The Many Worlds of Magnus Ridolph

THE SPA OF THE STARS

JOE BLAINE sat, limp as a pillow, in his swivel chair, chewing morbidly at a dead cigar. The desk supported his feet. He stroked his pink jowl with a hand that was all flesh and no bone. His mood was one of gloom.

Many extremes had enlivened Joe Blaine's life: triumphs, failures, vicissitudes of many sorts. But never such an abysmal piece of cheese as the Spa of the Stars.

Outside, the white sun Eta Pisces shone with a tingling radiance on a landscape sparkling white, blue and green. ("Enjoy the zestful light of the Cluster's healthiest sun in surroundings of inexpressible beauty" - excerpt from the Spa's brochure.)

A lazy sea folded surf along a beach of pure sand behind which a wall of jungle rose four hundred feet, steep as a cliff. ("Vacation at the edge of unexplored jungle mysteries," read the brochure, and the illustration showed a lovely nude woman with apple-green skin standing under a tree blazing with red and black flowers.)

A big hotel, miles of beach, a hundred orange and green cabanas, an open-air dance pavilion, a theater, tennis courts, sail boats, an arcade of expensive shops, a race-track with grandstand and stables - this was the Spa of the Stars just as Joe Blaine had conceived it. Nothing was lacking but the nude green woman. If Joe Blaine had known where to get one, she'd have been there too.

There was another discrepancy. Joe had envisioned the lobby full of stylish women, the beach covered with bronze flesh. In his mind's-eye he had seen the grandstand black with sportsmen, all anxious to dispute the wisdom of the odds he had set. Each of the seven bars - as he had pictured them - were lined three deep, with the bartenders sweating and complaining of overwork... Joe Blaine grunted and threw his cigar out the window.

The door split back and Mayla, his secretary, entered. Her hair was bright as the sands of the beach; she had eyes blue as the sea before it toppled to surf. She was slender, flexible, and her flesh had the compelling, clutchable look of a marshmallow. She was a creature of instinct, rather than intellect, and this suited Joe Blaine very well. Crossing the room, she patted the pink spot on his scalp.

"Cheer up, Joe, it can't be that bad."

The words catalyzed Joe's smouldering dejection to an angry bray.

"How could it be worse? You tell me... Ten million munits sunk into the place and three paying guests!"

Mayla settled herself into a chair, thoughtfully puffed alight a cigarette.

"Just wait till the noise of those accidents dies down... They'll be back like flies. After all, we got a lot of publicity-"

"Publicity! Huh! Nine bathers killed by sea-beetles the first day. The gorilla-things dragging those girls into the jungle. Not to mention the flying snakes and the dragons-Lord, the dragons! And you talk about publicity!"

Mayla pursed her lips. "Well - maybe you're right. I suppose it would look bad to somebody who didn't know the circumstances."

"What circumstances?"

"I mean about Kolama being a wild planet, and not explored or civilized."

"You think, then," said Blaine with great earnestness, "that people don't mind being chewed up by horrible creatures so long as it's out on a wild planet?"

She shook her head. "No, not that exactly - "

"Good," said Joe. "I'm relieved."

" - I just mean that maybe they'd make a few allowances."

Blaine threw up his hands and sank back in an attitude of defeat. He reached for a new cigar and lit it.

"Maybe," said Mayla after a short pause, "we could advertise it like a big game lodge, and people would come for excitement."

He reproached her with a glance. "You ought to know that nobody hunts big game - or any kind of game - if there's a chance of them getting hurt. The odds are even out here; that'll keep away the jokers after cheap blood..."

The telescreen buzzed. Joe turned impatiently. "Now what..." He snapped the switch. The screen glowed pink. "Long distance, looks like."

"Starport calling Joe Blaine," came the operator's voice.

"Speaking."

On the screen appeared a narrow face - all eyes, nose and teeth, a face that was crafty and calculating, and yet possessed of a quality that women thought attractive. This was Blaine's partner, Lucky Woolrich.

"Now what the devil do you want?" demanded Joe. "Do you know it costs eight munits a minute interplanet?"

Lucky said curtly, "Just wanted to find out if you've got it licked."

"Licked!" yelled Joe. "Are you crazy? I'm scared to set foot outside the hotel!"

"We've got to do something," Woolrich told him. "Ten million munits is an awful swipe of scratch!"

"We sure agree there."

"I don't get it," said Lucky. "The place got built without accidents. Nothing bothered us until we started, to operate. Don't that seem fishy to you?"

"Fishy as all get out. I can't figure it. I've tried."

Lucky said, "Well, I called mainly to tell you I'm coming on out. Ought to be there in four days or so. I'm bringing a trouble-shooter - "

"We don't need a trouble-shooter," snapped Blaine. "We need a dragon-shooter and a water-beetle shooter and a flying-snake shooter. Lots of 'em."

