The Potter of Firsk and Other Stories Read online

  “Mr. Ridolph, a distressing report has reached me. I understand—I just learned this morning—that those devilish Bounders have been on your plantation.”

  Magnus Ridolph nodded. “Yes, something of that nature has been called to my attention.”

  “Words can’t convey my sense of guilt,” said Blantham. “Naturally I’d never have saddled you with the property if I’d known…”

  “Naturally,” agreed Magnus Ridolph siccatively.

  “As soon as I heard, I came over to make what amends I could, but I fear they can only be nominal. You see, last night, as soon as I banked your check, I paid off a number of outstanding debts and I only have about fifty thousand munits left. If you’d like me to take over the burden of coping with those beasts…” He paused, coughed.

  Magnus Ridolph looked mildly upward. “That’s exceedingly generous of you, Mr. Blantham—a gesture few men would make. However, I think I may be able to salvage something from the property. I am not completely discouraged.”

  “Good, good,” was Blantham’s hasty comment. “Never say die; I always admire courage. But I’d better warn you that once those pestiferous Bounders start on a field they never stop till they’ve run through the whole works. When they reach the cottage you’ll be in extreme danger. Many, many men and women they’ve killed.”

  “Perhaps,” Magnus Ridolph suggested, “you will permit the harvester to gather such of my crop as he is able before starting with yours?”

  Blantham’s face became long and doleful. “Mr. Ridolph, nothing could please me more than to say yes to your request, but you don’t know these Garswan contractors. They’re stubborn, inflexible. If I were to suggest any change in our contract, he’d probably cancel the entire thing. And naturally, I must protect my wife, my family. In the second place, there is probably little of your ticholama ripe enough to harvest. The Bounders, you know, attack the plant just before its maturity.” He shook his head. “With the best of intentions, I can’t see how to help you, unless it’s by the method I suggested a moment ago.”

  Magnus Ridolph raised his eyebrows. “Sell you back the property for fifty thousand munits?”

  Blantham coughed. “I’d hardly call it selling. I merely wish—”

  “Naturally, naturally,” agreed Magnus Ridolph. “However, let us view the matter from a different aspect. Let us momentarily forget that we are friends, neighbors, almost business associates, each acting only through motives of the highest integrity. Let us assume that we are strangers, unmoral, predatory.”

  Blantham blew out his cheeks, eyed Magnus Ridolph doubtfully. “Far-fetched, of course. But go on.”

  “On this latter assumption, let us come to a new agreement.”

  “Such as?”

  “Let us make a wager,” mused Magnus Ridolph. “The plantation here against—say, a hundred thirty thousand munits—but I forgot. You have spent your money.”

  “What would be the terms of the wager?” inquired Blantham, inspecting his finger-tips.

  “A profit of sixty-nine thousand munits was mentioned in connection with the sale of the property. The advent of the—ah!—Howling Bounders made this figure possibly over-optimistic.”

  Blantham murmured sympathetically.

  “However,” continued Magnus Ridolph, “I believe that a profit of sixty-nine thousand munits is not beyond reason, and I would like to wager the plantation against 130,000 munits on those terms.”

  Blantham gave Magnus Ridolph a long bright stare. “From the sale of ticholama?”

  Magnus Ridolph eloquently held his arms out from his sides. “What else is there to yield a profit?”

  “There’s no mineral on the property, that’s certain,” muttered Blantham. “No oil, no magnoflux vortex.” He looked across the field to the devastated area. “When those Bounders start on a field, they don’t stop, you know.”

  Magnus Ridolph shrugged. “Protecting my land from intrusion is a problem to which a number of solutions must exist.”

  Blantham eyed him curiously. “You’re very confident.”

  Magnus Ridolph pursed his lips. “I believe in an aggressive attitude toward difficulties.”

  Blantham turned once more toward the blighted area, looked boldly back at Magnus Ridolph. “I’ll take that bet.”

  “Good,” said Magnus Ridolph. “Let us take your copter to Garswan and cast the wager into a legal form.”

  In the street below the notary’s office later, Magnus Ridolph tucked his copy of the agreement into the microfilm compartment of his wallet.

  “I think,” he told Blantham, who was watching him covertly with an air of sly amusement, “that I’ll remain in Garswan the remainder of the day. I want to find a copter, perhaps take back a few supplies.”

  “Very well, Mr. Ridolph,” and Blantham inclined his head courteously, swung his dark blue cape jauntily across his shoulders. “I wish you the best of luck with your plantation.”

  “Thank you,” said Magnus Ridolph, equally punctilious, “and may you likewise enjoy the returns to which you are entitled.”

  Blantham departed; Magnus Ridolph turned up the main street. Garswan owed its place as Naos VI’s first city only to a level field of rock-hard clay, originally the site of native fire-dances. There was little else to commend Garswan, certainly no scenic beauty. The main street started at the space-port, wound under a great raw bluff of red shale, plunged into a jungle of snake-vine, inch-moss, hammock tree. The shops and dwellings were half of native-style, of slate slabs with curving gables and hollow end-walls; half dingy frame buildings. There was a warehouse, a local of the space-men’s union, a Rhodopian social hall, an Earth-style drug-store, a side street given to a native market, a copter yard.

  At the copter yard, Magnus Ridolph found a choice of six or seven vehicles, all weatherbeaten and over-priced. He ruefully selected a six-jet Spur, and closing his ears to the whine of the bearings, flew it away to a garage, where he ordered it fueled and lubricated.

  He stepped into the TCI office, where he was received with courtesy. He requested and was permitted use of the mnemiphot. Seating himself comfortably, he found the code for resilian, ticked it into the selector, attentively pursued the facts, pictures, formulae, statistics drifting across the screen. He noted the tensile strength, about the same as mild steel, and saw with interest that resilian dampened with hesso-penthol welded instantly into another piece of resilian.

  He leaned back in his chair, tapped his pencil thoughtfully against his notebook. He returned to the mnemiphot, dialed ahead to the preparation of resilian from the raw ticholama. The purple tubes, he found, were frozen in liquid air, passed through a macerator, which pulverized the binding gums, soaked in hesso-hexylic acid, then alcohol, dried in a centrifuge, a process which left the fibres in a felt-like mat. This mat was combed until the fibers lay parallel, impregnated with hesso-penthol and compressed into a homogeneous substance—resilian.

  Again Magnus Ridolph sat back, his mild blue eyes focused on space. Presently he arose, left the office, crossed the street to the headquarters of the local construction company. Here he spent almost an hour; then, returning to the garage, he picked up his copter, and rising high over the jungle, headed south. The jumble of the Bouro Badlands passed below. Hourglass Peninsula spread before him, with his plantation filling the landward half, that of Blantham the remainder.

  Naos hung low over the sea when he landed. Chook was standing in the pointed doorway, eyes fixed vacantly across the ticholama field, arms dangling almost to the ground.

  “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 crac
kling 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.”