Magnus ridolph omnibus, p.1
Magnus Ridolph Omnibus, page 1
Magnus Ridolph
Jack Vance
Copyright 2012 by Jack Vance
Cover art by C. Michael Taylor
Published by
Spatterlight Press
ISBN 978-1-61947-001-9
2012-06-15
Visit jackvance.com for more
Spatterlight Press releases
Hard Luck Diggings, 1948. Sanatoris Short-cut, 1948. The Sub-standard Sardines, 1948. The Unspeakable McInch, 1948. The King of Thieves, 1948. To B or Not to C or to D, 1949. The Howling Bounders, 1949. Spa of the Stars, 1950. The Kokod Warriors, 1951. Coup de Grace, 1957.
This title was created from the digital archive of the Vance Integral Edition, a series of 44 books produced under the aegis of the author by a worldwide group of his readers. The VIE project gratefully acknowledges the editorial guidance of Norma Vance, as well as the cooperation of the Department of Special Collections at Boston University, whose John Holbrook Vance collection has been an important source of textual evidence. Special thanks to R.C. Lacovara, Patrick Dusoulier, Koen Vyverman, Paul Rhoads, Chuck King, Gregory Hansen, Suan Yong and Josh Geller for their invaluable assistance preparing final versions of the source files.
Source: John Rick, Digitize: Mark Adams, Richard Chandler, Joel Hedlund, Alun Hughes, Damien G. Jones, Charles King, Luk Schoonaert, Peter Strickland, Dave Worden, Format: John A. Schwab, Diff: Christian J. Corley, Joel Hedlund, Damien G. Jones, David A. Kennedy, Charles King, David Reitsema, Steve Sherman, Hans van der Veeke, Diff-Merge: Steve Sherman, Koen Vyverman, Tech Proof: Bob Moody, Rob Friefeld, Donn Olmsted Sr, Joel Riedesel, Matt Westwood, Hans van der Veeke, Text Integrity: Christian J. Corley, Rob Friefeld, Rob Gerrand, David A. Kennedy, Charles King, Paul Rhoads, Steve Sherman, Tim Stretton, Implement: Donna Adams, Mark Adams, Derek W. Benson, Mike Dennison, Joel Hedlund, Damien G. Jones, David Reitsema, Hans van der Veeke, Security: David A. Kennedy, Paul Rhoads, Tim Stretton, Suan Hsi Yong, Compose: Joel Anderson, Andreas Irle, Comp Review: Christian J. Corley, Marcel van Genderen, Brian Gharst, Charles King, Bob Luckin, Robert Melson, Paul Rhoads, Robin L. Rouch, Update Verify: Rob Friefeld, Charles King, Bob Luckin, Robert Melson, Paul Rhoads, Robin L. Rouch, John A. Schwab, RTF-Diff: Mark Bradford, Deborah Cohen, Patrick Dusoulier, Charles King, Sean O'Sullivan, Errico Rescigno, Bill Schaub, Textport: Patrick Dusoulier, Charles King, Proofread: Neil Anderson, Kristine Anstrats, Mike Barrett, Malcolm Bowers, Mark Bradford, Richard Chandler, Ron Chernich, Deborah Cohen, Matthew Colburn, Robert Collins, Christian J. Corley, Christian J. Corley, Alex Crowther, Greg Delson, Michael Duncan, Patrick Dusoulier, Patrick Dymond, Andrew Edlin, Patrick van Efferen, Harry Erwin, Linda Escher, Rob Friefeld, Rob Gerrand, Carl Goldman, Tony Graham, Craig Heartwell, Wayne Henry, Marc Herant, Brent Heustess, Peter Ikin, David A. Kennedy, Charles King, Rob Knight, Stephane Leibovitsch, Thomas Lindgren, Bob Luckin, John Ludley, Roderick MacBeath, Betty Mayfield, Chris McCormick, Robert Melson, Bob Moody, Bob Moody, Till Noever, Michael Nolan, Jim Pattison, Lee Petersen, Linda Petersen, Matt Picone, Simon Read, David Reitsema, Errico Rescigno, Paul Rhoads, Joel Riedesel, John Robinson Jr., Axel Roschinski, Robin L. Rouch, Jeffrey Ruszczyk, Mike Schilling, Bill Sherman, Steve Sherman, Mark Shoulder, Michael J. Smith, Carl Spalletta, Gabriel Stein, Mark J. Straka, Per Sundfeldt, Anthony Thompson, Willem Timmer, Fred Zoetemeyer
Ebook Creation: Arjen Broeze, Christopher Wood, Artwork (maps based on original drawings by Jack and Norma Vance): Paul Rhoads, Christopher Wood, Proofing: Arjen Broeze, Evert Jan de Groot, Gregory Hansen, Menno van der Leden, Koen Vyverman, Management: John Vance, Koen Vyverman, Web: Menno van der Leden
THE COMPLETE WORKS
of
Jack Vance
Magnus Ridolph
THE VANCE DIGITAL EDITION
Oakland
2012
To B or Not to C or to D
Previously published as
Cosmic Hotfoot
Coup de Grâce
Previously published as
Worlds of Origin
Contents
Hard Luck Diggings
Sanatoris Short-cut
The Sub-Standard Sardines
The Unspeakable McInch
The King of Thieves
To B or Not to C or to D
The Howling Bounders
The Spa of the Stars
The Kokod Warriors
Coup de Grâce
Hard Luck Diggings
In solving a problem, I form and consider every conceivable premise. If each of these results in an impossible set of implications, except one, whose consequence is merely improbable: then that lone hypothesis, no matter how unprecedented, is necessarily the correct solution of the problem.
