus Ridolph.

They pushed through a flimsy creaking door, into a long low room. The seaweed paneling of the walls was old, worn, shot with cracks, and each crack admitted twin rays of light, these painting twin red and blue images on the floor. The safe bulked against the opposite side of the room, an antique steel box with button combination.

A long yellow-scaled neck pushed down through a hole in the ceiling, and a flat head topped by a ridiculous little red fez turned a purple eye at them. A sleek yellow body followed the head, landing on thin flexible legs.

“Hello there, Mayor,” said Boek heartily. “A man from Mission Headquarters—Mr. Ridolph, our Mayor, Juju Jeejee.”

“Pleased-to-meet-you,” said the Mayor shrilly. “Would you like my autograph?”

“Certainly,” said Magnus Ridolph. “I’d be delighted.”

The Mayor ducked his head between his legs, plucked a card from a body pouch. The characters were unintelligible to Magnus Ridolph.

“That is my name in the script of my native planet. The translation is roughly ‘Enchanting Vibration’.”

“Thank you,” said Magnus Ridolph. “I’ll treasure this memento of Sclerotto. By the way, I’m here to apprehend the creature known as McInch—” the Mayor gave a sharp squawk, darted its head back and forth “—and thought that perhaps you might be able to assist me.”

The Mayor wove his neck in a series of S’s. “No, no, no,” he piped, “I know nothing, I am the Mayor.”

Boek glanced at Magnus Ridolph, who nodded.

“Well, we’ll be leaving, Mayor,” said Boek. “I wanted my friend to meet you.”

“Delighted,” rasped the Mayor, and tensing his legs, hopped up through the hole in the ceiling.

A hundred yards through the red and blue shimmer brought them to the jail, a long barracks built of slate. The cells faced directly out on the street. Visible were the disconsolate head of a Yellowbird, the blank face of a Capella anthropoid, a man who stared as Boek and Magnus Ridolph passed, and spit speculatively into the dust.

“And what are their sins?” inquired Magnus Ridolph.

“The man stole some roofing; the Yellowbird assaulted a young Portmar centipede; the Capellan, I don’t know. The chief of police—a Sirius Fifth—has his office behind.”

The office was a tentlike lean-to, the chief of police an enormous torpedo-shaped amphibian. His flippers ended in long maniples, his skin was black and shiny, he smelled sickly-sweet. A ring of beady deep-sunk eyes completely circled his head.

When Boek and Magnus Ridolph—both perspiring, dirty and tired—appeared around the corner of the lean-to, he rose quivering and swaying on spring foot-flippers, drew one of his flippers across his barrel. Where the fingers had passed words sprang out on the black hide in startling white.

“Good-day, Mr. Boek. Good-day, sir.”

“Hello, Fritz,” said Boek. “Just passing through, showing my friend the town.”

The amphibian lay back in his trough-shaped seat. The flippers passed along his barrel, the first message having faded.

“Anything I can show you?”

“I’m trying to find McInch,” said Magnus Ridolph. “Can you help me?”

The flippers hesitated, fluttered across the barrel. “I know nothing. I will assist you in every official manner.”

Magnus Ridolph nodded, turned slowly away. “I’ll let you know when and if I discover anything.”

“Now,” said Boek, coughing, clearing his throat of dust, “there’s the post-office.” He turned, looked back toward the Export Warehouse. “I think it’s about as short to walk as it is to return for the car.”

Magnus Ridolph glanced up at the two suns in the sea-green sky. “Does it cool off during the evening?”

“To some extent,” said Boek, stepping forward doggedly. “We want to be back at the Mission by sunset. I never feel quite easy out after dark. Especially now, with McInch.” He pursed his plump mouth.

Their path took them between the rickety shacks toward the waterfront. Life swarmed everywhere, life of the most disparate sorts. Through the windows and doors they saw quiet unnamed bulks, other shapes, agile and quick. Eyes of a dozen different kinds watched them, sounds never heard on Earth met their ears, smells never intended for earthly nostrils drifted across the roadway.

The scene around them gradually assumed a redder tone, as the blue sun sank lower toward the horizon. As they reached the post-office—a slate shed adjacent to the spaceport—it dropped below the horizon and vanished.

If Magnus Ridolph expected interest and enthusiasm for his mission from the Postmaster, a Portmar centipede, he was disappointed. They found him sorting mail—standing on half his legs, rhythmically pigeon-holing letters with those remaining.

He paused in his work while Boek introduced Magnus Ridolph, stared at the detective with the impersonal uninterested gaze to which Magnus Ridolph was becoming accustomed, and disavowed any knowledge of McInch.

Magnus Ridolph glanced at Boek, said, “Excuse me, Mr. Boek, I’d like to ask the Postmaster one or two confidential questions.”

“Certainly,” sniffed Boek, and moved away.

Magnus Ridolph presently rejoined him.

“I wanted to find out what type of mail the civic officers received, and also any other circumstances he might have noted which would help me.”

“And did he help you?”

“Very much,” said Magnus Ridolph.

The two men skirted the waterfront, where giant seaweed barges loomed dark at their moorings, then back toward the Export Warehouse. The red sun was close to the horizon when they finally reached the car, and blood-colored light gave the town an aspect of fabled antiquity, softening the clutter and squalor. Silently they drove up the bumpy road to the Mission at the top of the ridge.

As they alighted, Magnus Ridolph turned to Boek.

“Have you a microscope conveniently at hand?”

“Three,” said Boek shortly. “Visual, electronic, gamma-beta.”

“I’d like to use one of them tonight,” said Magnus Ridolph.

“As you wish.”

“Tomorrow I believe that, one way or another, we shall clear up the affair.”

Boek stared at him curiously. “You think you know who McInch is?”

“It was immediately obvious,” said Magnus Ridolph, “in the light of my special knowledge.”

Boek clamped his jaw. “I’d bolt my door tonight, if I were you. Whoever he is—he’s a murderer.”

Magnus Ridolph nodded. “I believe you’re right.”

Sclerotto night was long at this season—fourteen hours—and Magnus Ridolph arose, bathed, dressed himself in a clean white and blue tunic, all before dawn.

From the windows of the reception hall he stood watching for the sunrise, the sky as yet holding only a blue electric glare, when he heard a tread behind him.

Turning he found Klemmer Boek watching him, the round head twisted to one side, the blue eyes full of brittle speculation.

“Sleep well?” was Boek’s greeting.

“Indeed I did,” said Magnus Ridolph. “I hope you slept as soundly.”

Boek grunted. “Ready for breakfast?”

“Quite ready,” said Magnus Ridolph. They passed into the dining room, and Boek ordered breakfast from his lone servant.

They ate silently, the blue pre-dawn light growing ever stronger. Only after coffee did Magnus Ridolph lean back, expansively light a small cigar.

“Still think you can settle the case today?” asked Boek.

“Yes,” said Magnus Ridolph. “I think it’s very possible.”

“Er—you know who McInch is?”

“Beyond a doubt.”

“And you can prove it?”

Magnus Ridolph let a plume of cigar smoke curl up through his fingers into the first watery ray from the sapphire-blue sun. “After a fashion—yes.”