Lucky ignored the comment. "I've got the man to help us out if anyone can. He's highly recommended. Magnus Ridolph. A well-known genius. Invented the musical-kaleidoscope."

"That's the ticket," said Blaine. "We'll dance 'em to death."

"Lay off the comics, Joe!" rasped Lucky. "Eight munits a minute is cheap when we're talking business; for jokes it's extravagant."

"I might as well have some fun for my money," said Blaine peevishly. "Ten million munits and every cent buying headaches."

"See you in four days," said Lucky coldly. The screen went dull.

Joe stood up, walked back and forth. Mayla watched with proud possessiveness. She, who could have had forty-nine out of any fifty men, thought Joe was the cutest thing she'd ever seen.

A tall angular man in the red and blue uniform of the Spa came bounding into the office, knees raising as high as his chin with every step.

"Well, Wilbur?" snapped Blaine.

"Golly, Joe - you know that little old deaf lady? The cranky one?"

"Of course I know her. I know every one of our three guests. What about her?"

"One of them dragons just now came at her. Would have got her, too, if she hadn't ducked under a bench. Just swung down out of the sky, big as a house. Lordy, she's spittin' mad! Says she's gonna sue you, because the thing dove at her on hotel property."

Joe Blaine pulled at his scant hair, turned his cigar up between clenched teeth. "Give me strength, give me strength.

"How about a drink?" Mayla suggested.

Wilbur concurred. "Mix one for me too."

Seen in the flesh, Lucky was not as tall as he looked on the telescreen - hardly as tall as Joe, but thinner, neater. "Joe," he said, "meet Mr. Ridolph. He's the expert I was telling you about." Lucky waved an arm at the slight man with the distinguished white beard who had wandered abstractedly into the lobby, looking here and there, in all directions, like a child on a circus midway.

Blaine took one look, eyed Lucky in disgust.

"Expert? That old goat? On what?" he muttered. Aloud, with effusive cordiality: "How do you do, Mr. Ridolph? So glad you could come to help. We sure need an expert out here to figure out our problems."

Magnus Ridolph shook hands fastidiously. "Yes," he said. "How do you do, Mr. Woolrich?"

"I'm Woolrich," said Lucky briskly. "This is Mr. Blaine."

"How do you do?" And Magnus Ridolph nodded, to assure them that he took the correction in good part. "You have a pleasant resort, very peaceful and quiet, just as I like it."

Blaine rolled his eyes upwards. "It's not peaceful and I don't like it quiet."

Lucky laughed, slapped Magnus Ridolph across his skinny shoulder blades. Magnus Ridolph turned, gave Lucky a cold stare.

"Don't let him throw you, Joe," said Lucky. "That's just an act he puts on for the customers. He's as shrewd as they come."

Joe eyed Magnus Ridolph like a housewife turning down a piece of meat at the butcher shop, then turned away and shook his head. He stiffened. A sudden grinding explosion of sound outside, a savage howling...

Lucky and Joe exchanged glances and ran for the door. High in the sky, almost overhead, two tremendous shapes flapped and tore at each other with fangs like hay-hooks. Drifting down came a roaring and fierce yelling. Blaine reached out, took Magnus Ridolph's elbow.

"There's thousands of 'em!" he yelled into Magnus Ridolph's ear. "Just waiting for somebody to set foot out on the beach. We got to get rid of them! Also the twenty-foot pincer-beetles that infest the ocean, and some half-ton gorillas that got a lot of human tendencies. Not to mention the flying snakes."

"They certainly seem a ferocious set of creatures," said Magnus Ridolph mildly.

The battle in the sky took a sudden lurch in their direction, and the three spectators jerked back involuntarily.

"Shoo!" yelled Joe. "Get outa here!"

A spatter of blood began to fall like rain. Talons ripped, yanked - brought a tooth-grinding screech. One of the forms toppled, started to fall with a tremendous slow majesty.

Lucky gave a strangling cry. Joe yelled, "No, no, no - "

End over end came the torn body, almost at their heads. It fell through the roof of the hotel, into the dining room. Glass sprayed a hundred feet in all directions. A convulsive flap of wings made further destruction. And now the victor swooped on vast leather pinions. It dropped hissing into the wreckage, began to tear at the flesh.

Joe cried in wordless anguish. Lucky turned, ran to the desk, returned with a grenade rifle.

"I'll show that overgrown lizard something." He sighted, pulled the trigger. Fragments of dragon and hotel spattered across the beach.

There was a sudden heavy silence. Then Blaine said in a crushed voice, "This is it. We're through."

