The Potter of Firsk and Other Stories (13 page)

“Good evening, Chook,” said Magnus Ridolph, handing his servant a parcel. “A bottle of wine to aid your digestion.”

“
R-r-r-r
.”

Magnus Ridolph glanced into the kitchen. “I see that you have dinner prepared. Well, let us eat our stew, and then the evening will be free for intellectual exercises.”

The blurred green twilight drifted down from the badlands, and, dinner over, Magnus Ridolph stepped outside into the evening quiet. Under different circumstances he would have enjoyed the vista—the olive-dark
massif
to his left, the fields, black in the greenish light, the blue-green sky with a few lavender and orange clouds over the ocean. A faint yelp came to his ears—far, far distant, mournful, lonely as a ghost-cry. Then there came a quick far chorus: “
Ow-ow-ow-ow
.”

Magnus Ridolph entered the cottage, emerged with a pair of infra-red-sensitive binoculars. Down from the mountains came the Bounders, leaping pell-mell high in the air, hopping like monstrous fleas, and the suggestion of humanity in their motion sent a chill along Magnus Ridolph’s usually imperturbable spine. “
Ow-ow-ow-ow
,” came the far chorus, as the Bounders flung themselves upon Magnus Ridolph’s ticholama.

Magnus Ridolph nodded grimly. “Tomorrow night, my destructive guests, you shall sing a different song.”

The construction crew arrived from Garswan the next morning in a great copter which carried below a bulldozer. They came while Magnus Ridolph was still at breakfast. Swallowing the last of his stew, he took them out to the devastated tract, showed them what he wished done. Late afternoon found the project complete, the last of the equipment installed and Magnus Ridolph engaged in testing the machinery.

A heavy concrete pill-box now rose on the border of the blighted acreage, a windowless building reinforced with steel and set on a heavy foundation. A hundred yards from the pill-box a ten-foot cylindrical block stood anchored deep into the ground. An endless herculoy cable ran from the pill-box, around a steel-collared groove in the block, back into the pill-box, where it passed around the drum of an electric winch, then out again to the block.

Magnus Ridolph glanced around the little room with satisfaction. There had been no time for attention to detail, but the winch ran smoothly, pulled the cable easily out, around the anchor block, back again. Inside the door rose a stack of resilian plates, each an inch thick, each trailing three feet of herculoy chain.

Magnus Ridolph took a last look about the pill-box, then strolled sedately to his copter, flew back to the cottage. Chook was standing in the doorway.

“Chook,” said Magnus Ridolph, “do you consider yourself brave, resourceful, resolute?”

Chook’s bottle-green eyes moved in two different directions. “I am cook.”

“
Mmph
,” said Magnus Ridolph. “Of course. But tonight I wish to observe the Howling Bounders at close quarters, and desiring some assistance, I have selected you to accompany me.”

Chook’s eyes turned even farther out of focus. “Chook busy tonight.”

“What is the nature of your task?” inquired Magnus Ridolph frostily.

“Chook write letter.”

Magnus Ridolph turned away impatiently. During the course of the meal he once more suggested that Chook join him, but Chook remained obdurate. And so about an hour before sunset Magnus Ridolph shouldered a light knapsack and set out on foot for his pill-box.

The shadow of the foremost spur had engulfed the little concrete dome when he finally arrived. Without delay he ducked into the dark interior, dropped the knapsack to the floor.

He tested the door. It slid easily up and down, locked securely. He moved the rheostat controlling the winch. The drum turned, the cable slid out to the anchor block, around, returned. Magnus Ridolph now took one of his resilian plates, shackled the tail-chain to the cable, set it down directly before the doorway, lowered the door to all but a slit, seated himself, lit a cigarette, waited.

Shade crept across the dark purple field, the blue-green sky shaded through a series of deepening sub-marine colors. There was silence, an utter hush.

From the mountains came a yelp, far but very keen. It echoed down the rock-canyons. As if it were a signal, a series of other yells followed, a few louder and closer, but for the most part nearly lost out in the wasteland.

