Man in the Jar

THE HOTEL ROOM on the planet Meng was small and crowded. Blue-tinged sunlight from the window fell on a soiled gray carpet, a massive sandbox dotted with cigarette butts, a clutter of bottles. One corner of the room was piled high with baggage and curios. The occupant, a Mr. R. C. Vane of Earth, was sitting near the door: a man about fifty, clean shaven, with bristling iron-gray hair. He was quietly, murderously drunk.

There was a tap on the door and the bellhop slipped in—a native, tall and brown, with greenish black hair cut too long in the back. He looked about nineteen. He had one green eye and one blue.

“Set it there,” said Vane.

The bellhop put his tray down. “Yes, sir.” He took the unopened bottle of Ten Star off the tray, and the ice bucket, and the seltzer bottle, crowding them in carefully among the things already on the table. Then he put the empty bottles and ice bucket back on the tray. His hands were big and knob-jointed; he seemed too long and wide-shouldered for his tight green uniform.

“So this is Meng City,” said Vane, watching the bellhop. Vane was sitting erect and unrumpled in his chair, with his striped moth-wing jacket on and his string tie tied. He might have been sober, except for the deliberate way he spoke, and the redness of his eyes.

“Yes, sir,” said the bellhop, straightening up with the tray in his hands. “This your first time here, sir?”

“I came through two weeks ago,” Vane told him. “I did not like it then, and I do not like it now. Also, I do not like this room.”

“Management is sorry if you don’t like the room, sir. Very good view from this room.”

“It’s dirty and small,” said Vane, “but it doesn’t matter. I’m checking out this afternoon. Leaving on the afternoon rocket. I wasted two weeks upcountry, investigating Marack stories. Nothing to it—just native talk. Miserable little planet.” He sniffed, eyed the bellhop. “What’s your name, boy?”

“Jimmy Rocksha, sir.”

“Well, Jimmy Rocks in the Head, look at that pile of stuff.” Tourist goods, scarves and tapestries, rugs, blankets and other things were mounded over the piled suitcases. It looked like an explosion in a curio shop. “There’s about forty pounds of it I have no room for, not counting that knocked-down jar. Any suggestions?”

The bellhop thought about it slowly. “Sir, if I might suggest, you might put the scarves and things inside the jar.”

Vane said grudgingly, “That might work. You know how to put those things together?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Well, let us see you try. Go on, don’t stand there.”

The bellhop set his tray down again and crossed the room. A big bundle of gray pottery pieces, tied together with twine, had been stowed on top of Vane’s wardrobe trunk, a little above the bellhop’s head. Rocksha carefully removed his shoes and climbed on a chair. His brown feet were bare and clean. He lifted the bundle without effort, got down, set the bundle on the floor, and put his shoes back on.

Vane took a long swallow of his lukewarm highball, finishing it. He closed his eyes while he drank, and nodded over the glass for a moment afterward, as if listening to something inside him. “All right,” he said, getting up, “let us see.”

The bellhop loosened the twine. There were six long, thick, curving pieces, shaped a little like giant shoehorns. Then there were two round ones. One was bigger; that was the bottom. The other had a handle; that was the lid. The bellhop began to separate the pieces carefully, laying them out on the carpet.

“Watch out how you touch those together,” Vane grunted, coming up behind him. “I wouldn’t know how to get them apart again.”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s an antique which I got upcountry. They used to be used for storing grain and oil. The natives claim the Maracks had the secret of making them stick the way they do. Ever heard that?”

“Upcountry boys tell a lot of fine stories, sir,” said the bellhop. He had the six long pieces arranged, well separated, in a kind of petal pattern around the big flat piece. They took up most of the free space; the jar would be chest-high when it was assembled.

Standing up, the bellhop took two of the long curved pieces and carefully brought the sides closer together. They seemed to jump the last fraction of an inch, like magnets, and merged into one smooth piece. Peering, Vane could barely make out the join.

In the same way, the bellhop added another piece to the first two. Now he had half the jar assembled. Carefully he lowered this half jar toward the edge of the big flat piece. The pieces clicked together. The bellhop stooped for another side piece.

