The Potter of Firsk and Other Stories (41 page)

Bray said portentously, “I’m afraid I’ll have to insist.”

Dover frowned. “I don’t think the claim will impose as much of a burden on your time as you fear.”

Bray raised his eyebrows. “How so?”

“Well—” Dover hesitated “—you haven’t visited your holdings yet?”

“No. All I know that it’s a ten-mile-square block in the floor of Aristillus.”

Dover got up. “Perhaps we had better fly up and take a look at it.”

In a small stub-winged air-craft they rose up out of Hesiodus, flew north along the shore of Mare Nubium.

“All good basalt,” said Dover. “A few years of weathering should produce a magnificent red soil. We’re experimenting with bacteria to hasten the process.”

Sinus Medii passed below, and the eastern littoral of Mare Vaporum. Ahead loomed the great crags of the Apennines, a little to the left was the great crater Eratosthenes.

Bray craned his neck. “Surely that’s not water?”

“Oh yes,” smiled Dover. “Lake Eratosthenes. We’re using Eratosthenes and one other for primary evaporation points. Water will come rather slower than the air; the moon will be a dry world for quite some time yet.”

Bray said bluffly, “I believe I’ll put up a big resort hotel on my property—amusement park, big casino, dog-racing.” He nudged Dover waggishly. “Thank God, there’s no blue laws out here, eh Dover?”

Dover said stiffly, “We hope to govern ourselves, with the aid of our native good taste.”

“Well,” said Bray, “if I had a bit more land, I wouldn’t be forced to make do on so little. Personally I don’t like the idea, but what’ll you have? There’s just the Niobe claim, and no more. I hope it doesn’t turn out an eyesore…Perhaps if you’d make me a good deal for old time’s sake, let me buy back a chunk of Lunar Cooperative for, say—”

Dover shook his head. “I’m afraid that’s impossible.”

Bray snapped shut his jaw. “Then I’ll have to do the best I can at Aristillus. A sky-scraper, maybe. We’ll make it the hot-spot of the moon. Sort of a Latin Quarter, a Barbary Coast.”

“Sounds interesting.”

The Apennines stabbed up at them from below. “Beautiful mountain scenery,” said Dover. “Remarkable. Wait twenty or thirty years, and you’ll really see something. That’s Palus Putredinus below, and ahead, those three craters—”

“Archimedes, Autolycus and Aristillus,” said Bray. “Aristillus—future hot-spot of the moon.”

“Lake Aristillus,” said Dover absently.

Bray froze in his seat. The gleam of water was unmistakable.

“A beautiful crater,” said Dover. “And it makes a beautiful lake, ten thousand feet deep, I believe.”

The airplane circled over the placid blue surface. A small island protruded from the center.

Bray found his voice. “Do you mean to say,” he demanded, “that you’ve submerged my property under ten thousand feet of water?”

Dover nodded. “See there…” He pointed to a cascade of water tumbling down the eastern wall. “Back along that rill sixty units are turning out water and xenon. I’ll name the river after you, if you’d like. Bray River…From your point of view, rather a sad coincidence that we decided on Eratosthenes and Aristillus for our first lakes. I didn’t have the heart to break the news to you back at the camp.”

Bray roared, “This is insufferable! You’ve flooded my property, you’ve—”

Dover said in a conciliatory voice, “Naturally we had no idea that the property was not ours; if I had known that you wanted to build a ‘hot-spot’—as you call it—I’d never have planned the lake.”

“I’ll sue, I’ll collect damages!”

“Damages?” asked Dover in a pained voice. “Why surely—”

Bray rolled his eyes in fury. “I can prove that the property was worth millions, that—”

“Er—how long ago did you come into possession of the Niobe claim?”