-Magnus Ridolph cleared his throat mildly. "Perhaps the situation is not as bad as you think."

"What's the use? We made a mistake. Kolama is just too tough. We might as well face it, take our loss."

"Now, Joe," said Lucky, "brace up. Maybe it's not so bad after all. Mr. Ridolph thinks we got a chance."

Joe snorted.

"Couldn't you post guards in copters, and kill any that came down?" suggested Magnus Ridolph.

Blaine shook his head. "They fly high, drop down like hawks. I've watched 'em. We couldn't keep 'em out. And one or two would be as bad for business as a hundred."

Lucky pulled at his lip. "What I want to know is how come we never had trouble while the place was going up."

Joe shook his head. "Beats me. Seems like when the Mollies were around, nothing ever bothered us. As soon as they took off our grief began."

Magnus Ridolph glanced inquiringly at Lucky. "Mollies? And what are they?"

"That's what Joe calls the natives," Lucky told him. "They helped us out while we were building."

"Did the excavating," said Joe.

"Possibly you could keep natives here and there around the property," suggested Magnus Ridolph.

Blaine shook his head. "Nobody could stand the stink. It must be the stink that keeps the beasts away. God knows I don't blame 'em."

Magnus Ridolph considered the theory. "Well, possibly, if the odor were extremely strong and pungent."

"It's not anything else."

Magnus Ridolph stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Just what sort of creatures are these - 'Mollies'?"

"Well," said Joe, "think of a shrimp four feet tall, walking around on little stumpy legs. A sort of a fat gray shrimp with big stary eyes. That's a Molly for you."

"Are they intelligent? Do you have any contact with them?"

"Oh, I guess you'd call 'em intelligent. They live in big hives back in the jungle. Don't do any harm, and they helped us out quite a bit. We paid 'em in pots, pans, knives."

"How did you communicate with them?"

"They got a language of squeaks." Joe pursed up his lips. "Squeak - squick, squick." He cleared his throat. "That means 'come here.' "

"Hm," said Magnus Ridolph. "And how do you say 'go away'?"

"Squick - keek, keek."

"Hm."

"Squeak, keek, keek, keek - that means 'time to knock off for the day.' I learned that lingo pretty good."

"And you say the wild beasts never bothered them?"

"Nope. Only twice did anything even come near. Once a gorilla, once a dragon."

"And then?"

"They all stood still looking, as if asking themselves, now just what does this johnny think he's doing? And the gorilla and the dragon both turned 'round and took off " Toe shook his head. "Must have got a close whiff of them. Like skunk and sewage and half a dozen tannery vats. I had to wear a mask."

Woolrich said, "We've got movies of everything, if you think there's anything to it."

Magnus Ridolph nodded gravely, "They might be useful. I'd like to see them."

"This way," said Joe. He added glumly, "You can see them, but you can't smell them."

"Just as well," said Lucky.

The first scene showed virgin territory - the beach, the blue ocean, the sharp cliff of the jungle. On the beach sat the small prospect ship, and beside it stood Joe, self-consciously waving at the camera.

The second scene showed the Mollies excavating foundations. They worked in a crouched position with heads extended, and the sand exploded out of the trench ahead of them. They were rather more manlike than Joe had described them - gray whiskered creatures with soft segmented bodies. They had bulging pink blind-looking eyes, horny bowed legs, a concave area around their mouths.

Magnus Ridolph leaned forward. "They have a peculiar method of digging."

"Yeah," said Blaine. "It's fast, though. They blow it out."

Magnus Ridolph moved in his seat. "Run that again, please."

With a tired sigh and a helpless glance at Lucky, Joe complied. Once again they watched the crouched natives, saw the sand broken loose, thrown up and out of the ditch as if by a strong jet of air.

Magnus Ridolph sat back in his seat. "Interesting."

The scene changed. The concrete slab had been poured. A dozen natives were carrying a length of timber.

"Hear 'em talking? Listen..." And Joe turned the volume control. They heard rising and falling eddies of shrill noise.

"Squeak - squeeeek!" came a peremptory sound.

"That's me," said Joe, "telling them to look up and pose for the pictures."

There was a general turning of the conical whiskered heads.

"Keek, keek, keek," said the speaker.

"That's 'back to work,' " said Blaine. A few minutes later: "Here's where the dragon goes after them... They saw it first. See? They're excited... Then I saw it." The view swept up in the sky, showed the bottle-shaped body circling down on wings that seemed to reach across the horizon. The picture jerked, quivered, blurred, and suddenly showed the scene from a crazy angle, the view obscured by blades of grass.

"That's where I - put the camera down," said Joe. "listen to those Mollies..." And the speaker shrilled with the sound. It rose in pitch, high up through the scale, died.

