The Potter of Firsk and Other Stories (2 page)

He threw on acceleration and, with the lifeboat dragging crazily from the bow, blasted away toward the lone planet of the scarlet sun.

An hour later the planet loomed large, and he entered the green-tinted atmosphere. In order to escape the teleview plates of the raider, he circled to the far side, nudging the
Perseus’
bow around with the lifeboat.

Through his own teleview, the planet showed as a world of about half Earth’s size, scarred with gorges and precipitous crags, interspersed with plains. These plains brimmed with a black froth, which the teleview presently revealed to be thick fronded vegetation.

The atmosphere, of a marked green tint, supported great fleecy clouds, glowing in the lurid sunlight in all shades of orange, gold, red and yellow.

Holderlin let the
Perseus
fall toward the base of a great black peak where dense forest indicated good concealment. Single-handed he landed the ship with its steering jets fused, an epic in itself.

For two tense hours he crouched in the lifeboat, jockeying the nose of the
Perseus
back and forth as it settled on its landing blasts through a green murk past the hot-colored clouds.

He had led two cords into the lifeboat with him—one made fast to the throttle that he might blast the ship to safety if the terrain were too soft or too rough, the other to kill the tubes when the ship finally settled solidly.

The
Perseus
teetered low through the green air and crashed down through the black forests onto solid soil. Holderlin yanked his cut-off cord, and the roaring blasts died. He fell limply back in his bucket seat.

He stirred himself. The green of the atmosphere hinted unhealthiness—and once more climbing into his air-suit he returned to the
Perseus
.

He twisted the dial at the radio. There was only silence. Through the skyport, he saw that the soft black fronds had closed over the ship. The
Perseus
was well concealed. Holderlin slept.

When he awoke all was as before, the radio still silent. He tested the atmosphere with the Bramley Airolyzer, and as he suspected the dials showed poison. But apparently there were no tissue-irritant gasses, and there was a sufficiency of oxygen.

So he charged a respirator with appropriate filters and jumped out on the planet to inspect the steering jets. He sank to his ankles in an impalpable black dust like soot, which every passing puff of air blew into whirls of black smoke.

As he walked, he stirred up clouds of this dust, which settled in his clothes and into his boots. Holderlin cursed. He could see that a grimy period lay before him. He plodded around to the steering jets.

They were both better and worse than he had expected. The linings were split and broken, and fragments had wedged across the throat of the tube. The electron filaments were destroyed but the backplates of telex crystal were still whole.

The tubes themselves were sound, neither belled, warped nor cracked, and apparently the field coils were not burnt out. Holderlin surmised that a small charge of vanzitrol had been exploded in each.

He could not recall seeing any spare linings aboard, but to make sure he ransacked the ship—to no avail. However, the Naval Regulation Lining Oven and a supply of flux was in its place as provided by Article 80 of the Astronautic Code, a law from the early days of space-flight, when durable linings were unknown.

Then every ship carried dozens of spares—yet often as not these would burn out or split in the heat and pressure, and the ship would be forced to land on a convenient planet and mold another supply. Now Holderlin’s concern was to find a bed of clean clay.

The ground at his feet was covered by the black dust. Perhaps, if he dug, he might find clay.

As he stood by the jets, Holderlin heard a heavy shuffling tread through the forest. He ran back to the entrance port, knowing that on strange planets prudence and agility are better safeguards than a needle-beam and steel armor.

The creature of the footsteps passed close beside the ship, a thin shambling being fifteen feet high, vaguely manlike, with a spider’s gaunt construction. The arms and legs were skin and bone, the skin was greenish-black, the face peculiarly long and vacant.

It had a fierce shock of reddish hair at the back of its head, the eyes were bulging milky orbs, the ears were wide and extended. It passed the
Perseus
with hardly a glance and showed neither awe nor interest.

“Hey!” cried Holderlin, jumping to the ground. “
Come here
!”

The thing paused a moment to regard him dully through the red light, then slowly shambled off in its original direction, stirring up black clouds of dust. It disappeared through the feathery black jungle.

Holderlin returned to the problem of repairing the tubes. He must find clay enough to mold four new linings—three or four hundred pounds. He brought a spade from the ship and dug into the surface.

He worked half an hour and turned up nothing but hot black humus. And the deeper he dug, the thicker and tougher grew the roots of the fungus trees. He gave up in disgust.

As he climbed, sweating and dusty, from his hole, a little breeze raced along the top of the jungle stirring the fronds, and in the black fog which floated down, Holderlin discovered the origin of the black powder at his feet—spawn.

He must find clay, clean yellow clay, the nearer the better. He did not fancy carrying this clay on his shoulder any great distance. He looked to where the lifeboat dangled by its nose from the bow of the
Perseus
.

He saw that the shackle, with the entire weight of the lifeboat hanging on it, was locked. Holderlin scratched his head. He would have to balance the boat on the gravity units, releasing the shackle from all strain, to remove it.

But when he finally poised the boat in mid-air and climbed out on the nose, he discovered that his shift of position had weighted the bow and that if he unscrewed the shackle, the boat very likely would nose down and throw him to the ground.

Cursing both shackle and lifeboat, Holderlin let the boat hang against the hull as before and made his way to the ground. He entered the ship and outfitted himself with a sack, a light spade, a canteen of water and spare charges for his respirator.

“Aboard the
Perseus
! Aboard the
Perseus
! Respond,
Perseus
!”

Holderlin chuckled grimly and sat down beside the speaker.

“Aboard the
Perseus
!” came the call again. “This is Captain Creed speaking. If you are alive and listening, respond immediately. You have bested us fair and square, and we hold no grudge. But no matter how you reached this planet you cannot go farther.

“A detector screen surrounds you, and we will heterodyne any distress call you broadcast.”