“
Ow-ow-ow-ow
.”

This time the cries were louder, mournful, close at hand, and Magnus Ridolph, peering through the peep-hole in the door, saw the tumble of figures come storming down the hill, black against the sky. He dipped a brush into a pan of liquid nearby, slid the door up a trifle, reached out, swabbed the resilian plate, slid the door shut. Rising, he put his eye to the peep-hole.

The howling sounded overhead now, to all sides, full of throbbing new overtones, and Magnus Ridolph caught the flicker of dark figures close at hand.

A thud on top of the pill-box, a yell from directly overhead, and Magnus Ridolph clenched his thin old hands.

Bumps sounded beside the pill-box; the cable twitched. The howling grew louder, higher in pitch, the roof resounded to a series of thuds. The cable gave a furious jerk, swung back and forth.

Magnus Ridolph smiled grimly to himself. Outside now he heard a hoarse yammering, then angry panting, the jingle of furiously shaken chain. And he glimpsed a form longer than a man, with long lank arms and legs, a narrow head, flinging itself savagely back and forth from the snare.

Magnus Ridolph started the winch, pulled the plate and its captive approximately ten feet out toward the anchor block, shackled another plate to the cable, daubed it with hesso-penthol, raised the door a trifle, shoved the plate outside. It was snatched from his hands. Magnus Ridolph slammed the door down, rose to the peep-hole. Another dark form danced, bounded back and forth across the cable, which, taking up the slack in the chain, threw the creature headlong to the ground with every bound.

The yells outside almost deafened Magnus Ridolph, and the pill-box appeared to be encircled. He prepared another plate, raised the door a slit, slid the plate under. Again it was snatched from his hands, but this time black fingers thrust into the slit, heaved with a bone-crushing strength.

But Magnus Ridolph had foreseen the contingency, had a steel bar locking down the door. The fingers strained again. Magnus Ridolph took his heat-pencil, turned it on the fingers. The steel changed color, glowed, the fingers gave off a nauseating stench, suddenly were snatched back. Magnus Ridolph shackled another plate to the cable.

Two hours passed. Every plate he shoved under the door was viciously yanked out of his hands. Sometimes fingers would seek the slit, to be repelled by the heat-pencil, until the room was dense with stifling organic smoke. Shackle the plate, daub it, slide it out, slam the door, run the cable further out on the winch, look through the peep-hole. The winch creaked, the pill-box vibrated to the frenzied tugging from without. He sent out his last plate, peered through the peep-hole. The cable was lined out to the anchor block and back with frantic tireless forms, and overhead others pelted the pill-box.

Magnus Ridolph composed himself against the concrete wall, found a flask in his knapsack and took a long drink. A groaning from the winch disturbed him. He arose painfully, old joints stiff, peered through the peep-hole.

A form of concerted action was in progress: the cable was lined solidly on both sides with black shapes. They bent, rose, and the drum of the winch creaked, squawked. Magnus Ridolph released the winch brake, jerked the cable forward and back several times, and the line of black figures swayed willy-nilly back and forth. Suddenly, like a flight of black ghosts, they left the cable, bounded toward the pill-box.

Clang! Against the steel door—the jar of a great weight. Clang! The door ground back against its socket. Magnus Ridolph rubbed his beard. The steel presumably would hold, and likewise the sill, bolted deep into the concrete. But, of course, no construction was invulnerable. Thud! Fine dust sprang away from the wall. Magnus Ridolph jumped to the peep-hole, in time to glimpse a hurtling black shape, directed seemingly at his head. He ducked. THUD! Magnus Ridolph anxiously played a torch around the interior of the pill-box. Should there be a crack—

He returned to the peep-hole. Suppose the Bounders brought a length of steel beam, and used it for a battering-ram? Probably their powers of organization were unequal to the task. Once more he seated himself on the floor, addressed himself to his flask. Presently he fell into a doze.