"Now they're just looking at him - and now the dragon catches a whiff and man! he says, none of that for me, I'd rather chew bark off of the big trees, and he's away."The view shifted from the odd angle, resumed its normal perspective. The dragon became a blurring dot in the sky.

"The next scene is where the gorilla comes at 'em... There he is." The watchers saw a tall anthropoid with sparse brown fur, red eyes the size of saucers, a row of gland-like sacs dangling under his chin. He dropped out of a tree, came lurching toward the natives, roaring vastly. Again came the shrill squealing, gradually rising and dying, and the silent stare. The gorilla turned, flung his hands in an almost comical gesture of disgust and hurried away.

"Whatever it is," observed Lucky, "it's good."

Magnus Ridolph said reflectively, "Extremely disagreeable, those beasts."

"Humph," snorted Joe. "You haven't seen the sea-beetles yet."

Magnus Ridolph rose to his feet. "I think I've seen enough for tonight. If you'll excuse me, I think I'll try to get a little rest."

"Sure," said Lucky abstractedly. "Wilbur will show you your room."

"Thank you." Magnus Ridolph left the room.

"Well," said Blaine heavily, "there goes your great detective."

"Now Joe," said Mayla, looping an arm around his neck, "don't be mean. I think he's sort of cute. So prim and tidy-like. And that little white beard, isn't it a scream?"

"Magnus Ridolph's got brains," said Lucky, without conviction.

"He looks like an old faker to me," said Joe. "Notice how he jumped when the gorilla dropped out of the tree? Cowardly old goat..."

"Excuse me," said Magnus Ridolph, "may I have that film? I'd like to study it under a viewer."

There was a pause.

"Ah - help yourself," said Woolrich.

Magnus Ridolph removed the cartridge. "Thank you very much. Good night."

Joe watched the door close. Then he turned and blurted, "Lucky, I always thought you had sense. When you said you were bringing out an expert, I had faith in you. Look at him. Senile. A pussy-footer..."

"Now Joe," said Mayla, "don't be hasty now. Remember you thought I was dumb once too; remember? You told me so yourself."

"Ah-h-h-h-h," breathed Joe. "For two cents I'd - "

"Ten million munits," warned Lucky. "Lotsa scratch!"

Blaine pulled himself up in his chair. "You know what I'm gonna do?"

"What?"

"I'm going out to that Mollie hive. I'm going to find out what gives 'em that stink. Whatever it is, we can have it analyzed and maybe treated so that it won't be so vile."

Mayla said, "Honey, do you think it's safe?"

Lucky said, "Do you really think that's what does the trick?"

" 'Think'?" scoffed Joe. "I know it."

Joe's jungle suit was the best money could buy. The metallic fabric mirrored away the sun-glare. The plastic bubble surrounding his head was similarly silvered on top. The boots fitted his feet as comfortably as his own skin. By twisting a valve he could inflate vanes that would enable him to walk across swamp and ooze without sinking. A small pack on his back pumped cool clean air around him, supplied power for the sound pickup, the torch and power-knife at his belt. His pouch contained concentrated food for three days and an air mattress of material so tough and thin that when deflated it could be crumpled up inside his clenched fist. He carried a grenade rifle and a dozen extra clips of ammunition.

Early in the morning he set off, before Magnus Ridolph had arisen. Lucky watched him go with unconcern. The Lord protects fools and drunkards, thought Lucky; Joe was doubly secure. Mayla was not so impassive, and finally Lucky had to hold her until Joe was out of sight. Her cries followed him as he trudged across the sand toward the beetling rampart of vegetation. He found a trail and plunged into the green gloom.

As soon as the forest surrounded him, he halted to take stock. The flying snakes could knock him down and constrict, though the fabric of the suit would protect him from their teeth. He turned his eyes apprehensively into the air. Somehow the expedition seemed less urgent now than it had the previous evening. Magnus Ridolph - there was the man who should be investigating the natives. He was being paid for it! Joe chewed on his pink tongue. No, he couldn't very well go back now. Lucky would never let him forget it.

Once more he searched the fronds and foliage, golden-green where the light struck, dark rich green in the shadow. Moths flitted across the open spaces, in and out of the slanting beams of sunlight. Up, up, up - big green leaves, clots of red, yellow and black flowers, trailing chalk-blue vines. A snake could just about pick his time, thought Joe. A gorilla now, would make a noise crashing through the brush. Hm, Blaine thought, noise. He dialed up the power on his head phone until he could hear the hum of the insects. The crash of each of his footsteps was like a tree falling.

He continued, more at ease. The thrum of the snake's short wings should reach him long before the snake.