“Hold on a minute,” said Vane suddenly. “Got an idea. Instead of putting that thing all together, then trying to stuff things into it, use your brain. Put the things in, then put the rest of the side on.”

“Yes, sir,” said the bellhop. He laid the piece of crockery down again and picked up some light blankets, which he dropped on the bottom of the jar.

“Not that way, dummy,” said Vane impatiently. “Get in there—pack them down tight.”

The bellhop hesitated. “Yes, sir.” He stepped delicately over the remaining unassembled pieces and knelt on the bottom of the jar, rolling the blankets and pressing them snugly in.

Behind him, Vane moved on tiptoe like a dancer, putting two long pieces quietly together—tic!—then a third—tic!—and then as he lifted them, tic, clack! the sides merged into the bottom and the top. The jar was complete.

The bellhop was inside.

Vane breathed hard through flared nostrils. He took a cigar out of a green-lizard pocket case, cut it with a lapel knife, and lit it. Breathing smoke, he leaned over and looked down into the jar.

Except for a moan of surprise when the jar closed, the bellhop had not made a sound. Looking down, Vane saw his brown face looking up. “Let me out of this jar, please, sir,” said the bellhop.

“Can’t do that,” said Vane. “They didn’t tell me how, upcountry.”

The bellhop moistened his lips. “Upcountry, they use a kind of tree grease,” he said. “It creeps between the pieces, and they fall apart.”

“They didn’t give me anything like that,” said Vane indifferently.

“Then please, sir, you break this jar and let me come out.”

Vane picked a bit of tobacco off his tongue. He looked at it curiously and then flicked it away. “I spotted you,” he said, “in the lobby the minute I came in this morning. Tall and thin. Too strong for a native. One green eye, one blue. Two weeks I spent, upcountry, looking; and there you were in the lobby.”

“Sir—?”

“You’re a Marack,” said Vane flatly.

The bellhop did not answer for a moment. “But sir,” he said incredulously, “Maracks are legends, sir. Nobody believes that anymore. There are no Maracks.”

“You lifted that jar down like nothing,” said Vane. “Two boys put it up there. You’ve got the hollow temples. You’ve got the long jaw and the hunched shoulders.” Frowning, he took a billfold out of his pocket and took out a yellowed card. He showed it to the bellhop. “Look at that.”

It was a faded photograph of a skeleton in a glass case. There was something disturbing about the skeleton. It was too long and thin; the shoulders seemed hunched, the skull was narrow and hollow-templed. Under it, the printing said, ABORIGINE OF NEW CLEVELAND, MENG (SIGMA LYRAE II) and in smaller letters, Newbold Anthropological Museum, Ten Eyck, Queensland, N. T.

“Found it between the pages of a book two hundred years old,” said Vane, carefully putting it back. “It was mailed as a postcard to an ancestor of mine. A year later, I happened to be on Nova Terra. Now get this. The museum is still there, but that skeleton is not. They deny it ever was there. Curator seemed to think it was a fake. None of the native races on Meng have skeletons like that, he said.”

“Must be a fake, sir,” the bellhop agreed.

“I will tell you what I did next,” Vane went on. “I read all the contemporary accounts I could find of frontier days on this planet. A couple of centuries ago, nobody on Meng thought the Maracks were legends. They looked enough like the natives to pass, but they had certain special powers. They could turn one thing into another. They could influence your mind by telepathy, if you weren’t on your guard against them. I found this interesting. I next read all the export records back to a couple of centuries ago. Also, the geological charts in Planetary Survey. I discovered something. It just happens, there is no known source of natural diamonds anywhere on Meng.”

“No, sir?” said the bellhop nervously.

“Not one. No diamonds, and no place where they ever could have been mined. But until two hundred years ago, Meng exported one billion stellors’ worth of flawless diamonds every year. I ask, where did they come from? And why did they stop?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“The Maracks made them,” said Vane. “For a trader named Soong and his family. They died. After that, no more diamonds from Meng.” He opened a suitcase, rummaged inside it a moment, and took out two objects. One was a narrow oval bundle of something wrapped in stiff yellow plant fibers; the other was a shiny gray-black lump half the size of his fist.

