The Potter of Firsk and Other Stories (23 page)

Magnus Ridolph gazed at the pattern on an oscillograph. “Hm,” he muttered. “That’s about right, I should say.”

“What are you doing, Mr. Ridolph?” asked Blaine jocularly, one hand close behind his back.

Magnus Ridolph gave him a cool glance, then returned to his apparatus and detached it from the jig.

“I’m refining a certain musical principle…”

S-s-s-s
, went the somnol bomb. A fine mist surrounded Magnus Ridolph’s distinguished head. He gasped, stiffened, slumped.

“Did you hear him, Lucky?” Joe kicked at the metal tube Magnus Ridolph still clutched in his hand. “Fooling around with music, when we’re in a jam.”

Lucky said, “I guess that musical kaleidoscope sort of went to his head. He used to be a good man, so I’ve heard.”

“You must have heard wrong,” said Joe. “Well, let’s take him out on the beach. Here’s a wheelbarrow. That should do the trick.”

They trundled the supine body out into the white blaze of the sun, two hundred yards down the beach.

“This is far enough,” said Blaine. “Let’s douse him and get back under the trees. It makes me nervous, being in the open like this. Those dragons are like flies this time of day.”

They lifted Magnus Ridolph from the wheelbarrow, stretched him on the sand, and Joe poured the black liquid liberally across his chest.

“Gad!” coughed Lucky. “It even comes upwind!”

“She’s rich,” said Joe complacently. “When I go after something, I get it. Now come on, let’s get out of the way. Hurry up, there’s a dragon out there now.”

They ran up to the edge of the jungle and waited. The speck low on the horizon expanded, became a flapping monster. Joe held his rifle ready.

“Just in case,” he told Lucky.

The dragon bulked large in the sky. It saw Magnus Ridolph’s prone figure, circled.

Lucky said, “Golly, I just thought of something!”

“What?” snapped Joe.

“If that stuff doesn’t work, we won’t know until the dragon’s pretty close. And then—”

“Rats!” said Joe bluffly. “It’ll work. It’s got to.”

The dragon made a sudden swoop to the beach, waddled forward.

Twenty yards—“It don’t faze him!” cried Lucky.

Ten yards. Blaine raised the gun, lowered it again.

“Shoot, Joe, for Pete’s sake, shoot!”

“I can’t!” cried Blaine. “I’ll blow Ridolph to pieces!”

Lucky Woolrich ran out on the beach, yelled, jumped up and down. The dragon paid no heed.

Five yards. Magnus Ridolph stirred. Perhaps the odor of the black liquid had aroused him, perhaps some sensation of danger. He shook his head, propped himself on his elbow.

It was a rude awakening for Magnus Ridolph. Eye to eye he stared at the dragon.

The dragon opened its maw, darted its head forward, snapped. Magnus Ridolph rolled over, escaped by an inch.

Blaine shook his head. “That stuff doesn’t work at all!”

The dragon made a quick hop, darted its head forward again. Magnus Ridolph again stumbled back, and the fangs clanged past his ribs. He still clutched his metal tube. He frantically put it to his lips, puffed out his cheeks, blew, blew, blew.

The dragon pulled its head back like a turtle. It jerked its legs, its wings. Magnus Ridolph blew. The dragon gave a great belching roar, in almost comical haste lumbered away. The tremendous leather pinions flapped, it sluggishly took the air, departed across the ocean.

Magnus Ridolph sat down on the sand. For a long moment he sat limply. Then he looked down at his tunic, once crisp and white, now befouled with a black viscosity. As the wind changed, Joe and Lucky felt the odor. Joe coughed, and Magnus Ridolph slowly looked in their direction.

And slowly Magnus Ridolph got to his feet, threw aside his tunic, and slowly marched back to the hotel.

Magnus Ridolph appeared at dinnertime scrubbed, polished, in clean clothes. His white beard was brushed till it shone like angelical floss, and his manner was unusually affable.

Lucky and Joe were relieved to find him in such good humor. They had expected angry accusations, threats and demands. Magnus Ridolph’s genial attitude came as a glad surprise, and they vied with each other in cordiality. Mayla, in bed with a headache, was not present.