The trail wound without apparent direction here and there around the giant boles and up and down slopes. Joe became confused almost at once. Twice he heard the throb of wings and once a far thrashing, but he progressed a mile before he was molested. It was a gorilla.

Joe heard the snapping and the grunting as it climbed through the trees, then silence as it sighted him. There was a sliding sound, not too stealthy, as if the gorilla were confident. He glimpsed the mottled hide, aimed. He stopped in time. Golly! the amplifier!

He turned it down. The sound would have beat a hole in his head. He aimed again, pulled the trigger. A section of the jungle became a globe of empty space, with seared, bruised boundaries.

Joe turned the volume of the amplifier back up and continued. He walked three hours, killing five snakes with his torch and two more gorillas. At times he had to turn loose his power-knife, so thick was the tangle of shoots and vines. And after three hours the jungle looked no different from the jungle where he had set out.

Thud, thud, thud, sounded in his ear. Blaine stood still, waited. The Molly appeared, halted, looked at him with blind-looking pink eyes. Blaine could see no expression or sign of surprise.

"Skeek," said Joe. "Hello."

"Keek, keek" returned the native. It stepped around Blaine, continued down the path. Joe shrugged, moved on.

A moment later he broke out into a clearing a hundred yards wide. In the center, a conical gray mound built of woven twigs and plastered with mud like a wasp's nest rose an amazing two hundred feet. It had been built around a living tree; from the apex the trunk extended and held an umbrella of foliage out into the sunlight.

Joe Blaine halted. The five hundred Mollies ambling around the clearing paid him no heed. And Joe had no interest in their simple occupations other than the source of the stench. Cautiously he opened the gate in his head-dome. He reeled, slammed it shut, eyes swimming. An odor so ripe, so putrid, so violently strong, it seemed impossible that the air could remain clear.

Where did it come from?

Across the clearing he glimpsed a depression, a wallow, where several dozen Mollies lay, moving languidly. Blaine approached, watched. A dozen Mollies appeared from the shadows of the forest, bearing crude baskets. About half held pulpy black balls; others, gray-green slugs six inches long; others, pink cylinders that looked as if they were cut from watermelon hearts.

The Mollies turned the baskets over into the wallow. Then they stood back, looked intently at the piles. And the black balls burst, the green slugs melted, the red cylinders spread out like oil. A moment later they were a mixture homogeneous with the rest of the wallow.

So, thought Joe, here it is. Food and chemical warfare from the same trough. He went to the depression, inspected it. The occupants gave him no heed. He dipped a quantity of the thick green-black ooze into a jar, sealed it. This would be enough for a test. Fast work, he thought. Now back to the hotel.

He looked across the clearing - stared. Through a gap in the trees gleamed a patch of brilliant white and, beyond, a bright blue. Could it be ... He crossed the clearing, looked through the gap. It was the beach, the ocean. A half-mile to his right the hotel rose. Joe beat his head-dome with furious fists. Three hours of plodding through the jungle!

Blaine found Woolrich in the office. Lucky looked up in surprise.

"Hello. Didn't expect you back so soon." He wrinkled his nose. "You don't smell so good, Joe."

"I got it," Blaine said. "Here it is, the real magoo. If that don't keep them away, my name's not Joe Blaine."

"Get it out of here," said Lucky in a stifled voice. "I can smell it through the bottle."

"Must have got some on the outside," said Blaine. And he told Lucky his adventures.

Lucky's thin face still looked skeptical. "And now?"

"Now we test the stuff. One of us paints himself with it, wanders around the beach. The other stands guard with a grenade-rifle just in case. If the dragons come down, and shy off, we'll know for sure."

Lucky tapped his fingers on the desk. "Sounds good. Well," he said carelessly, "since you already got some of the stuff on you, you might as well be the decoy."

Joe stared unbelievingly. "Are you crazy, Lucky? I got to run the camera. You know that. It's got to be you."

After a half-hour's debate, they finally selected Magnus Ridolph to serve as the guinea pig.

"He won't like it," said Woolrich doubtfully.

"He's got to like it. What are we paying him for? He hasn't turned a hand so far. He ought to be glad we've solved the problem for him."

"He might not see it that way."

Joe opened a drawer in the desk, pulled out a metal can.

"See this? It's a somnol spray, to be used on drunks and roughnecks. We'll give him a dose, and he won't even know what's happening. Where is he now?"

"In the engine room. He's been puttering around all morning, working on the lathe."

Blaine sneered. "Now, isn't that the limit? He's supposed to be the brains, the trouble-shooter, and he leaves it to us. Well, we'll fix that. He'll earn his money, whether he wants to or not."

Lucky reluctantly rose to his feet. "Maybe if we asked him - "

"Better this way," said Joe. "It's not as if there's any danger. We know the stuff works. Don't the Mollies run around scot-free? And besides, we'll be standing right there with guns."