“Do you know what this is?” Vane asked, holding up the oval bundle.

“No, sir.”

“Air weed, they call it upcountry. One of the old men had this one buried under his hut, along with the jar. And this.” He held up the black lump. “Nothing special about it, would you say? Just a piece of graphite, probably from the old mine at Badlong. But graphite is pure carbon. And so is a diamond.”

He put both objects carefully down on the nearby table, and wiped his hands. The graphite had left black smudges on them. “Think about it,” he said. “You’ve got exactly one hour, till three o’clock.” Delicately he tapped his cigar over the mouth of the jar. A few flakes of powdery ash floated down on the bellhop’s upturned face.

Vane went back to his chair. He moved deliberately and a little stiffly, but did not stagger. He peeled the foil off the bottle of Ten Star. He poured himself a substantial drink, added ice, splashed a little seltzer in. He took a long, slow swallow.

“Sir,” said the bellhop finally, “you know I can’t make any diamonds out of black rock. What’s going to happen, when it comes three o’clock, and that rock is still just a piece of rock?”

“I think,” said Vane, “I will just take the wrappings off that air weed and drop it in the jar with you. Air weed, I am told, will expand to hundreds of time its volume in air. When it fills the jar to the brim, I will put the lid on. And when we’re crossing that causeway to the spaceport, I think you may get tipped off the packrat into the bay. The bottom is deep silt, they tell me.” He took another long, unhurried swallow.

“Think about it,” he said, staring at the jar with red eyes.

Inside the jar, it was cool and dim. The bellhop had enough room to sit fairly comfortably with his legs crossed, or else he could kneel, but then his face came right up to the mouth of the jar. The opening was too small for his head. He could not straighten up any farther, or put his legs out. The bellhop was sweating in his tight uniform. He was afraid. He was only nineteen, and nothing like this had ever happened to him before.

The clink of ice came from across the room. The bellhop said, “Sir?”

The chair springs whined, and after a moment the Earth-man’s face appeared over the mouth of the jar. His chin was dimpled. There were gray hairs in his nostrils, and a few gray and black bristles in the creases of loose skin around his jaw. His red eyes were hooded and small. He looked down into the bellhop’s face without speaking.

“Sir,” the bellhop said earnestly, “do you know how much they pay me here at this hotel?”

“No.”

“Twelve stellors a week, sir, and my meals. If I could make diamonds, sir, why would I be working here?”

Vane’s expression did not change. “I will tell you that,” he said. “Soong must have been sweating you Maracks to get a billion stellors a year. There used to be thousands of you on this continent alone, but now there are so few that you can disappear among the natives. I would guess the diamonds took too much out of you. You’re close to extinction now. And you’re all scared. You’ve gone underground. You’ve still got your powers, but you don’t dare use them—unless there’s no other way to keep your secret. You were lords of this planet once, but you’d rather stay alive. Of course, all this is merely guesswork.”

“Yes, sir,” said the bellhop despairingly.

The house phone rang. Vane crossed the room and thumbed the key down, watching the bellhop from the corner of his eye. “Yes?”

“Mr. Vane,” said the voice of the desk clerk, “if I may ask, did the refreshments you ordered arrive?”

“The bottle came,” Vane answered. “Why?”

The bellhop was listening, balling his fists on his knees. Sweat stood out on his brown forehead.

“Oh nothing really, Mr. Vane,” said the clerk’s voice, “only the boy did not come back. He is usually very reliable, Mr. Vane. But excuse me for troubling you.”

“All right,” said Vane stonily, and turned the phone off. He came back to the jar. He swayed a little, rocking back and forth from heels to toes. In one hand he had the highball glass; with the other he was playing with the little osmiridium knife that hung by an expanding chain from his lapel. After a while he said, “Why didn’t you call for help?”

The bellhop did not answer. Vane went on softly, “Those hotel phones will pick up a voice across the room, I know. So why were you so quiet?”