Blaine explained the circumstances which had led to the experiment, and Magnus Ridolph seemed genuinely interested.

Lucky went so far as to be jocular. “—and Lord, Magnus, when you looked up at that dragon, I swear your beard stuck out from your face like it was electrified!”

“Of course we had you covered all the time,” said Joe. “We had a bead on that dragon every instant. One false move and he’d been a goner.”

“Just what was that tube, Magnus?” asked Lucky. “It sure did the trick. Marvellous.” He nudged Blaine. “I told you he had brains.”

Magnus Ridolph held up a deprecatory hand. “Simple application of what I learned from the movies you showed me.”

“How’s that?” asked Joe, lighting a cigar.

“Have you noticed the voice-box on the Mollies? It’s a paraboloid surface, and the vibrator is at the focus. It gives them exquisite control over sound. By moving the vibrator they can concentrate a node at any given point; I wouldn’t doubt but what they see the pressure patterns in some peculiar manner. In other words, they can use their voices as men use an air-hammer, especially in the supersonic ranges. I suspected as much when I saw them excavating those foundations. They were not blowing the sand out with air, they were blasting it out with appropriately applied pressure waves.”

“Why, of course!” said Joe, disgustedly spitting a bit of tobacco to the side. “That’s how they mixed up the mess in that terrible wallow. Just dumped it in, looked at it, and it all seemed to melt and stir in by itself.”

Lucky reproached Joe with a look; best to keep Magnus Ridolph’s mind away from wallows and vile black ooze.

Magnus Ridolph lit a cigarette and puffed a thoughtful gust into the air.

“Now when one of the native beasts attacked them, they projected a supersonic beam in a frequency to which the creatures were most sensitive. Probably aimed for a tender spot—the eye, for instance. A study of the sound track proved my theory. I found a clear record of strong inaudible sound. I calculated the rate of what seemed the most effective frequency, and this morning built a suitable projector.”

Joe and Lucky shook their heads in admiration. “Don’t see how he does it.” “Beats everything I’ve ever heard of.”

Magnus Ridolph smiled. “Now for the hotel, I recommend several large oscillators, mounted permanently, and arranged to project a curtain of the most effective frequency around the property. Any competent sonic engineer can set up such a dome for you.”

“Good, good,” said Lucky.

“I’ll get a man out here right away,” said Blaine. “Sure lucky we got you.”

Magnus Ridolph made a courteous acknowledgment. “Thank you; perhaps the association will prove of equal value for me.”

Blaine stared curiously into Magnus Ridolph’s calm countenance.

Lucky said hurriedly, “Now Joe, as to Magnus’ fee, I originally mentioned the figure of five thousand munits—”

“Make it ten,” said Joe heartily, reaching for his pen. “I think we owe Mr. Ridolph a bonus.”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” murmured Magnus Ridolph. “You make me uncomfortable with your generosity. I’m well content with my stipulated fee.”

“Well, now, look here—” stammered Joe, making feeble gestures with his pen.

“Surely you can’t believe that I’d accept five thousand munits for the—hm, inconsequential events of this afternoon?”

“Well,” said Joe, “you never know how a person takes things. Sometimes they’ll sue you, ha, ha, for a hair in the soup. Of course, in your case—well,” he finished lamely, “we hadn’t really thought about it.”

Ridolph frowned thoughtfully. “Ah, if I had an exaggerated sense of dignity, a sop of five thousand munits might only further offend me. But since I am what I am, I’m sure we can let events adjust themselves naturally.”

“Sure,” said Lucky enthusiastically. “Gentlemen to gentlemen.”

Joe Blaine twirled the cigar in his mouth, looked into space trying to trace the implications of the words.

“Well, suits me,” he said reluctantly. He wrote. “Here’s your fee, then.”

“Thank you.” Magnus Ridolph pocketed the check. He looked out the window. “I believe your franchise ends about a half-mile up the beach?”

Blaine nodded. “Just about where I came out of the jungle this morning. Maybe a little this way.”

Magnus Ridolph said abstractedly, “The closer to the Molly village, the better.”

“Eh? How’s that?”