They found Magnus Ridolph in the workshop, polishing a metal tube with a piece of crocus cloth. As they entered he looked up, nodded, and fitted the tube through a hole in a metal cup. He coupled a hose to the tube, set the apparatus in a jig, turned a valve. There came a hiss of air, a thin blowing sound.

Magnus Ridolph gazed at the pattern on an oscillograph. "Hm," he muttered. "That's about right, I should say."

"What are you doing, Mr. Ridolph?" asked Blaine jocularly, one hand close behind his back.

Magnus Ridolph gave him a cool glance, then returned to his apparatus and detached it from the jig.

"I'm refining a certain musical principle..."

S-s-s-s, went the somnol bomb. A fine mist surrounded Magnus Ridolph's distinguished head. He gasped, stiffened, slumped.

"Did you hear him, Lucky?" Joe kicked at the metal tube Magnus Ridolph still clutched in his hand. "Fooling around with music, when we're in a jam."

Lucky said, "I guess that musical kaleidoscope sort of went to his head. He used to be a good man, so I've heard."

"You must have heard wrong," said Joe. "Well, let's take him out on the beach. Here's a wheelbarrow. That should do the hick."

They trundled the supine body out into the white blaze of the sun, two hundred yards down the beach.

"This is far enough," said Blaine. "Let's douse him and get back under the trees. It makes me nervous, being in the open like this. Those dragons are like flies this time of day."

They lifted Magnus Ridolph from the wheelbarrow, stretched him on the sand, and Joe poured the black liquid liberally across his chest.

"Gad!" coughed Lucky. "It even comes upwind!"

"She's rich," said Joe complacently. "When I go after something, I get it. Now come on, let's get out of the way. Hurry up, there's a dragon out there now."

They ran up to the edge of the jungle and waited/ The speck low on the horizon expanded, became a flapping monster. Joe held his rifle ready.

"Just in case," he told Lucky.

The dragon bulked large in the sky. It saw Magnus Ridolph's prone figure, circled.

Lucky said, "Golly, I just thought of something!"

"What?" snapped Joe.

"If that stuff doesn't work, we won't know until the dragon's pretty close. And then - "

"Rats!" said Joe bluffly. "It'll work. It's got to."

The dragon made a sudden swoop to the beach, waddled forward.

Twenty yards - "It don't faze him!" cried Lucky.

Ten yards. Blaine raised the gun, lowered it again.

"Shoot, Joe - for Pete's sake, shoot!"

"I can't!" cried Blaine. "I'll blow Ridolph to pieces!"

Lucky Woolrich ran out on the beach, yelled, jumped up and down. The dragon paid no heed.

Five yards. Magnus Ridolph stirred. Perhaps the odor of the black liquid had aroused him, perhaps some sensation of danger. He shook his head, propped himself on his elbow.

It was a rude awakening for Magnus Ridolph. Eye to eye he stared at the dragon.

The dragon opened its maw, darted its head forward, snapped. Magnus Ridolph rolled over, escaped by an inch.

Blaine shook his head. "That stuff doesn't work at all!"

The dragon made a quick hop, darted its head forward again. Magnus Ridolph again stumbled back, and the fangs clanged past his ribs. He still clutched his metal tube. He frantically put it to his lips, puffed out his cheeks, blew, blew, blew.

The dragon pulled its head back like a turtle. It jerked its legs, its wings. Magnus Ridolph blew. The dragon gave a great belching roar, in almost comical haste lumbered away. The tremendous leather pinions flapped; it sluggishly took the air, departed across the ocean.

Magnus Ridolph sat down on the sand. For a long moment he sat limply. Then he looked down at his tunic, once crisp and white, now befouled with a black viscosity. As the wind changed, Joe and Lucky felt the odor. Joe coughed, and Magnus Ridolph slowly looked in their direction.

And slowly Magnus Ridolph got to his feet, threw aside his tunic, and slowly marched back to the hotel.

Magnus Ridolph appeared at dinnertime scrubbed, polished, in clean clothes. His white beard was brushed till it shone like angelical floss, and his manner was unusually affable.

Lucky and Joe were relieved to find him in such good humor. They had expected angry accusations, threats and demands. Magnus Ridolph's genial attitude came as a glad surprise, and they vied with each other in cordiality. Mayla, in bed with a headache, was not present.

Blaine explained the circumstances which had led to the experiment, and Magnus Ridolph seemed genuinely interested.

Lucky went so far as to be jocular, " - and Lord, Magnus, when you looked up at that dragon, I swear your beard stuck out from your face like it was electrified!"

"Of course we had you covered all the time," said Joe. "We had a bead on that dragon every instant. One false move and he'd have been a goner."