The bellhop said unhappily, “If I did yell, sir, they would find me in this jar.”

“And so?”

The bellhop grimaced. “There’s some other people that still believe in Maracks, sir. I have to be careful, with my eyes. They would know there could only be the one reason why you would treat me like this.”

Vane studied him for a moment. “And you’d take a chance on the air weed, and the bay, just to keep anyone from finding out?”

“It’s a long time since we had any Marack hunts on this planet, sir.”

Vane snorted softly. He glanced up at the wall clock. “Forty minutes,” he said, and went back to his chair by the door.

The bellhop said nothing. The room was silent except for the faint whir of the clock. After a while Vane moved to the writing desk. He put a printed customs declaration form in the machine and began tapping keys slowly, muttering over the complicated Interstellar symbols.

“Sir,” said the bellhop quietly, “you know you can’t kill a biped person and just get away. This is not like the bad old times.”

Vane grunted, tapping keys. “Think not?” He took a sip from his highball and set it down again with a clink of ice.

“Even if they find out you have mistreated the headman upcountry, sir, they will be very severe.”

“They won’t find out,” Vane said. “Not from him.”

“Sir, even if I could make you your diamond, it would only be worth a few thousand stellors. That is nothing to a man like you.”

Vane paused and half turned. “Flawless, that weight, it would be worth a hundred thousand. But I’m not going to sell it.” He turned back to the machine, finished a line, and started another.

“No, sir?”

“No. I’m going to keep it.” Vane’s eyes half closed; his fingers poised motionless on the keys. He seemed to come to himself with a start, hit another key, and rolled the paper out of the machine. He picked up an envelope and rose, looking over the paper in his hand.

“Just to keep it, sir, and look at it now and then?” the bellhop asked softly. Sweat was running down into his eyes, but he kept his fists motionless on his knees.

“That’s it,” said Vane with the same faraway look. He folded the paper slowly and put it into the envelope as he walked toward the message chute near the door. At the last moment he checked himself, snapped the paper open again and stared at it. A slow flush came to his cheeks. Crumpling the paper slowly in his hands, he said, “That almost worked.” He tore the paper across deliberately, and then again, and again, before he threw the pieces away.

“Just one symbol in the wrong box,” he said, “but it was the right wrong symbol. I’ll tell you where you made your mistake though, boy.” He came closer.

“I don’t understand,” said the bellhop.

“You thought if you could get me to thinking about that diamond, my mind would wander. It did—but I knew what was happening. Here’s where you made your mistake. I don’t give a damn about that diamond.”

“Sir?” said the bellhop in bewilderment.

“A stellor to you is a new pair of pants. A stellor to me, or a thousand stellors is just a poker chip. It’s the game that counts. The excitement.”

“Sir, I don’t know what you mean.”

Vane snorted. “You know, all right. You’re getting a little dangerous now, aren’t you? You’re cornered, and the time’s running out. So you took a little risk.” He stooped, picked up one of the scraps of paper, unfolded it and smoothed it out. “Right here, in the box where the loyalty oath to the Archon is supposed to go, I wrote the symbol for ‘pig.’ If I sent that down, the thought police would be up here in fifteen minutes.” He balled up the paper again, into an even smaller wad, and dropped it on the carpet. “Think you can make me forget to pick that up again and burn it, before I leave?” he said amiably. “Try.”

The bellhop swallowed hard. “Sir, you did that yourself. You made a slip of the finger.”

Vane smiled at him for the first time, and walked away.

The bellhop put his back against the wall of the jar and pushed with all his strength against the opposite side. He pushed until the muscles of his back stood out in knotted ropes. The pottery walls were as solid as rock.

He was sweating more than ever. He relaxed, breathing hard; he rested his head on his knees and tried to think. The bellhop had heard of bad Earthmen before, but he had never seen one like this.

He straightened up. “Sir, are you still there?”

The chair creaked and Vane came over, glass in hand.

“Sir,” said the bellhop earnestly, “if I can prove to you that I’m really not a Marack, will you let me go? I mean, you’ll have to let me go then, won’t you?”

