The Potter of Firsk and Other Stories (24 page)

But when the Mephitoline was finally scraped off with sticks, the itch and the acne were found still to be in evidence.

“Now, are you satisfied?” asked Joe, glaring from behind the application like a tiger made-up with grease-paint. “It don’t work. I itch like fury. It’s even worse than before.”

“The substance is evidently no cure-all,” said Magnus Ridolph regretfully.

Lucky had been scrubbing himself with alcohol. “How do you get this stuff off? Soap and water I guess would be better…”

But thorough scouring still did not entirely erase the Mephitoline; a strong odor still clung to the persons of Joe Blaine and Lucky Woolrich.

“Cripes,” muttered Joe, “how long does this stuff last?” He looked suspiciously at Magnus Ridolph. “How did you get it off you?”

Magnus Ridolph, standing carefully aloof, said, “That’s a rather valuable bit of information, I’m sorry to say. I arrived at the formula after considerable—”

“All right,” said Joe brutally. “How much?”

Magnus Ridolph drew his fine white eyebrows up into an injured line. “Oh, negligible. I’ll make only a token charge of a thousand munits. If you perform—ah, further experiments with Mephitoline, you’ll need the solution time and time again.”

There were several bitter statements, but finally Joe wrote Magnus Ridolph a check, eleven thousand munits in all.

“Now, how do we get rid of this horrible stench?”

“Apply a ten percent solution of hydrogen peroxide,” said Magnus Ridolph.

Joe started to bellow; Lucky stifled him, and went off to the hotel dispensary. He returned with an empty gallon jug.

“I can’t find any!” he said querulously. “The bottle’s empty!”

“There is no more,” said Magnus Ridolph frankly. “I used it all myself. Of course, if you wish to retain me as a consultant, I can outline a simple chemical process…”

James Aiken recognized the man at the reception desk as Victor Martinon, former producer at Pageant. Martinon had been fired during the recent retrenchment, and the headlines in
Variety
sent goose-flesh along every back in the industry. If flamboyant, money-making Martinon went, who was safe?

Aiken approached the desk, puzzled by Martinon’s presence at the Krebius Children’s Clinic. A versatile lover, Martinon never stayed married long enough to breed children. If Martinon were here on the same errand as his own—well, that was a different matter. Aiken felt a sharpening of interest.

“Hello, Martinon.”

“Hi,” said Martinon, neither knowing Aiken’s identity nor caring.

“I worked on
Clair de Lune
with you—built the Dreamboat sequence.”

Clair de Lune
was Martinon’s next to last picture.

“Oh, yes. Quite an effort. Still with Pageant?”

“I’m in my own lab now. Doing special effects for TV.”

“A man’s got to eat,” said Martinon, implying that Aiken now could sink no further.

Aiken’s mouth quivered, reflecting mingled emotions. “Keep me in mind, if you ever get back in pictures.”

“Yeah. Sure will.”

Aiken had never liked Martinon anyway. Martinon was big and broad, about forty, with silver hair pomaded and brushed till it glittered. His eyes were vaguely owlish—large, dark, surrounded by fine wrinkles; his mustache was cat-like; he wore excellent clothes. Aiken had no mustache; he was wiry and dark. He walked with a slight limp because of a Korean bullet, and so looked older than his twenty-five years. Martinon was suave and smelled of heather; Aiken was abrupt, angular and smelled of nothing much in particular.

Aiken spoke to the nurse behind the desk. “My sister has a little boy here. Bunny Tedrow.”

“Oh, yes, Bunny. Nice little boy.”

“She came to visit him yesterday, and told me about the film you were showing. I’d like to see it. If I may, of course.”

The nurse looked sidewise at Martinon. “I don’t really see any objection. I suppose you’d better speak to Dr. Krebius. Or if Mr. Martinon says it’s all right—”

“Oh.” Aiken looked at Martinon. “Some of your stuff?”

Martinon nodded. “In a way. The films are, well, experimental. I’m not sure we want anyone checking them just yet.”

“Here’s Dr. Krebius,” said the nurse placidly, and Martinon frowned.

Dr. Krebius was stocky, red-faced, forthright. His hair was whiter than Martinon’s and rose from his scalp like a whisk-broom. He wore a white smock, and gave off a faint odor of clean laundry and iodoform.

The nurse said, “This gentleman heard about the films; he wants to see them.”

“Ah.” Dr. Krebius looked at Aiken with eyes like little blue ball-bearings. “The little stories.” He spoke in a heavy accent, gruff and deep in his throat. “You are who?”

“My name is James Aiken. My sister saw the films yesterday and told me about them.”