Magnus Ridolph looked up in surprise. “Haven’t I described my plans for the bottling and processing plant? No? Today I applied via space-wave for a use permit of the beach.”

Joe and Lucky had turned their heads simultaneously, staring. Their faces wore the expressions seen on small animals who, tripping a baited trigger, snap their own flash-light photographs.

“Processing plant?”

“For what?”

Magnus Ridolph said in a pedantic tone, “I’ve tentatively decided on the name Mephitoline—which to some extent describes the product.”

“But—”

“But—”

“It has been my experience,” continued Magnus Ridolph, “that the more noxious a salve, an unguent, or a beauty aid, the more eagerly it is purchased, and the greater its therapeutic or psychological value. In this respect, that unspeakably vile liquid which you used this afternoon in your experiment can hardly be improved upon. Mephitoline, suitably bottled and attractively packaged, will be a valuable specific against psychosomatic disorders.”

“But—”

“Possibly Mephitoline may be used as a fixative in the perfume industry, as being more positive than either ambergris, musk, or any of the synthetics. I also anticipate a large and steady sale to college fraternities, lodges, and secret organizations, where it might become an important adjunct to their rituals.”

Magnus Ridolph turned a grave glance upon Joe and Lucky.

“I have you two to thank for putting this opportunity in my way. But then, the Spa of the Stars will doubtless share in any prosperity which might come to the Mephitoline Bottling Works. Plant workers will no doubt spend part of their pay at your bars, only three minutes walk away…”

“Look here,” said Blaine, in a voice like an old-fashioned wagon crossing a gravelled road, “you know darn well that a plant bottling that black stuff a few hundred yards upwind from the hotel would chase every guest back on the same packet that brought him!”

“Not at all,” argued Magnus Ridolph. “The Mephitoline plant would add a great deal of color and atmosphere. I believe that the plant and the Spa would complement each other very well. I’m sure you must have thought of it yourself: ‘Spa of the Stars, Health Center of the Cluster. If You’ve Got It, Mephitoline Will Cure It’—something of the sort. But, as you see—” and Magnus Ridolph smiled apologetically “—I’m a dreamer. I have no head for business. You two are really better suited to managing a modern medical laboratory. I suppose it would be better for us all if I sold out to you for—say, twenty-five thousand munits. Cheap at the price.”

Joe Blaine spat in a wordless futility of anger and disgust.

“Pah!” snorted Lucky. “You’re selling us a gold brick. You haven’t got a plant, you don’t even know whether the stuff is any good.”

Magnus Ridolph seemed impressed with Lucky’s reasoning. He rubbed his beard thoughtfully.

“That’s a very good point, Mr. Woolrich. A very strong point. After all, how can we be sure of Mephitoline’s efficacy? The sensible solution is to test it. Hm—I see that you have a rather severe case of acne. And—yes—Mr. Blaine appears to be suffering from—is it heat-rash? or some sort of itch?”

“Heat-rash!” snapped Joe.

“We’ll put Mephitoline to a test. Each of you can rub Mephitoline over your lesions—or better yet, submerge yourselves in a Mephitoline bath. Give it a fair chance. Then if your conditions are not alleviated, we’ll know that Mephitoline is useful only in a psychological sense, and my price will drop to fifteen thousand munits. If your ailments are cured, and Mephitoline has a specific value, the price remains at twenty-five thousand munits. Of course, if you and Mr. Woolrich do not avail yourselves of this opportunity, I personally can’t afford to give it up.”

There was a short silence.

“Well, Joe,” said Lucky wearily, “he’s got us over a barrel.”

“Not at all,” protested Magnus Ridolph. “By no means! I am offering you a valuable property at a ridiculously—”

Blaine interrupted him. “Ten thousand munits is our top price. Take it or leave it.”

“Very well,” said Magnus Ridolph readily. “Ten thousand—if the Mephitoline does not cure your itch. But unless the test is made, I’ll have to hold out for twenty-five thousand.”

In a tight-lipped atmosphere the Mephitoline was gingerly swabbed over the afflicted parts. Magnus Ridolph, however, insisted on a liberal application.

“If the job is scamped, we will never be sure in our own minds.”