“Why, certainly,” said Vane agreeably. “Go ahead and prove it.”

“Well, sir, haven’t you heard other things about the Marack—some other test?”

Vane looked thoughtful; he put his chin down on his chest and his eyes filmed over.

“About what they can or can’t do?” the bellhop suggested. “If I tell you, sir, you might think I made it up.”

“Wait a minute,” said Vane. He was swaying slightly, back and forth, his eyes half closed. His string tie was still perfectly tied, his striped moth-wing jacket immaculate. He said. “I remember something. The Marack hunters used this a good deal, I understand. Maracks can’t stand liquor. It makes them sick.”

“You’re positive about that, sir?” the bellhop said eagerly.

“Of course I’m positive. It’s like poison to a Marack.”

“All right then, sir!”

Vane nodded, and went to the table to get the bottle of Ten Star. It was still two-thirds full. He came back with it and said, “Open your mouth.”

The bellhop opened his mouth wide and shut his eyes. He did not like Earth liquor, especially brandy, but he thought he could drink it if it would get him out of this jar.

The liquor hit his teeth and the back of his mouth in one solid splash; it poured down both cheeks and some of it ran up his nose. The bellhop choked and strangled. The liquor burned all the way down his throat and windpipe; tears blinded him; he couldn’t breathe. When the paroxysm was over, he gasped, “Sir—sir—that wasn’t a fair test. You shouldn’t have poured it on me like that. Give me a little bit, in a glass.”

“Now, I want to be fair,” said Vane. “We’ll try it again.” He found an empty glass, poured two fingers of brandy into it, and came back. “Easy does it,” he said, and trickled a little into the bellhop’s mouth.

The bellhop swallowed, his head swimming in brandy fumes. “Once more,” said Vane, and poured again. The bellhop swallowed. The liquor was gathering in a ball of heat inside him. “Again.” He swallowed.

Vane stood back. The bellhop opened his eyes and looked blissfully up at him. “You see, sir? No sickness. I drank it, and I’m not sick!”

“Hmm,” said Vane with an interested expression. “Well, imagine that. Maracks can drink liquor.”

The bellhop’s victorious smile slowly faded. He looked incredulous. “Sir, don’t joke with me,” he said.

Vane sniffed. “If you think it’s a joke—” he said with heavy humor.

“Sir, you promised.”

“Oh, no. By no means,” said Vane. “I said if you could prove to me that you are not a Marack. Go ahead, prove it. Here’s another little test for you, incidentally. An anatomist I know looked at that skeleton and told me it was constricted at the shoulders. A Marack can’t lift his hand higher than his head. So begin by telling me why you stood on a chair to get my bundle down—or better yet, just put your arm out the neck of that jar.”

There was a silence. Vane took another cigar out of the green-lizard case, cut it with the little osmiridium knife, and lit it without taking his eyes off the bellhop. “Now you’re getting dangerous again,” he said. “You’re thinking it over, down there. This begins to get interesting. You’re wondering how you can kill me from inside that jar, without using your Marack powers. Go ahead. Think about it.”

He breathed smoke, leaning toward the jar. “You’ve got fifteen minutes.”

Working without haste, Vane rolled up all the blankets and other souvenirs and strapped them into bundles. He removed some toilet articles from the dresser and packed them away in his grip. He took a last look around the room, saw the paper scraps on the floor and picked up the tiny pellet he had made of one of them. He showed it to the bellhop with a grin, then dropped it into the ash-receiver and burned it. He sat down comfortably in the chair near the door. “Five minutes,” he said.

“Four minutes,” he said.

“Three minutes.

“Two minutes.”

“All right,” said the bellhop.

“Yes?” Vane got up and stood over the jar.

“I’ll do it—make the diamond.”

“Ahh?” said Vane, half questioningly. He picked up the lump of graphite and held it out.

“I don’t need to touch it,” the bellhop said listlessly. “Just put it down on the table. This will take about a minute.”

