The Potter of Firsk and Other Stories (56 page)

“And Ali?”

Trimmer hesitated. “I never said what I’m gonna say. Don’t forget—I never said it.”

“Okay, you never said it.”

“Ever hear of a
jehad?”

“Mohammedan holy wars.”

“Believe it or not, Ali wants a
jehad.”

“Sounds kinda fantastic.”

“Sure it’s fantastic. Don’t forget, I never said anything about it. But suppose someone—strictly unofficial, of course—let the idea percolate around the Peace Office back home.”

“Ah,” said Murphy. “That’s why you came to see me.”

Trimmer turned a look of injured innocence. “Now, Murphy, you’re a little unfair. I’m a friendly guy. Of course I don’t like to see the bank lose what we’ve got tied up in the Sultan.”

“Why don’t you send in a report yourself?”

“I have! But when they hear the same thing from you, a
Know Your Universe!
man, they might make a move.”

Murphy nodded.

“Well, we understand each other,” said Trimmer heartily, “and everything’s clear.”

“Not entirely. How’s Ali going to launch a
jehad
when he doesn’t have any weapons, no warships, no supplies?”

“Now,” said Trimmer, “we’re getting into the realm of supposition.” He paused, looked behind him. A farmer pushing a rotary tiller bowed politely, trundled ahead. Behind was a young man in a black turban, gold earrings, a black and red vest, white pantaloons, black curl-toed slippers. He bowed, started past. Trimmer held up his hand. “Don’t waste your time up there; we’re going back in a few minutes.”

“Thank you, Tuan.”

“Who are you reporting to? The Sultan or Prince Ali?”

“The Tuan is sure to pierce the veil of my evasions. I shall not dissemble. I am the Sultan’s man.”

Trimmer nodded. “Now, if you’ll kindly remove to about a hundred yards, where your whisper pick-up won’t work.”

“By your leave, I go.” He retreated without haste.

“He’s almost certainly working for Ali,” said Trimmer.

“Not a very subtle lie.”

“Oh yes—third level. He figured I’d take it second level.”

“How’s that again?”

“Naturally I wouldn’t believe him. He knew I knew that he knew it. So when he said ‘Sultan’, I’d think he wouldn’t lie simply, but that he’d lie double—that he actually was working for the Sultan.”

Murphy laughed. “Suppose he told you a fourth level lie?”

“It starts to be a toss-up pretty soon,” Trimmer admitted. “I don’t think he gives me credit for that much subtlety…What are you doing the rest of the day?”

“Taking footage. Do you know where I can find some picturesque rites? Mystical dances, human sacrifice? I’ve got to work up some glamor and exotic lore.”

“There’s this sjambak in the cage. That’s about as close to the medieval as you’ll find anywhere in Earth Commonwealth.”

“Speaking of sjambaks…”

“No time,” said Trimmer. “Got to get back. Drop in at my office—right down the square from the palace.”

Murphy returned to his suite. The shadowy figure of his room servant said, “His Highness the Sultan desires the Tuan’s attendance in the Cascade Garden.”

“Thank you,” said Murphy. “As soon as I load my camera.”

The Cascade Room was an open patio in front of an artificial waterfall. The Sultan was pacing back and forth, wearing dusty khaki puttees, brown plastic boots, a yellow polo shirt. He carried a twig which he used as a riding crop, slapping his boots as he walked. He turned his head as Murphy appeared, pointed his twig at a wicker bench.

“I pray you sit down, Mr. Murphy.” He paced once up and back. “How is your suite? You find it to your liking?”

“Very much so.”

“Excellent,” said the Sultan. “You do me honor with your presence.”

Murphy waited patiently.

“I understand that you had a visitor this morning,” said the Sultan.

“Yes. Mr. Trimmer.”

“May I inquire the nature of the conversation?”

“It was of a personal nature,” said Murphy, rather more shortly than he meant.

The Sultan nodded wistfully. “A Singhalûsi would have wasted an hour telling me half-truths—distorted enough to confuse, but not sufficiently inaccurate to anger me if I had a spy-cell on him all the time.”

Murphy grinned. “A Singhalûsi has to live here the rest of his life.”

A servant wheeled a frosted cabinet before them, placed goblets under two spigots, withdrew. The Sultan cleared his throat. “Trimmer is an excellent fellow, but unbelievably loquacious.”

Murphy drew himself two inches of chilled rosy-pale liquor. The Sultan slapped his boots with the twig. “Undoubtedly he confided all my private business to you, or at least as much as I have allowed him to learn.”

“Well—he spoke of your hope to increase the compass of Singhalût.”

“That, my friend, is no hope; it’s absolute necessity. Our population density is fifteen hundred to the square mile. We must expand or smother. There’ll be too little food to eat, too little oxygen to breathe.”

Murphy suddenly came to life. “I could make that idea the theme of my feature! Singhalût Dilemma: Expand or Perish!”

“No, that would be inadvisable, inapplicable.”

Murphy was not convinced. “It sounds like a natural.”

The Sultan smiled. “I’ll impart an item of confidential information—although Trimmer no doubt has preceded me with it.” He gave his boots an irritated whack. “To expand I need funds. Funds are best secured in an atmosphere of calm and confidence. The implication of emergency would be disastrous to my aims.”