"Just what was that tube, Magnus?" asked Lucky. "It sure did the trick. Marvelous." He nudged Blaine. "I told you he had brains."

Magnus Ridolph held up a deprecatory hand. "Simple application of what I learned from the movies you showed me."

"How's that?" asked Joe, lighting a cigar.

"Have you noticed the voice-box on the Mollies? It's a paraboloid surface, and the vibrator is at the focus. It gives them exquisite control over sound. By moving the vibrator they can concentrate a node at any given point; I wouldn't doubt but what they see the pressure patterns in some peculiar manner. In other words, they can use their voices as men use an air-hammer, especially in the supersonic ranges. I suspected as much when I saw them excavating those foundations. They were not blowing the sand out with air, they were blasting it out with appropriately applied pressure waves."

"Why, of course!" said Joe, disgustedly spitting a bit of tobacco to the side. "That's how they mixed up the mess in that terrible wallow. Just dumped it in, looked at it, and it all seemed to melt and stir in by itself."

Lucky reproached Joe with a look; best to keep Magnus Ridolph's mind away from wallows and vile black ooze.

Magnus Ridolph lit a cigarette and puffed a thoughtful gust into the air.

"Now when one of the native beasts attacked them, they projected a supersonic beam in a frequency to which the creatures were most sensitive. Probably aimed for a tender spot - the eye, for instance. A study of the sound track proved my theory. I found a clear record of strong inaudible sounds. I calculated the rate of what seemed the most effective frequency, and this morning built a suitable projector."

Joe and Lucky shook their heads in admiration. "Don't see how he does it."-"Beats everything I've ever heard of."

Magnus Ridolph smiled. "Now for the hotel, I recommend several large oscillators, mounted permanently, and arranged to project a curtain of the most effective frequency around the property. Any competent sonic engineer can set up such a dome for you."

"Good, good," said Lucky.

"I'll get a man out here right away," said Blaine. "Sure lucky we got you."

Magnus Ridolph made a courteous acknowledgment. "Thank you; perhaps the association will prove of equal value for me."

Blaine stared curiously into Magnus Ridolph's calm countenance.

Lucky said hurriedly, "Now Joe, as to Magnus' fee, I originally mentioned the figure of five thousand munits - "

"Make it ten," said Joe heartily, reaching for his pen. "I think we owe Mr. Ridolph a bonus."

"Gentlemen, gentlemen," murmured Magnus Ridolph. "You make me uncomfortable with your generosity. I'm well content with my stipulated fee."

"Well, now, look here - " stammered Joe, making feeble gestures with his pen.

"Surely you can't believe that I'd accept five thousand munits for the - hm, inconsequential events of this afternoon?"

"Well," said Joe, "you never know how a person takes things. Sometimes they'll sue you, ha, ha, for a hair in the soup. Of course, in your case - well," he finished lamely, "we hadn't really thought about it."

Ridolph frowned thoughtfully. "Ah, if I had an exaggerated sense of dignity, a sop of five thousand munits might only further offend me. But since I am what I am, I'm sure we can let events adjust themselves naturally."

"Sure," said Lucky enthusiastically. "Gentlemen to gentlemen."

Joe Blaine twirled the cigar in his mouth, looked into space trying to trace the implications of the words.

"Well, suits me," he said reluctantly. He wrote. "Here's your fee, then."

"Thank you." Magnus Ridolph pocketed the check. He looked out the window. "I believe your franchise ends about a half-mile up the beach?"

Blaine nodded. "Just about where I came out of the jungle this morning. Maybe a little this way."

Magnus Ridolph said abstractedly, "The closer to the Mollie village, the better."

"Eh? How's that?"

Magnus Ridolph looked up in surprise. "Haven't I described my plans for the bottling and processing plant? No? Today I applied via space-wave for a use permit of the beach."

Joe and Lucky had turned their heads simultaneously, staring. Their faces wore the expressions seen on small animals, who, tripping a baited trigger, snap their own flash-light photographs.

"Processing plant?"

"For what?"

Magnus Ridolph said in a pedantic tone, "I've tentatively decided on the name Mephitoline - which to some extent describes the product."

"But-"

"But-"

"It has been my experience," continued Magnus Ridolph, "that the more noxious a salve, an unguent, or a beauty aid, the more eagerly it is purchased, and the greater its therapeutic or psychological value. In this respect, that unspeakably vile liquid which you used this afternoon in your experiment can hardly be improved upon. Mephitoline, suitably bottled and attractively packaged, will be a valuable specific against psychosomatic disorders."