“Umm,” said Vane, watching him keenly. The bellhop was crouched in the jar, eyes closed; all Vane could see of him was the glossy green-black top of his head.

His voice was muffled. “If you just hadn’t had that air weed,” he said sullenly.

Vane snorted. “I didn’t need the air weed. I could have taken care of you in a dozen ways. This knife”—he held it up—“has a molar steel blade. Cut through anything, like cheese. I could have minced you up and floated you down the drain.”

The bellhop’s face turned up, pale and wide-eyed.

“No time for that now, though,” Vane said. “It would have to be the air weed.”

“Is that how you’re going to get me loose, afterward?” the bellhop asked. “Cut the jar, with that knife?”

“Mm? Oh, certainly,” said Vane, watching the graphite lump. Was there a change in its appearance, or not?

“I’m disappointed, in a way,” he said. “I thought you’d give me a fight. You Maracks are overrated, I suppose.”

“It’s all done,” said the bellhop. “Take it, please, and let me out.”

Vane’s eyes narrowed. “It doesn’t look done to me,” he said.

“It just looks black on the outside, sir. Just rub it off.”

Vane did not move.

“Go ahead, sir,” said the bellhop urgently. “Pick it up and see.”

“You’re a little too eager,” Vane said. He took a fountain pen out of his pocket and used it to prod the graphite gingerly. Nothing happened; the lump moved freely across the tabletop. Vane touched it briefly with one finger, then picked it up in his hand. “No tricks?” he said quizzically. He felt the lump, weighed it, put it down again. There were black graphite smears in his palm.

Vane opened his lapel knife and cut the graphite lump down the middle. It fell into two shiny black pieces. “Graphite,” said Vane, and with an angry gesture he struck the knife blade into the table.

He turned to the bellhop, dusting off his hands. “I don’t get you,” he said, prodding the oval bundle of the air weed experimentally. He picked it up. “All you did was stall. You won’t fight like a Marack, you won’t give in like a Marack. All you’ll do is die like a Meng-boy, right?” He shook his head. “Disappointing.” The dry wrappings came apart in his hands. Between the fibers a dirty-white bulge began to show.

Vane lifted the package to drop it into the jar, and saw that the bellhop’s scared face filled the opening. While he hesitated briefly, the gray-white floss of the air weed foamed slowly out over the back of his hand. Vane felt a constriction, and instinctively tried to drop the bundle. He couldn’t. The growing, billowing floss was sticky—it stuck to his hand. Then his sleeve. It grew, slowly but with a horrifying steadiness.

Gray-faced, Vane whipped his arm around, trying to shake off the weed. Like thick lather, the floss spattered downward but did not separate. A glob of it hit his trouser leg and clung. Another, swelling, dripped down to the carpet. His whole right arm and side were covered deep under a mound of white. The floss had now stopped growing and seemed to be stiffening.

The bellhop began to rock himself back and forth inside the jar. The jar tipped, then fell back. The bellhop rocked harder. The jar was inching its way across the carpet.

After a few moments the bellhop paused to put his face up and see which way he was going. Vane, held fast by the weed, was leaning toward the table, straining hard, reaching with his one free hand toward the knife he had put there. The carpet bulged after him in a low mound, but too much furniture was holding it.

The bellhop lowered his head and rocked the jar again, harder. When he looked up, Vane’s eyes were closed tight, his face red with effort. He was extended as far as he could reach across the table, but his fingers were still clawing air an inch short of the knife. The bellhop rocked hard. The jar inched forward, came to rest solidly against the table, pinning Vane’s arm against it by the flaring sleeve.

The bellhop relaxed and looked up. Feeling himself caught, the Earthman had stopped struggling and was looking down. He tugged, but could not pull the sleeve free.

Neither spoke for a moment.

“Stalemate,” said Vane heavily. He showed his teeth to the bellhop. “Close, but no prize. I can’t get at you, and you can’t hurt me.”

The bellhop’s head bowed as if in assent. After a moment his long arm came snaking up out of the jar. His fingers closed around the deadly little knife.

“A Marack can lift his arm higher than his head, sir,” he said.