“Ah ha,” growled Krebius, turning to Martinon as if he would clap him on the back. “Maybe we charge admission, hey? Make money for the hospital!”

Martinon said in a measured voice, “Aiken here works in a film laboratory. His interest is professional.”

“Sure! What of it? Let him look! He does no harm!”

Martinon shrugged, moved off down the hall.

Krebius turned back to Aiken. “We show not much. Just a few little stories to please the children.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “In six minutes, at two o’clock precisely. That is the way we work here, precise on the second. That way we cure the sick little legs, the blind eyes.”

“Oh,” said Aiken. “Blind children too?”

“My specialty! You know of the Krebius Klinik in Leipzig?”

Aiken shook his head. “Sorry.”

“For ten years we do tremendous work. Far ahead of what you do here. Why? There is more to do, we must be bold!” He tapped Aiken on the chest with a hard forefinger. “Two years ago I give up my wonderful hospital. There is no living with the Communists. They order me to make lenses, soldiers to see better down the guns. My work is to heal the eyes, not putting them out. I come here.”

“I see your point,” said Aiken. He hesitated. Martinon’s attitude had given him the uncomfortable sense of interloping.

Krebius looked at him under bristly eyebrows.

“Incidentally,” said Aiken, “as Martinon says, I’m in the special effects business. Part of my work is keeping up with what’s going on.”

“Of course. Why not? I have no interest in the film; it is not mine. Look as you please. Martinon is the cautious one. Fear is caution. I have no fear. I am cautious only with the tools of my work. Then!” He held up his blunt hands. “I am like a vise. The eye is a delicate organ!”

He bowed, walked off down the corridor. Aiken and the nurse watched him go. Aiken, grinning a little, looked at the nurse, who was grinning too.

“You should see him when he’s excited. And then—well! I was raised on a farm. The old kitchen range used to get red hot. When water spilled on it…”

“I’m a farm boy myself,” said Aiken.

“That’s Dr. Krebius. You’d better go. He wasn’t fooling. We work by the split-second around here. Right down the end of the hall, that’s the ward for today’s films.”

Aiken walked down the corridor, pushed through the swinging door into a large room with curtained windows. Crippled children occupied beds along the walls, wheel-chairs down the center of the room. Aiken looked around for Bunny, but saw him nowhere. A table near the door supported a sixteen millimeter projector; on the far wall a screen hung. Martinon stood by the projector threading in the film. He nodded curtly at Aiken.

The clock on the wall read half a minute to two. Martinon flicked on the projector’s lamp and motor, focussed the image. A nurse went to sit under the screen with a big red book.

The minute hand touched twelve.

Two P.M.

“Today,” said the nurse, “we watch another chapter from the life of Ulysses. Last time, you’ll remember, they were trapped by a terrible one-eyed giant called Polyphemus, on the island that we call Sicily today. Polyphemus is a horrible creature that’s been eating up the Greeks.” A delighted shudder and buzz ran around the room. “Today we find Ulysses and his men plotting an escape.” She nodded. The lights went out. Martinon started the projector.

There was a chattering sound. The white rectangle on the screen quivered, shook. Martinon switched off the projector. The lights went on. Martinon bent over the projector with a worried frown. He banged it with his knuckles, shook it, tried the switch again. The same chatter. He looked up, shook his head despondently. “Don’t think we’re going to make it today.”

“Aw,” sighed the children.

Aiken went over to the projector. “What’s the trouble?”

“It’s been coming on a long time,” said Martinon. “Something in the sprockets. I’ll have to take it to the repairman.”

“Let me take a look. I’ve got the same model; I know it inside out.”

“Oh, don’t bother,” said Martinon, but Aiken was already investigating the mechanism. He opened a blade of his pocket knife, worked ten seconds. “She’ll go now. The screw holding the sprocket to the drive gear was loose.”

“Much obliged,” muttered Martinon.

Aiken took his seat. Martinon caught the nurse’s eye. She bent over the book, began to read aloud. The lights went out.

The Odyssey
! Aiken was looking into a vast cave, dim-lit by firelight. Hoary walls rose to fade into high murk. Off to one side lay a great manlike hulk. At his back a dozen men worked feverishly, and in the vast smoky volume of the cavern they were miniatures, manikins. They held a great pointed pole into the flames, and the red firelight played and danced on their sweating bodies.

The camera drew closer. The features of the men became visible—young, clean-limbed warriors moving with passionate determination, heroic despair. Ulysses stood forth, a man with a face of the Sistine Jehovah. He signalled. The warriors heaved the spear to their shoulders. Crouching under the weight, they ran forward against the face half-seen in the dimness.