Bray subsided suddenly. “Well, as a matter of fact—It makes no difference! You’re guilty of—”

“Surely it’s obvious, Mr. Bray, that you filed claim on property already under water.” Dover scratched his head. “I suppose the claim is legal enough. Can’t see what you’ll do with your property, Mr. Bray. You might try stocking it with trout…”

I

Noland Bannister, superintendent of Star Control Field Office #12, was known at the space-port and along Folger Avenue as a hell-roarer—a loud-voiced man of vigorous action. He made no secret of his dislike for administrative detail and attacked paper work with a grumbling rancor. Negligence in his staff he dealt with rudely. Mistakes of a more serious nature left him grim and white with rage.

It was Robert Smith’s misfortune to commit the most striking blunder of Bannister’s long and varied experience.

As usual, at four o’clock Friday afternoon Bannister sat in his office reviewing the week’s work: ships cleared for passage, ships inspected and cleared for discharge of cargo, contraband seizures, crews screened for hijackers and known performers. Last he inspected a
précis
from the logs of ships which had surfaced during the week; skimming for information of possible economic or scientific value.

Near the end of the
précis
he found an informal note.

Bannister blinked in amazement, stiffened in his chair. He switched the film back to the
Messeraria’s
log, examined it with flinty attention. It appeared ordinary enough, although Captain Plum’s reputation offered no surety against falsification. He checked the ship’s roster against a master index.

Jack Fetch, mate. One-time member of the Violet Ray Association. Never convicted.

Abe McPhee, chief steward. Moral deviant, refused de-aberration.

Owen Phelps, quartermaster. Expert gambler and game-rigger.

Don Lowell, supercargo. Known embezzler; a brother refused to prosecute.

“Mmmph,” said Bannister to himself. “Nice bunch.” He continued. First and second engineers, wiper, mess boy. Pasts stained to a greater or lesser degree.

Bannister re-read Smith’s breezy message. Anger rose in his throat like the aftertaste of cheap whisky. Suppose Supercargo Don Lowell had been drunkenly babbling the truth? He punched a button on his desk.

“Yes, Mr. Bannister?”

“Who the devil is Smith? There’s a report here—just a few casual lines—signed ‘Smith’. Who the devil’s Smith?”

“That’ll be Robert Smith. A front-office man we hired last week.”

Bannister said in a metallic voice, “I want to see him.”

There was a wait of five minutes, while Bannister drummed his fingers on the desk. Then the door slid back a few inches, remained in this position, revealing a hand on the latch, while the owner exchanged a bit of final banter with Bannister’s secretary.

Bannister barked, “Come in, come in!” He glared at the young man, still grinning, who swung the door open.

“Smith?” Bannister spoke with steely gentleness.

“Yes, sir.”

“Can you guess why I want to see you?”

Smith raised his eyebrows. “Not unless it’s about the suggestion I made the other day to the office manager.”

“A suggestion? Well, well,” said Bannister, catlike. “How long have you been with us now?”

“About a week. I’m not complaining—don’t get me wrong. I just think the work I’m doing could be handled more efficiently by machine.”

“What are your duties, Smith?”

“Well, I’ve been collating reports, reviewing similar information in Central Intelligence Bank, and appending or amending. If we had a scanner machine to grade and append the material automatically, I’d be free to tackle more important duties.”

Bannister inspected Smith under lowered eyebrows. “Interesting. What do you imagine to be the price of the machine you visualize, Smith?”

Smith frowned. “I’m really not sure. That’s out of my line. Twenty or thirty thousand, I suppose.”

“Who would service the machine, who would code the material?”

Smith smiled at the question. “A cyberneticist, naturally.”

Bannister looked toward the ceiling. “And what, I wonder, is the salary such a technical expert commands?”

Smith likewise raised his eyes in calculation. “Perhaps five or six hundred. Seven hundred possibly for a good man. You’d want the best.”

“And how much are we paying you for performing identical work?”

“Well—three hundred.”

“Are there any conclusions to be drawn?”

Robert Smith said candidly, “It must be that I’m worth seven hundred dollars a month to the bureau.”