“Well,” said Murphy, “I see your position.”

The Sultan glanced at Murphy sidelong. “Anticipating your cooperation, my Minister of Propaganda has arranged an hour’s program, stressing our progressive social attitude, our prosperity and financial prospects…”

“But, Sultan…”

“Well?”

“I can’t allow your Minister of Propaganda to use me and
Know Your Universe!
as a kind of investment brochure.”

The Sultan nodded wearily. “I expected you to take that attitude…Well—what do you yourself have in mind?”

“I’ve been looking for something to tie to,” said Murphy. “I think it’s going to be the dramatic contrast between the ruined cities and the new domed valleys. How the Earth settlers succeeded where the ancient people failed to meet the challenge of the dissipating atmosphere.”

“Well,” the Sultan said grudgingly, “that’s not too bad.”

“Today I want to take some shots of the palace, the dome, the city, the paddies, groves, orchards, farms. Tomorrow I’m taking a trip out to one of the ruins.”

“I see,” said the Sultan. “Then you won’t need my charts and statistics?”

“Well, Sultan, I could film the stuff your Propaganda Minister cooked up, and I could take it back to Earth. Howard Frayberg or Sam Catlin would tear into it, rip it apart, lard in some head-hunting, a little cannibalism and temple prostitution, and you’d never know you were watching Singhalût. You’d scream with horror, and I’d be fired.”

“In that case,” said the Sultan, “I will leave you to the dictates of your conscience.”

Howard Frayberg looked around the gray landscape of Riker’s Planet, gazed out over the roaring black Mogador Ocean. “Sam, I think there’s a story out there.”

Sam Catlin shivered inside his electrically heated glass overcoat. “Out on that ocean? It’s full of man-eating plesiosaurs—horrible things forty feet long.”

“Suppose we worked something out on the line of Moby Dick?
The White Monster of the Mogador Ocean
. We’d set sail in a catamaran—”

“Us?”

“No,” said Frayberg impatiently. “Of course not us. Two or three of the staff. They’d sail out there, look over these gray and red monsters, maybe fake a fight or two, but all the time they’re after the legendary white one. How’s it sound?”

“I don’t think we pay our men enough money.”

“Wilbur Murphy might do it. He’s willing to look for a man riding a horse up to meet his spaceships.”

“He might draw the line at a white plesiosaur riding up to meet his catamaran.”

Frayberg turned away. “Somebody’s got to have ideas around here…”

“We’d better head back to the space-port,” said Catlin. “We got two hours to make the Sirgamesk shuttle.”

Wilbur Murphy sat in the Barangipan, watching marionettes performing to xylophone, castanet, gong and
gamelan
. The drama had its roots in proto-historic Mohenj
-Dar
. It had filtered down through ancient India, medieval Burma, Malaya, across the Straits of Malacca to Sumatra and Java; from modern Java across space to Cirgamesç, five thousand years of time, two hundred light-years of space. Somewhere along the route it had met and assimilated modern technology. Magnetic beams controlled arms, legs and bodies, guided the poses and posturings. The manipulator’s face, by agency of clip, wire, radio control and minuscule selsyn, projected his scowl, smile, sneer or grimace to the peaked little face he controlled. The language was that of Old Java, which perhaps a third of the spectators understood. This portion did not include Murphy, and when the performance ended he was no wiser than at the start.

Soek Panjoebang slipped into the seat beside Murphy. She wore musician’s garb: a sarong of brown, blue, and black
batik
, and a fantastic headdress of tiny silver bells. She greeted him with enthusiasm.

“Weelbrrr! I saw you watching…”

“It was very interesting.”

“Ah, yes.” She sighed. “Weelbrrr, you take me with you back to Earth? You make me a great picturama star, please, Weelbrrr?”

“Well, I don’t know about that.”

“I behave very well, Weelbrrr.” She nuzzled his shoulder, looked soulfully up with her shiny yellow-hazel eyes. Murphy nearly forgot the experiment he intended to perform.

“What did you do today, Weelbrrr? You look at all the pretty girls?”

“Nope. I ran footage. Got the palace, climbed the ridge up to the condensation vanes. I never knew there was so much water in the air till I saw the stream pouring off those vanes! And
hot!
”

“We have much sunlight; it makes the rice grow.”

“The Sultan ought to put some of that excess light to work. There’s a secret process…Well, I’d better not say.”

“Oh come, Weelbrrr! Tell me your secrets!”

“It’s not much of a secret. Just a catalyst that separates clay into aluminum and oxygen when sunlight shines on it.”

Soek’s eyebrows rose, poised in place like a seagull riding the wind. “Weelbrrr! I did not know you for a man of learning!”

“Oh, you thought I was just a bum, eh? Good enough to make picturama stars out of
gamelan
players, but no special genius…”

“No, no, Weelbrrr.”

“I know lots of tricks. I can take a flashlight battery, a piece of copper foil, a few transistors and bamboo tube and turn out a paralyzer gun that’ll stop a man cold in his tracks. And you know how much it costs?”

“No, Weelbrrr. How much?”

“Ten cents. It wears out after two or three months, but what’s the difference? I make ’em as a hobby—turn out two or three an hour.”

“Weelbrrr! You’re a man of marvels! Hello! We will drink!”