after that old goat and make him swallow his own whiskers.”
“Get goin’,” said the guard.
Magnus Ridolph dispassionately watched them leave. Then, turning his eyes to his hand, he inspected the ancient Martian scarab—breathed on it, polished it on his sleeve.
The Unspeakable McInch
‘Mystery’ is a word with no objective pertinence, merely describing the limitations of a mind. In fact, a mind may be classified by the order of the phenomena it considers mysterious…The mystery is resolved, the solution made known. “Of course, it is obvious!” comes the chorus. A word about the obvious: it is always obvious…The common mind transposes the sequence, letting the mystery generate the solution. This is logic in reverse; actually the mystery relates to the solution as the foam relates to the beer…
—
Magnus Ridolph
.
The Uni-Culture Mission had said simply, “His name’s McInch; he’s a murderer. That’s all we know.”
Magnus Ridolph would have refused the commission had his credit balance stood at its usual level. But the collapse of an advertising venture—sky-writing with luminescent gases across interplanetary space—had left the white-bearded philosopher in near-destitution.
A first impression of Sclerotto Planet reinforced his distaste for the job. The light from the two suns—red and blue—struck discordantly at his eyes. The sluggish ocean, the crazy clutter of a slab-sided rock suggested no repose, and Sclerotto City, a wretched maze of cabins and shacks, promised no entertainment. Finally, his host, Klemmer Boek, chaplain-in-charge of the Uni-Culture Mission, greeted him with little warmth—in fact seemed to resent his presence as if it were due to some private officiousness of Magnus Ridolph’s own.
They rode in a battered old car up to the Mission, perched high on a shoulder of naked stone, and the dim interior was refreshingly cool after the dust and dazzle of the ride.
Magnus Ridolph took a folded handkerchief from his pocket, patted his forehead, his distinguished nose, his neat, white beard. To his host he turned a quizzical glance.
“I’m afraid I find the illumination disturbing. Blue, red—three different shadows for every stick and stone.”
“I’m used to it,” said Klemmer Boek tonelessly. He was a short man, with a melon-sized paunch pressing out the front of his tunic. His face was pink and glazed, like cheap chinaware, with round blue eyes and a short lumpy nose. “I hardly remember what Earth looks like.”
“The tourist guide,” said Magnus Ridolph, replacing the handkerchief, “describes the effect as ‘stimulating and exotic’. It must be that I am unperceptive.”
Boek snorted. “The tourist guide? It calls Sclerotto City ‘colorful, fascinating, a commonwealth-in-miniature, a concrete example of interplanetary democracy in action’. I wish the man who wrote that eyewash had to live here as long as I have!”
He pulled out a rattan chair for Magnus Ridolph, poured ice-water into a glass. Magnus Ridolph settled himself into the chair and Boek sank into another opposite.
“Now then,” said Magnus Ridolph, “who or what is McInch?”
Boek smiled bitterly. “That’s what you’re here for.”
Magnus Ridolph airily glanced across the room, lit a cigar, said nothing.
“After six years,” said Boek presently, “all I know about McInch I can tell you in six seconds. First—he’s boss over that entire stinking welter out there.” He gestured at the city. “Second, he’s a murderer, a self-seeking scoundrel. Third, no-one but McInch knows who McInch is.”
Magnus Ridolph arose, walked to the window, depolarized it, looked out over the ramshackle roofs, stretching like a tattered Persian rug to Magnetic Bay. His gaze wandered to the shark-tooth crags stabbing the sky opposite, down the bay to where it opened into the tideless ocean, out to a horizon shrouded in lavender haze.
“Unprepossessing. I fail to understand how it
“Get goin’,” said the guard.
Magnus Ridolph dispassionately watched them leave. Then, turning his eyes to his hand, he inspected the ancient Martian scarab—breathed on it, polished it on his sleeve.
The Unspeakable McInch
‘Mystery’ is a word with no objective pertinence, merely describing the limitations of a mind. In fact, a mind may be classified by the order of the phenomena it considers mysterious…The mystery is resolved, the solution made known. “Of course, it is obvious!” comes the chorus. A word about the obvious: it is always obvious…The common mind transposes the sequence, letting the mystery generate the solution. This is logic in reverse; actually the mystery relates to the solution as the foam relates to the beer…
—
Magnus Ridolph
.
The Uni-Culture Mission had said simply, “His name’s McInch; he’s a murderer. That’s all we know.”
Magnus Ridolph would have refused the commission had his credit balance stood at its usual level. But the collapse of an advertising venture—sky-writing with luminescent gases across interplanetary space—had left the white-bearded philosopher in near-destitution.
A first impression of Sclerotto Planet reinforced his distaste for the job. The light from the two suns—red and blue—struck discordantly at his eyes. The sluggish ocean, the crazy clutter of a slab-sided rock suggested no repose, and Sclerotto City, a wretched maze of cabins and shacks, promised no entertainment. Finally, his host, Klemmer Boek, chaplain-in-charge of the Uni-Culture Mission, greeted him with little warmth—in fact seemed to resent his presence as if it were due to some private officiousness of Magnus Ridolph’s own.
They rode in a battered old car up to the Mission, perched high on a shoulder of naked stone, and the dim interior was refreshingly cool after the dust and dazzle of the ride.
Magnus Ridolph took a folded handkerchief from his pocket, patted his forehead, his distinguished nose, his neat, white beard. To his host he turned a quizzical glance.
“I’m afraid I find the illumination disturbing. Blue, red—three different shadows for every stick and stone.”
“I’m used to it,” said Klemmer Boek tonelessly. He was a short man, with a melon-sized paunch pressing out the front of his tunic. His face was pink and glazed, like cheap chinaware, with round blue eyes and a short lumpy nose. “I hardly remember what Earth looks like.”
“The tourist guide,” said Magnus Ridolph, replacing the handkerchief, “describes the effect as ‘stimulating and exotic’. It must be that I am unperceptive.”
Boek snorted. “The tourist guide? It calls Sclerotto City ‘colorful, fascinating, a commonwealth-in-miniature, a concrete example of interplanetary democracy in action’. I wish the man who wrote that eyewash had to live here as long as I have!”
He pulled out a rattan chair for Magnus Ridolph, poured ice-water into a glass. Magnus Ridolph settled himself into the chair and Boek sank into another opposite.
“Now then,” said Magnus Ridolph, “who or what is McInch?”
Boek smiled bitterly. “That’s what you’re here for.”
Magnus Ridolph airily glanced across the room, lit a cigar, said nothing.
“After six years,” said Boek presently, “all I know about McInch I can tell you in six seconds. First—he’s boss over that entire stinking welter out there.” He gestured at the city. “Second, he’s a murderer, a self-seeking scoundrel. Third, no-one but McInch knows who McInch is.”
Magnus Ridolph arose, walked to the window, depolarized it, looked out over the ramshackle roofs, stretching like a tattered Persian rug to Magnetic Bay. His gaze wandered to the shark-tooth crags stabbing the sky opposite, down the bay to where it opened into the tideless ocean, out to a horizon shrouded in lavender haze.
“Unprepossessing. I fail to understand how it
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