He awoke to find the air hot, heavy, pungent. Red light flickered in through the peep-hole, an ominous crackling sound came to his ears. A moment he sat thoughtfully, while his lungs demanded oxygen from the vitiated atmosphere. He rose, looked forth into a red and white pyre of blazing ticholama. He sat down in the center of the room, clear of the already warm concrete.

“Is it my end, then, to be fired like a piece of crockery in a kiln?” he asked himself. “No,” came the answer, “I shall undoubtedly suffocate first. But,” he mused, “on second thought—”

He took his water bottle from the knapsack, brought forth the power pack, ran leads into the water. He dialed up the power, and bubbles of hydrogen and oxygen vibrated to the surface. He pressed his face to the bottle, breathed the synthetic atmosphere…

Blantham’s copter dropped to Magnus Ridolph’s landing and Blantham stepped out, spruce in dark gray and red. Magnus Ridolph appeared in the doorway, nodded.

“Good morning, good morning.” Blantham stepped forward jauntily. “I dropped by to tell you that the harvesters have nearly finished on my property and that they’ll be ready for you at the first of the week.”

“Excellent,” said Magnus Ridolph.

“A pity those Bounders have done so much damage,” sighed Blantham, looking off in the direction of the devastated area. “Something will have to be done to abate that nuisance.”

Magnus Ridolph nodded in agreement.

Blantham inspected Magnus Ridolph. “You’re looking rather tired. I hope the climate agrees with you?”

“Oh entirely. I’ve been keeping rather irregular hours.”

“I see. What are those two domes out in the field? Did you have them built?”

Magnus Ridolph waved a modest hand. “Observation posts, I suppose you’d call them. The first was too limited, and rather vulnerable, in several respects, so I installed the second larger unit.”

“I see,” said Blantham. “Well, I’ll be on my way. Those Bounders seem to have gotten pretty well into the plantation. Do you still have hope of a sixty-nine thousand munit profit on the property?”

Magnus Ridolph permitted a smile to form behind his crisp white beard. “A great deal more, I hope. My total profit on our transaction should come to well over two hundred thousand munits.”

Blantham froze, his wide-set eyes blue, glassy. “Two hundred thousand munits? Are you—May I ask exactly how you arrive at that figure?”

“Of course,” said Magnus Ridolph affably. “First of course is the sale of my harvest. Two thousand acres of good ticholama, which should yield forty-six thousand munits. Second, two hundred forty tons—estimated—of raw resilian, at a quarter munit a pound, or five hundred munits a ton. Subtract freight charges, and my profit here should be well over a hundred thousand munits—say one hundred and ten thousand—”

“But,” stammered Blantham, his jowls red, “where did you get the resilian?”

Magnus Ridolph clasped his hands behind his body, looked across the field. “I trapped a number of the Bounders.”

“But how? Why?”

“From their habits and activities, as well as their diet, I deduced that the Bounders were either resilian or some closely allied substance. A test proved them to be resilian. In the last two weeks, I’ve trapped twenty-four hundred, more or less.”

“And how did you do that?”

“They are curious and aggressive creatures,” said Magnus Ridolph, and explained the mechanism of his trap.

“How did you kill them? They’re like iron.”

“Not during the day time. They dislike the light, curl up in tight balls, and a sharp blow with a machete severs the prime chord of their nervous system.”

Blantham bit his lips, chewed at his mustache. “That’s still only a hundred fifty or sixty thousand. How do you get two hundred thousand out of that?”

“Well,” said Magnus Ridolph, “I’ll admit the rest is pure speculation, and for that reason I named a conservative figure. I’ll collect a hundred thirty thousand munits from you, which will return my original investment, and I should be able to sell this excellent plantation for a hundred seventy or eighty thousand munits. My trapping expenses have been twelve thousand munits so far. You can see that I’ll come out rather well.”

Blantham angrily turned away. Magnus Ridolph held out a hand. “What’s your hurry? Can you stay to lunch? I admit the fare is modest, only stew, but I’d enjoy your company.”