It was a lax, idiotic face, with one eye in the middle of the forehead. The camera drew away showing the length of Polyphemus’ body. The Greeks came running with the flaming pike; the eye snapped open, stared in wonder, and the pike bored into the center—deep, deep, deep.

Polyphemus jerked his head, the spear flung up, the Greeks scuttled into the shadows, disappeared. Polyphemus tore in agony at his face, wrenched loose the spear. He lunged around the cave, groping with one hand, clasping his bloody face with the other.

The camera went to the Greeks pressing back against the walls. The squat, bulging legs tramped past them. A great hand swept close, scraped, grabbed. The Greeks held their breaths, and the sweat gleamed on their chests.

Polyphemus stumbled away, into the fire; the logs scattered, embers flew. Polyphemus bellowed in frustration.

The camera shifted to the Greeks, tying themselves under monster sheep.

Polyphemus stood at the mouth of the cave. He pushed the great barrier rock aside and, straddling the opening, felt of the back of each sheep as it passed between his legs.

The Greeks ran down to the golden beach, launched their galley over the wine-dark sea. They hoisted the sail and the wind drove them off-shore.

Polyphemus came down to the beach. He picked up a boulder, flung it. Slow through the air it flew, slanting down toward the Greeks. It crashed into the sea, and the galley was tossed high on a fountain of water and bright white foam. Polyphemus stooped for another boulder. The scene faded.

“And that’s all for today,” said the nurse.

The children sighed in disappointment, began to chatter.

Martinon looked at Aiken with a peculiar sidelong grin. “What do you think?”

“Not bad,” said Aiken. “Not bad at all. A little rough in spots. You could use better research. That wasn’t any Greek galley—more like a Viking longboat.”

Martinon nodded carelessly. “It’s not my film; I’m on the outside looking in. But I agree with you. All brains and no technique, like a lot of this avant garde stuff.”

“I don’t recognize any of the actors. Who made it?”

“Merlin Studios.”

“Never heard of them.”

“They’ve just organized. One of my friends is involved. He asked me to show the film to some kids, get the reaction.”

“They like it,” said Aiken.

Martinon shrugged. “Kids are easy to please.”

Aiken turned to go. “So long, and thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

In the hall, Aiken met Dr. Krebius, standing with a pretty blonde girl of sixteen or seventeen. Krebius gave him a genial salute. “And the film, you liked it?”

“Very much,” said Aiken. “But I’m puzzled.”

“Ah ha,” said Krebius with a foxy wink at the girl. “The little secrets that we must keep.”

“Secrets?” she murmured. “What secrets?”

“I forget,” said Krebius. “You know none of the secrets.”

Aiken looked intently at the girl, glanced quickly at the doctor, and Krebius nodded. “This is little Carol Bannister. She’s blind.”

“That’s too bad,” said Aiken. Her eyes turned in his direction. They were a wide, deep Dutch blue, mild and tranquil. He saw that she might be a year or two older than he had first imagined.

Krebius stroked her silken-blonde head as he might pat a spaniel. “It’s a pity when lovely young girls can’t see to look and flirt and watch the boys’ hearts go bumping. But with Carol—well, we work and we hope, and who knows? Someday she may see as well as you or I.”

“I sure hope so,” said Aiken.

“Thank you,” the girl said softly, and Aiken took his leave.

In an unaccountably gloomy mood, he returned to his lab and found himself unable to work. For an hour he sat musing and smoking, then, on a sudden inspiration, called a friend, who was legman for a famous Hollywood columnist.

“Hello, Larry. This is Aiken.”

“What’s on the fire?”

“I want some dope on Merlin Studios. Got any?”

“Nothing. Never heard of ’em. What do they do?”

Aiken felt like dropping the whole thing. “Oh, they’ve made a few snatches of film. Fairy tales, things like that.”

“Any good?”

Aiken thought back over the film, and his wonder revived. “Yeah,” he said. “Very good. In fact—magnificent.”

“You don’t say. Merlin Studios?”

“Right. And I think—just think, mind you—that Victor Martinon is in on it.”

“Martinon, eh? I’ll ask Fidelia.” Fidelia was Larry’s boss. “She might know. If it’s a tip, thanks.”

“Not at all.”

An hour later Larry called back. “I’ve learned three things. First, nobody in the trade knows anything about Merlin Studios. It’s a vacuum. Second, Vic Martinon’s been doing some fancy finagling, and he has been heard to use the words ‘Merlin Studios’. Third, they’re arranging a sneak preview tonight.”

“Tonight? Where?”