Bannister cleared his throat, but managed to continue in the same gentle voice. “May I direct your attention to the matter on the screen?”

“Oh, certainly.” Smith swung his gaze to the three lines of neat typescript. He nodded. “I remember the man very well. In terrible shape, dead drunk. Vicious stuff, alcohol.” And he confided, “I myself don’t drink; it rots the brain.”

Bannister was fond of whisky and beer. Once more he cleared his throat. “What exactly did this man say to you?”

Smith settled himself into Bannister’s most comfortable chair, stretched out his legs. “He was clearly subject to delusions and also victim of a well-established persecution complex. Assured me the captain and mate of his ship were intent on his death.”

“Did he mention why he was in danger?”

Smith laughed easily. “Typical paranoia. A man in bad shape. He claimed that the
Messeraria
had landed on an unknown planet and discovered an intelligent race of beings. He made a full account in his diary—so he insisted—but the captain tore it up and obliterated passages in the ship’s log.”

Bannister nodded sagely. “And why did all this take place?”

“He said something about—” Smith knit his brows “—I believe it was jewels. Rather trite.” He chuckled. “He could at least have given us something bizarre for our trouble—energy from the air, a paradise of beautiful women, clairvoyant dragons. But no—just jewels.”

Bannister nodded. “Drunk, eh?”

“Drunk as a lord.”

“Crazy to boot?”

“Well, Mr. Bannister, you’ve heard his story. You can judge for yourself.”

Bannister’s fury and contempt had taken him past the stage of invective. He said in a sibilant voice, “Smith, you’re a remarkable man.”

Smith looked up in surprise. “Why, thank you, sir.”

“A museum piece. A man with a head full of corn cobs.”

Smith stared in confusion.

“We’ve been exploring space a hundred and fifty years,” Bannister intoned. “We’ve found hot worlds and cold worlds, big ones and little ones. We’ve found dead planets and planets swarming with life, there’ve been insects and fish and lizards and dinosaurs and god-awful things you’d hate to see under a microscope. But never—not once, Smith—has there been the report of an intelligent race, a civilized people.”

Smith nodded. “That’s why I was quick to see through the man.”

“You ineffable damn fool,” roared Bannister, “you pitch out a man who claims first-hand information, and meanwhile you have the brass to sit here grinning like a cuckoo! Where’s your conscience? You feel no twinge when you accept your salary?”

“Well,” said Smith hesitantly, “it still seems to me that you’re grasping at straws. I sized this man up when I first picked up the log book. I’m an excellent judge of character, Mr. Bannister. I can usually predict a man’s actions fairly well.”

“Ah,” said Bannister. “Then in that case perhaps you can predict my next sentence?”

Smith looked worried. “Is it ‘You’re fired’?”

“Right. You’re fired.”

Smith said in a weak voice, “I told you I was good at it.”

All was not lost, thought Smith as he walked along Folger Avenue toward the space-port. If he were able to confront Bannister with the supercargo, Bannister could see for himself how completely addled was the man. No doubt there would be reinstatement, a handsome apology, promotion, a raise in pay…

Smith returned to his surroundings. Folger Avenue presented a solid five-story front of ancient wooden houses, painted mud color. The ground levels housed saloons and eating-places in almost continuous succession; the few stores intervening were given to the sale of cheap clothing, second-hand goods, weapons, souvenirs of space, medicinal preparations and specifics against out-world ailments; in the upper stories were cheap hotels, warehouses, an occasional Class 12B brothel.

In spite of much that was squalid, Folger Avenue was rich with a certain swashbuckling charm, and equally rich with odor: the musty scent of the warehouses, stale spirits from the taverns, garbage in the gutter, perfume from an oil adulterator.

At last the wooden houses fell away, and Folger Avenue gave into the space-port, a great seared oval bordered by the Evan River. Three spaceships occupied the far end of the field; on the lapstrake of the nearest Smith read the silver letters:
Messeraria
.