“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.”