Evidently Captain Creed had not yet surmised who had run off with his ship, or how it had been accomplished. Another voice broke in, harder and sharper.

“Respond immediately,” said the new voice, “giving your position, and you will receive a share in the venture. If you do not, we shall know how to act when we find you, and we will find you if it means searching the planet foot by foot!”

All during this pronouncement, the strength of the radio carrier wave had increased rapidly, and now Holderlin heard a low mutter, rapidly waxing to a roar. Running to the port, he spied the black pirate ship sweeping toward him across the green sky, just under the canopy of many-colored clouds.

Almost overhead the brake blasts spewed forward, and the ship slowed in its majestic course. Trapped—thought Holderlin. With racing pulse he leapt for the lifeboat. The shackle he’d blast away with his needle-beam!

But the black ship passed across the mountain, where it slowly sank from sight, sunlight glinting from its sides. Holderlin breathed easily again. This world was small, and the mountain made a prominent landmark. Probably the same reasons that had brought him here to hide, led them here to seek him.

At least he knew where his enemies were stationed, a matter of some advantage. How to escape them, he as yet had no notion. They seemed invulnerable with a fast well-armed ship against his wrecked hulk, and certainly no less than thirty or forty in the crew.

Holderlin shrugged. First he must repair the tubes. Then he would try his luck at winning clear. And if he could bring that scented cargo only as far as Laroknik on Gavnad, the sixth of Delta Aquila, the universe lay open to him.

He’d buy a space-yacht, a villa on Fan, the Pleasure Planet. He’d buy an asteroid and create a world to his whim, as did the Empire’s millionaires. Holderlin put aside his dreaming. He took his sack and plodded off through the black dust in the direction of the mountain, seeking clay. A half mile from the ship, the feathery black canopy overhead thinned, and he entered a clearing.

Within the clearing moved a score of the tall manlike creatures. But their hair was not reddish like that of the creature that had passed him in the wood. It was a greenish-black. They stood busy with an enormous beast, evidently domesticated.

This had a great round body, as big as a house, supported on a circle of wide arching legs. With two long tentacles it stuffed the black tree-fronds into a maw on top of its hulk. Below hung a number of teats at which the black things worked, squirting a thin green liquid into pots.

Holderlin passed through the clearing, full in the red sunglow, but beyond a few dull glances, they took no heed of him. Continuing a mile or so, he came to the edge of the forest and the steep rises of the mountains.

Almost at his feet he found what he sought. In the diminished gravity he loaded into his sack a great deal more than he might have carried on Earth—perhaps a half of his needs—and set out in return.

But as he waded through the black dust the sack grew heavy, and by the time he reached the clearing where the natives tended their beast, his arms and his back ached.

He stood resting, watching the placid natives at their work. It occurred that possibly one of them might be induced to serve him.

“Hey—
you
!” he called to the nearest, as best he could through the respirator. “Come here!”

This one looked at Holderlin without interest.

“Come here!” he called again, although plainly the creature could not understand him. “I need some help. I’ll give you—” he fumbled in his pockets and pulled out a small signal mirror “—this.”

He displayed it, and presently the native shambled across the glade to him. It stooped to take the mirror, and a hint of interest came over the long doleful face.

“Now take this,” said Holderlin, giving over the sack of clay, “and follow me.”

At last the creature understood what was required of him, and with no show of either zeal or reluctance, took the bag in its rickety arms and shuffled along behind Holderlin to the ship. When they arrived, Holderlin went within and brought out a length of shiny chain, and showed it to his helper.

“One more trip, understand? One more trip. Let’s go.” The creature obediently followed him.

Holderlin dug the clay, loaded the bag into the native’s arms.

Above them came the sound of voices, footsteps, scuffling and grating on the rock. Holderlin crept for cover. The native stood stupidly, holding the sack of clay.

Three figures came into sight, two of them panting through respirators—Blaine and a tall man whose pointed ears and high-arched eyebrows proclaimed Trankli blood. The third was a native with a red mop of hair.

“What’s this?” cried the Trankli half-breed, spying Holderlin’s helper. “That sack is—”

They were the last words he spoke. A needle-beam chattered and cut him down. Blaine whirled about, grabbing for his own weapon. A voice brought him up short.

“Drop it, Blaine! You’re as good as dead!”

Blaine slowly dropped his hands to his sides, glaring madly in the direction of the voice, his malformed lip twitching. Holderlin stepped from the shadow into the scarlet sunlight, and his face was as ruthless as death itself.

“Looking for me?”

He walked over and took Blaine’s needle-beam. He noted the native’s reddish mop of hair. This was the one that had passed him in the woods, who was evidently in league with his enemies.

The needle-beam spoke once more, and the tall black body crumpled like broken jack-straws. Holderlin’s worker watched impassively.

“Can’t have any tale-bearers,” said Holderlin, turning his ice-blue eyes on Blaine.

“Why don’t you give it up, Holderlin?” snarled Blaine. “You can’t get away alive.”

“Do you think you’ll outlive me?” mocked Holderlin. “What’s that you’ve got? A radio, hey? I’ll take that.” He did so. “The native was taking you to the
Perseus
, and you were going to flash back the position. Right?”

“That’s right,” admitted Blaine sourly, wondering at what moment he was to be killed.

Holderlin mused.

“What ship are you in?”

“The
Maetho
—Killer Donahue’s. You can’t get away, Holderlin. Not with Donahue after you.”

“We’ll see,” said Holderlin shortly.

So it was Killer Donahue’s
Maetho
! Holderlin had heard tales of Donahue—a slight man of forty years, with dark hair and a pair of black eyes which saw around corners and into men’s minds. He had a droll clown’s face, but past deeds of blood and loot did not echo the humor of his countenance.