— Magnus Ridolph
Superintendent James Rogge’s office occupied the top of a low knoll at Diggings A, and his office, through a semi-circular window, overlooked both diggings, A and B, all the way down to the beach and the strange-colored ocean beyond.
Rogge sat within, chair turned to the window, drumming his fingers in quick irregular tempo. Suddenly he jumped to his feet and strode across the room. He was tall and thin, and his black eyes sparkled in a face parched and bony, while his chin dished out below his mouth like a shovel-blade.
He punched a button at the telescreen, waited, leaning slightly forward, his finger still holding down the button. There was no response. The screen hummed quietly, but remained ash-gray, dead.
Rogge clenched his fists. “What a demoralized outfit! Won’t even answer the screen.”
As he turned his back, the screen came alive. Rogge swung around, clasped his hands behind his back. “Well?”
“Sorry, Mr. Rogge, but they’ve just found another,” panted the cadet engineer.
Rogge stiffened. “Where, this time?”
“In the shower room. He’d just been cleaning up.”
Rogge flung his arms out from his sides. “How many times have I told them not to shower alone? By Deneb, I can’t be everywhere! Haven’t they brains enough —” A knock at the door interrupted him. A time-keeper pushed his head in.
“The mail ship’s in sight, Mr. Rogge.”
Rogge took a step toward the door, looked back over his shoulder.
“You attend to that, Kelly. I’m holding you responsible!”
The cadet blinked. “I can’t help it if —” he began querulously, but he was speaking to the retreating back of his superior, and then the empty office. He muttered, dialed off.
Rogge strode out on the beach. He was early, for the ship was still a black spot in the purple-blue sky. When it finally settled, fuming and hissing, on the glinting gray sand, Rogge hardly waited for the steam to billow away before stepping forward to the port.
There was a few minutes’ delay while the crew released themselves from their shock-belts. Rogge shuffled his feet, fidgeting like a nervous race-horse. Metallic sounds came from within. The dogs twisted, the port opened with a sigh, and Rogge moved irritably back from the smell of hot oil, men, carbolic acid, paint.
A round, red face looked out the port.
“Hello, doc,” called Rogge. “All cleared for landing?”
“Germ-free,” said the red face. “Safe as Sunday school.”
“Well, open ’er up!”
The flushed medico eyed Rogge with a detached bird-like curiosity. “You in a hurry?”
Rogge tilted his head, stared at the doctor, eye to eye. The red face disappeared, the port opened wider, a short plump man in blue shorts swung out on the stage, descended the ladder. He flipped a hand to Rogge.
“Hello, Julic,” said Rogge, peering up past him to the open port. “Any passengers?”
“Thirteen replacements for you. Cat-skinners, a couple plumbers — space-sick all the way.”
Rogge snorted, jerked his head. “Thirteen? Do you know I’ve lost thirty-three men this last month? Didn’t you pick up a T.C.I. man in Starport?”
The captain looked at him sidewise. “Yes, he’s aboard. Looks like you’re anxious.”
“Anxious!” Rogge grinned wickedly, humorlessly. “You’d be anxious yourself with two, three men strangled every day.”