"But-"

"Possibly Mephitoline may be used as a fixative in the perfume industry, as being more positive than either ambergris, musk, or any of the synthetics. I also anticipate a large and steady sale to college fraternities, lodges, and secret organizations, where it might become an important adjunct to their rituals."

Magnus Ridolph turned a grave glance upon Joe and Lucky.

"I have you two to thank for putting this opportunity in my way. But then, the Spa of the Stars will doubtless share in any prosperity which might come to the Mephitoline Bottling Works. Plant workers will no doubt spend part of their pay at your bars, only three minutes walk away..."

"Look here," said Blame, in a voice like an old-fashioned wagon crossing a graveled road, "you know darn well that a plant bottling that black stuff a few hundred yards upwind from the hotel would chase every guest back on the same packet that brought him!"

"Not at all," argued Magnus Ridolph. "The Mephitoline plant would add a great deal of color and atmosphere. I believe that the plant and the Spa would complement each other very well. I'm sure you must have thought of it yourself: 'Spa of the Stars, Health Center of the Cluster. If You've Got It, Mephitoline Will Cure It' - something of the sort. But, as you see" - and Magnus Ridolph smiled apologetically - "I'm a dreamer. I have no head for business. You two are really better suited to managing a modern medical laboratory. I suppose it would be better for us all if I sold out to you for - say, twenty-five thousand munits. Cheap at the price."

Joe Blaine spat in a wordless futility of anger and disgust.

"Pah!" snorted Lucky. "You're selling us a gold brick. You haven't got a plant, you don't even know whether the stuff is any good."

Magnus Ridolph seemed impressed with Lucky's reasoning. He rubbed his beard thoughtfully.

"That's a very good point. After all, how can we be sure of Mephitoline's efficacy? The sensible solution is to test it. Hm - I see that you have a rather severe case of acne. And - yes - Mr. Blairie appears to be suffering from - is it heat-rash? or some sort of itch?" "Heat-rash!" snapped Joe.

"We'll put Mephitoline to a test. Each of you can rub Mephitoline over your lesions - or better yet, submerge yourselves in a Mephitoline bath. Give it a fair chance. Then if your conditions are not alleviated, we'll know that Mephitoline is useful only in a psychological sense, and my price will drop to fifteen thousand munits. If your ailments are cured, and Mephitoline has a specific value, the price remains at twenty-five thousand munits. Of course, if you and Mr. Woolrich do not avail yourselves of this opportunity, I personally can't afford to give it up."

There was a short silence.

''Well, Joe," said Lucky wearily, "he's got us over a barrel."

"Not at all," protested Magnus Ridolph. "By no means! I am offering you a valuable property at a ridiculously - "

Blaine interrupted him. "Ten thousand munits is our top price. Take it or leave it."

"Very well," said Magnus Ridolph readily. "Ten thousand - if the Mephitoline does not cure your itch. But unless the test is made, I'll have to hold out for twenty-five thousand."

In a tight-lipped atmosphere the Mephitoline was gingerly swabbed over the afflicted parts. Magnus Ridolph, however, insisted on a liberal application.

"If the job is scamped, we will never be sure in our own minds."

But when the Mephitoline was finally scraped off with sticks, the itch and the acne were found still to be in evidence.

"Now are you satisfied?" asked Joe, glaring from behind the application like a tiger made-up with grease-paint. "It don't work. I itch like fury. It's even worse than before."

"The substance is evidently no cure-all," said Magnus Ridolph regretfully.

Lucky had been scrubbing himself with alcohol. "How do you get this stuff off? Soap and water I guess would be better..."

But thorough scouring still did not entirely erase the Mephitoline; a strong odor still clung to the persons of Joe Blaine and Lucky Woolrich.

"Cripes," muttered Joe, "how long does this stuff last?" He looked suspiciously at Magnus Ridolph. "How did you get it off you?"

Magnus Ridolph, standing carefully aloof, said, "That's a rather valuable bit of information, I'm sorry to say. I arrived at the formula after considerable - "

"All right," said Joe brutally. "How much?"

Magnus Ridolph drew his fine white eyebrows up into an injured line. "Oh, negligible. I'll make only a token charge of a thousand munits. If you perform - ah, further experiments with Mephitoline, you'll need the solution time and time again."

There were several bitter statements, but finally Joe wrote Magnus Ridolph a check, eleven thousand munits in all.

"Now, how do we get rid of this horrible stench?"

"Apply a ten percent solution of hydrogen peroxide," said Magnus Ridolph.

Joe started to bellow; Lucky stifled him, and went off to the hotel dispensary. He returned with an empty gallon jug.

"I can't find any!" he said querulously. "The bottle's empty!"

"There is no more," said Magnus Ridolph frankly. "I used it all myself. Of course, if you wish to retain me as a consultant, I can outline a simple chemical process..."