Blantham stalked away. A moment later his copter was out of sight in the green-blue sky. Magnus Ridolph returned inside. Chook raised his head. “Eat lunch.”

“As you wish.” Magnus Ridolph seated himself. “What’s this? Where’s our stew?”

“Chook tired of stew,” said his cook. “We eat chili con carne now.”

“There’s much wealth to be found here on Moritaba,” said the purser wistfully. “There’s wonderful leathers, there’s rare hardwoods—and have you seen the coral? It’s purple-red and it glows with the fires of the damned! But—” he jerked his head toward the port “—it’s too tough. Nobody cares for anything but telex—and that’s what they never find. Old Kanditter, the King of Thieves, is too smart for ’em.”

Magnus Ridolph was reading about Moritaba in
Guide to the Planets
:

He glanced down a list of native diseases, turned the page.

Magnus Ridolph yawned, tucked the book in his pocket. He rose to his feet, sauntered to the port, looked out across Moritaba. Gollabolla, chief city of the planet, huddled between a mountain and a swamp. There were a Commonwealth Control office, a Uni-Culture Mission, a general store, a school, a number of dwellings, all built of corrugated metal on piles of native wood and connected by rickety catwalks. Magnus Ridolph found the view picturesque in the abstract, oppressive in the immediate.

A voice at his elbow said, “Quarantine’s lifted, sir. You may go ashore.”

“Thank you,” said Magnus Ridolph and turned toward the door. Ahead of him stood a short barrel-chested man of pugnacious aspect. He darted Magnus Ridolph a bright suspicious glance, then hunched a step closer to the door. The heavy jaw, the small fire-black eyes, the ruff of black hair were suggestive of the simian.

“If I were you, Mr. Mellish,” said Magnus Ridolph affably, “I would not take any luggage ashore until I found adequate thief-proof lodgings.”

Ellis B. Mellish gave his briefcase a quick jerk. “No thief will get anything from me, I’ll guarantee you.”

Magnus Ridolph pursed his lips reflectively. “I suppose your familiarity with the tricks is an advantage.”

Mellish turned his back. There was a coolness between the two, stemming from the fact that Magnus Ridolph had sold Mellish half of a telex lode on the planet Ophir, whereupon Mellish had mined not only his own property but Magnus Ridolph’s as well. A bitter scene had ensued in Mellish’s office, with an exchange of threats and recriminations—the whole situation aggravated by the fact that the field was exhausted. Coincidentally both found themselves on the first packet for Moritaba, the only other known source of telex crystal.

Now the port opened and the pungent odor of Moritaba rolled into their faces—a smell of dank soil, exultant plant-life, organic decay. They descended the ladder, blinking in the hot yellow light of Pi Aquarii.

Four natives squatted on the ground nearby—slender wiry creatures, brownish-purple, more manlike than not. These were the Men-men—the hybrid race ruled by Kanditter, the King of Thieves. The ship’s purser, standing at the foot of the gangplank, turned on them a sharp glance.

“Be careful of those boys,” he told Magnus Ridolph and Mellish. “They’ll take your eyeteeth if you open your mouth in front of them.”

The four rose to their feet, came closer with long sliding steps.

“If I had my way,” said the purser, “I’d run ’em off with a club. But—orders say ‘treat ’em nice’.” He noticed Mellish’s camera. “I wouldn’t take that camera with me, sir. They’ll make off with it sure as blazes.”

Mellish thrust his chin forward. “If they get this camera, they’ll deserve it.”

“They’ll get it,” said the purser.

Mellish turned his head, gave the purser a challenging look. “If anyone or anything gets this camera away from me I’ll give you another just like it.”

The purser shrugged. A buzzing came from the sky. “Look,” he said. “There’s the copter from Challa.”

It was the oddest contraption Magnus Ridolph had ever seen. An enormous hemisphere of wire mesh made a dome over the whole vehicle, an umbrella of close-mesh wire under which the supporting blades swung.