Captain Julic narrowed his eyes. “It’s true, is it?” He looked up to the two tall cliffs that marked Diggings A and B, the raw clutter of barracks and machine-shops below. “We heard rumors in Starport, but I didn’t —” His voice dwindled away. Then: “Any idea at all who’s doing it?”
“Not one in the world. It’s a homicidal maniac, no doubt as to that, but every time I think I’ve got him spotted, there’s another killing. The whole camp’s demoralized. I can’t get an honest day’s work out of any man on the place. I’m a month behind schedule. I radioed the T.C.I. two weeks ago.”
Captain Julic nodded toward the port. “There he is.”
Rogge took a half-step forward, halted, blinked. The man descending the ladder was of medium height, medium weight, and something past middle-age. He had white hair, a small white beard, a fine straight nose.
Rogge darted a glance at Captain Julic who returned him a humorous shrug. Rogge turned back to the old man, now gazing leisurely up and down the glistening gray beach, out over the lambent white ocean.
Rogge pulled his head between his bony shoulders, stepped forward. “Ah — I’m James Rogge, Superintendent,” he rasped. The old man turned, and Rogge found himself looking into wide, blue eyes, clear and guileless.
“My name is Magnus Ridolph,” said the old man. “I understand that you’re having difficulty?
“Yes,” said Rogge. He stood back, looking Magnus Ridolph up and down. “I was expecting a man from the Intelligence Corps.”
Magnus Ridolph nodded. “I happened to be passing through Starport and the Commander asked me to visit you. At the moment I’m not officially connected with the Corps, but I’ll do all I can to help you.”
Rogge clamped his teeth, glared out to sea. At last he turned back to Ridolph. “Here’s the situation. Men are being murdered, I don’t know by whom. The whole camp is demoralized. I’ve ordered the entire personnel to go everywhere in couples — and still they’re killed!”
Magnus Ridolph looked across the beach to the hills, low rounded masses covered with glistening vegetation in all shades of black, gray and white.
“Suppose you show me around the camp.”
Rogge hesitated. “Are you ready — right now? Sure you don’t want to rest first?”
“I’m ready.”
Rogge turned to the captain. “See you at dinner, Julic — unless you want to come around with us?”
Captain Julic hesitated. “Just a minute, till I tell the mate I’m ashore.” He clambered up the ladder.
Magnus Ridolph was gazing out at the slow-heaving, milk-white ocean that glowed as if illuminated from beneath.
“Plankton?”
Rogge nodded. “Intensely luminescent. At night the ocean shines like molten metal.”
Magnus Ridolph nodded. “This is a very beautiful planet. So Earthlike and yet so strangely different in its coloring.”
“That’s right,” said Rogge. “Whenever I look up on the hill I think of an extremely complicated steel engraving … the different tones of gray in the leaves.”
“What, if any, is the fauna of the planet?”
“So far we’ve found creatures that resemble panthers, quite a few four-armed apes, and any number of rodents,” Rogge said.
“No intelligent aborigines?”
Rogge shook his head. “So far as we know — no. And we’ve surveyed a good deal of the planet.”
“How many men in the camp?”
“Eleven hundred, thereabouts,” said Rogge. “Eight hundred at Diggings A, three hundred at B. It’s at B where the murders occur. I’m thinking of closing down the diggings for a while.”
Magnus Ridolph tugged at his beard. “Murders only at Diggings B? Have you shifted the personnel?”
Rogge nodded, glared at the massive column of ore that was Diggings B. “I’ve changed every man-jack in the camp. And still the killings go on — in locked rooms, in the showers, the toilets, anywhere a man happens to be alone for a minute or two.”
“It sounds almost as if you’ve disturbed an invisible genius loci,” said Magnus Ridolph.
Rogge snorted. “If that means ‘ghost’, I’ll agree with you. ‘Ghost’ is about the only explanation I got left. Four times, now, a man has been killed in a locked room with no opening larger than a barred four-inch ventilator. We’ve slipped into the room with nets, screened every cubic foot. Nothing.”
Captain Julic came down the ladder, joined Rogge and Magnus Ridolph. They turned up the hard-packed gray beach toward Diggings A, a jut of rock breaking sharply out of the gently rolling hills.
“The ore,” Rogge explained, “lies in a layer at about ground level. We’re bull-dozing the top-surface off onto the beach. When we’re all done, that big crag will be leveled flat to the ground, and the little bay will be entirely filled.”
“And Diggings B is the same proposition?” asked Magnus Ridolph. “It looks about the same formation from here.”
“Yes, it’s about the same. They’re old volcanic necks, both of them. At B, we’re pushing the fill into a low canyon in back. When we’re done at B — if we ever get done — the canyon will be level full a mile back, and we’ll use it for a town-site.”
They climbed up from the beach on a sloping shoulder of rock. Rogge guided them toward the edge of the forest, fifty feet distant.
“I’ll show you something,” Rogge said. “Fruit like you’ve never seen before in your life.” He stopped at a shiny black trunk, plucked one of the red globes that hung within easy reach. “Try one of these.” And Rogge bit into one of the soft skins himself.
Magnus Ridolph and the captain gravely followed suit.
“They are indeed very good,” said the old man.
“They don’t grow at B,” said Rogge bitterly. “Just along this stretch here. Diggings B is the hard-luck spot of the entire project. The leopards and apes killed men at B until we put up a charged steel fence. Here at A there’s some underbrush that keeps them out. Full of thorns.”
A sound in the foliage attracted his attention. He craned his neck. “Look! There’s one right now — an ape!” And Magnus Ridolph and the captain, looking where he pointed, glimpsed a monstrous black barrel, a hideous face with red eyes and a fanged mouth. The brute observed them, hissed softly, took a challenging step forward. Magnus Ridolph and the captain jerked back. Rogge laughed.
“You’re safe. Watch him.”
The ape lunged nearer, then suddenly halted, with a roar. He struck out a great arm at the air, roared again. He charged forward, stopped short, howling, retreated.
Rogge threw the core of the fruit at him. “If this were at B, he’d have killed the three of us.” He peered through the foliage. “Gah! Get away from here, you ugly devil!” And Rogge ducked in alarm as a length of stick hurtled past his head.
“The creature apparently has a comparatively high order of intelligence,” suggested Magnus Ridolph.
“Mmph,” snapped Rogge. “Well — perhaps so. We killed one at Diggings B, and two others dug a grave for him under a tree, buried him while we were watching.”
Magnus Ridolph looked soberly into the forest. “I can tell you how to stop these murders.”
Rogge jerked his head around. “How?”
“Survey off an area of land, in such a way that both diggings, A and B, are a mile inside the perimeter. Around the boundary erect a charged steel fence, and clear the land inside of all vegetation.”
Rogge stared. “But how —” His belt radio buzzed. He flipped the switch.
“Superintendent Rogge!” came a voice.
“Yes!” barked Rogge.
“Foundry-foreman Jelson’s got it!”
Rogge turned to Captain Julic and Magnus Ridolph. “Come along. I’ll show you.”
Ten minutes later they stood staring down at the naked body of Foreman Jelson. He had been taking a shower and his body still glistened with the wet. A red and blue bruise ringed his neck, his eyes popped, and his tongue lolled from the side of his mouth.
“We was right here, sittin’ in the dressin’ room,” babbled a red-headed mechanic. “We didn’t see a thing. Jelson went in to shower. The next thing, we heard him flop — and there he was!”
Rogge turned to Magnus Ridolph. “You see? That’s what’s been going on. Do you still think that building a fence will stop the murders?”
Ridolph mused, a hand at his white beard. “Tonight, if I am not mistaken, there will be a murder attempted at Diggings A.”
Rogge’s mouth opened slackly, then snapped shut. From behind came the sobbing breath of the red-headed mechanic.
“Diggings A? How? Why do you say that?”
“No one will be killed, I hope,” said Magnus Ridolph. “Indeed, if I’m wrong my theory has been founded on a non-comprehensive survey of the possibilities, and there may be no attempt upon my life.” He stared thoughtfully at the corpse. “Perhaps I overestimate the understanding and ability of the murderer.”
Rogge turned away. “Call the medics,” he snapped to the mechanic.
They rode back to Diggings A in a jeep, and Rogge took Captain Julic and Magnus Ridolph to his apartment for the evening meal.
“I could easily clear the land,” he told Ridolph, “but I can’t understand what you have in mind.”
Magnus Ridolph smiled slowly. “I have an alternate proposal.”
“And what’s that?”
“Armor the necks of your personnel in steel bands.”
Rogge snorted. “Then the murderer would go to smashing skulls or poisoning.”