“That’s just how fast these johnnies are,” said the purser in grudging admiration. “That net is charged—high voltage—as soon as the copter lands. If it wasn’t for that there wouldn’t be a piece left of it an hour after it touched ground.”

Mellish laughed shortly. “This is quite a place. I’d like to be in charge here for a couple of months.” He glanced to where Magnus Ridolph stood, quietly watching the copter. “How about you, Ridolph? Think you’re going to leave with your shirt?” He laughed.

“I am usually able to adapt myself to circumstances,” said Magnus Ridolph, observing Mellish with detached curiosity. “I hope your camera was not expensive?”

“What do you mean?” Mellish reached for the case. The lid hung loosely; the case was empty. He glanced at the purser, who had tactfully turned his back, then around the field. The four natives sat in a line about thirty feet distant, watching the three with alert amber eyes.

“Which of them got it?” demanded Mellish, now suffused with a red flush.

“Easy, Mr. Mellish,” said the purser, “if you hope to do business with the king.”

Mellish whirled on Magnus Ridolph. “Did
you
see it? Which one—”

Magnus Ridolph permitted a faint smile to pull at his beard. He stepped forward, handed Mellish his camera. “I was merely testing your vigilance, Mr. Mellish. I’m afraid you are poorly equipped for conditions on Moritaba.”

Mellish glared a moment, then grinned wolfishly. “Are you a gambling man, Ridolph?”

Magnus Ridolph shook his head. “I occasionally take calculated risks—but gamble? No, never.”

Mellish said slowly, “I’ll put you this proposition. Now—you’re going to Challa?”

Magnus Ridolph nodded. “As you know. I have business with the king.”

Mellish grinned his wide yellow-toothed smile. “Let us each take a number of small articles—watch, camera, micromac, pocket screen, energizer, shaver, cigarette case, cleanorator, a micro library. Then we shall see who is the more vigilant, the more alert.” He raised his bushy black eyebrows.

“And the stakes?” inquired Magnus Ridolph coolly.

“Oh—” Mellish made an impatient gesture.

“You owe me a hundred thousand munits for the telex you filched from my property,” said Magnus Ridolph. “I’ll take double or nothing.”

Mellish blinked. “In effect,” he said, “I’d be placing two hundred thousand munits against nothing—since I don’t recognize the debt as collectable. But I’ll bet you fifty thousand munits cash to cash. If you have that much.”

Magnus Ridolph did not actually sneer but the angle of his fine white eyebrows, the tilt of his thin distinguished nose, conveyed an equivalent impression. “I believe I can meet the figure you mention.”

“Write me a check,” said Mellish. “I’ll write you one. The purser will hold the stakes.”

“As you wish,” said Magnus Ridolph.

The copter took Mellish and Magnus Ridolph to Challa, the seat of Kanditter, the King of Thieves. First they crossed an arm of the old sea-bottom, an unimaginable tangle of orange, purple and green foliage, netted by stagnant pools and occasional pad-covered sloughs. Then they rose over an army of white cliffs, flew low over a smooth plateau where herds of buffalo-like creatures on six splayed legs cropped mustard-colored shrubs. Down into a valley dark with jungle, toward a grove of tall trees looming above them like plumes of smoke. A clearing opened below, the copter sat down and they were in Challa.

Magnus Ridolph and Mellish stepped out of the copter, looked out through the cage of charged wire. A group of dark, big-eyed natives stood at a respectful distance, shuffling their feet in loose leather sandals with pointed toes. On all sides houses sat off the ground on stilts, houses built of a blue white-veined wood, thatched with slabs of gray pith. At the end of a wide avenue stood a larger taller building with wings extending under the trees.

Three Earthmen stood watching the arrival of the copter with listless curiosity. One of these, a sallow thin man with a large beak of a nose and bulging brown eyes, suddenly stiffened in unbelief. He darted forward. “Mr. Mellish! What on earth? I’m glad to see you!”

“I’m sure, Tomko, I’m sure,” said Mellish. “How’s everything going?”

Tomko glanced at Magnus Ridolph, then back to Mellish. “Well—nothing definite yet, sir. Old Kanditter—that’s the king—won’t make any concessions whatever.”

“We’ll see about that,” said Mellish. He turned, raised his voice to the copter pilot. “Let us out of this cage.”

The pilot said, “When I give you the word, sir, you can open that door—right there.” He walked around the copter. “Now.” Mellish and Magnus Ridolph passed outside, each carrying a pair of magnesium cases.

“Can you tell me,” inquired Magnus Ridolph, “where lodging may be found?”

Tomko said doubtfully, “There’s usually a few empty houses around. We’ve been living in one of the wings of the king’s palace. If you introduce yourself he’ll probably invite you to do likewise.”

“Thank you,” said Magnus Ridolph. “I’ll go pay my respects immediately.”

A whistle came to his ears. Turning, he saw the copter pilot beckoning to him through the wire. He went as close to the charged mesh as he dared.

“I just want to warn you,” said the pilot. “Watch out for the king. He’s the worst of the lot. That’s why he’s king. Talk about stealing—
whoo!
” Solemnly shaking his head, he turned back to his copter.

“Thank you,” said Magnus Ridolph. He felt a vibration through his wrist. He turned, said to the nearby native, “Your knife makes no impression in the alloy of the case, my friend. You would do better with a heat-needle.”

The native slid quietly away. Magnus Ridolph set out for the king’s palace. It was a pleasant scene, he thought, reminiscent of ancient Polynesia. The village seemed clean and orderly. Small shops appeared at intervals along the avenue—booths displaying yellow fruits, shiny green tubes, rows of dead shrimp-like insects, jars of rust-colored powder. The proprietors sat in front of the booths, not behind them.

A pavilion extended forward from the front of the palace, and here Magnus Ridolph found Kanditter, the King of Thieves, sitting sleepily in a low deep chair. He was to Magnus Ridolph’s eye distinguishable from the other natives only by his headdress—a coronet-like affair woven of a shiny red-gold metal and set with telex crystals. Unaware of the exact formalities expected of him, Magnus Ridolph merely approached the king, bowed his head.

“Greetings,” said the king in a thick voice. “Your name and business?”

“I am Magnus Ridolph, resident of Tran, on Lake Sahara, Earth. I have come—to state the matter briefly—to—”

“To get telex?”

“I would be foolish to deny it.”

“Ho!” The king rocked back and forth, pulled back his sharp dark features in a fish-like grin. “No luck. Telex crystal stay on Moritaba.”

Magnus Ridolph nodded. He had expected refusal. “In the meantime may I trespass on the royal hospitality?”

The king’s grin slowly faded. “Eh? Eh? What you say?”

“Where do you suggest that I stay?”

The king made a sweep of his arm toward the end of his palace. “Much room there. Go around, go in.”

“Thank you,” said Magnus Ridolph.

To the rear of the palace Magnus Ridolph found suitable quarters—one of a row of rooms facing out on the path like stalls in a stable. The resemblance was heightened by the stable-type door.

It was a pleasant lodging with the trees swaying far overhead, the carpet of red-gold leaves in front. The interior was comfortable though Spartan. Magnus Ridolph found a couch, a pottery ewer filled with cool water, a carved chest built into the wall, a table.

Humming softly to himself Magnus Ridolph opened the chest, peered within. A soft smile disturbed his beard as he noted the back panel of the chest. It looked solid, felt solid, but Magnus Ridolph knew it could be opened from the outside. The walls seemed sound—poles of the blue wood were caulked with a putty-like resin and there was no window.

Magnus Ridolph opened his suitcases, laid the goods out on the couch. From without he heard voices and looking forth he saw Mellish rocking on his short legs down the center of the path, bulldog jaw thrust out, hands clenched, elbows swinging wide as he walked. Tomko came to the rear, carrying Mellish’s luggage.