BORGO PRESS BOOKS BY E. C. TUBB
The Ming Vase and Other Science Fiction Stories
Mirror of the Night and Other Weird Tales
Sands of Destiny: A Novel of the French Foreign Legion
The Wager: Science Fiction Mystery Tales
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
Copyright © 1955, 1963, 1970, 2000 by E. C. Tubb
Copyright © 2011 by Lisa John
Published by Wildside Press LLC
www.wildsidebooks.com
DEDICATION
For Lisa
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
THESE STORIES WERE previously published as follows, and are reprinted by permission of the author’s estate and his agent, Cosmos Literary Agency.
“The Ming Vase” was first published in Analog, May 1963. Copyright © 1963 by E. C. Tubb; Copyright © 2011 by Lisa John.
“Trojan Horse” was first published in Vision of Tomorrow, January 1970. Copyright © 1970 by E. C. Tubb; Copyright © 2011 by Lisa John.
“Agent” was first published in Science Fantasy, June 1955. Copyright © 1955 by E. C. Tubb; Copyright © 2011 by Lisa John.
“The Inevitable Conflict” was first published in Fantasy Quarterly #1, 2000. Copyright © 2000 by E. C. Tubb; Copyright © 2011 by Lisa John.
THE MING VASE
The antique shop was one of those high-class places, which catered only to the very rich and the very possessive. A single vase of hand-worked glass stood in one window, an Egyptian Solar Boat in the other, between them the door presented a single expanse of unbroken glass to the street outside.
Don Gregson paused before it, deep-set eyes curious as he stared at the street. There was no trace of the accident. The wreckage had been removed and the rain had washed away the last traces of blood. Even the inevitable sightseers had gone about their business. Turning back to the door he pushed it open and stepped into the warmth inside.
Earlman was there, and Bronson, both standing beside a small, elderly man with delicate hands and intelligent eyes. Some assistants hovered discreetly in the background. The police had left and Don was glad of it. Earlman stepped forward.
“Hi, Don. You made good time.”
“The general sees to that. Is that the owner?”
Max nodded, gesturing to the little man. Quickly he made the introductions.
“Mr. Levkin this is Don Gregson, C.I.A., Special Department.”
They shook hands. Don was surprised at the wiry strength in the delicate fingers. Bronson, as usual, merely stood and watched; a coiled spring waiting his moment of release.
“I wish we could have met under happier circumstances,” said Don to the owner. “Please tell me all about it.”
“Again?”
“If you please. First-hand reports are always the most reliable.”
Levkin shrugged and spread his hands in a gesture almost as old as time.
“I have been robbed,” he said with simple understatement. “I have been robbed of the most precious item in my shop. It was small, a vase from the Ming Dynasty, but it was beautiful. You understand?”
“How small?”
Levkin gestured with his hands and Don nodded.
“About six inches high, small enough to slip into a pocket. You said that it was valuable. How valuable?”
“I said that it was precious,” corrected the owner. “How do you value a work of art? The price is what the purchaser is prepared to pay. Let me say only that I have refused five hundred thousand dollars for it.”
Earlman grunted, his thin, harassed face and dark, bruised-looking eyes veiled behind the smoke of his cigarette.
“Tell us about the man.”
“He was medium built, medium height, well-dressed, brown hair and eyes…remarkable eyes. About a hundred and seventy pounds, softly spoken, very gentle and polite.”
Over Levkin’s head Earlman caught Don’s eye and nodded.
“Nothing ostentatious,” continued Levkin. “Nothing which gave a hint that he was not what he seemed. I had no reason to suspect that he was a thief.”
“He isn’t,” said Don, then frowned at his own absurdity. “Go on.”
“We spoke. He was interested in rare and beautiful things; it was natural that I should show him the vase. Then there was a crash in the street, an accident. Inevitably we turned and headed towards the door. It was a bad accident, our attention was distracted, but only for a moment. It was enough. By the time I remembered the man had gone and he had taken the vase with him.”
“Are you positive as to that?” Don laboured the point. “Could it be hidden here somewhere? Anywhere?”
“The police asked that. No, it is not hidden. I have made a thorough search. It has been stolen.” For the first time the man displayed emotion. “Please, you will get it back? You will do your best?”
Don nodded, jerking his head at Earlman as he stepped to one side. Bronson, as always, joined them.
“How about the identification?” Don spoke in a trained whisper inaudible two feet from his lips. “Is it positive?”
“They swear to the photograph. It’s our man all right.”
“I’ve got to be certain. How about the accident? Could that have been faked?”
“Not a chance. A cab hit a pedestrian and swerved into a truck. The jaywalker’s dead, the cabbie will lose a leg and the truck driver’s in a bad way. That was no rigged diversion.”
“Coincidence?” Don shook his head. “No, the timing was too limited for that. Levkin’s no fool and even the smartest crook requires a certain reaction time before he can spot an opportunity, weigh his chances and then swing into action. Levkin would never have given an ordinary crook that much time. It looks as if you’re right, Max.”
“I am right. It was Klieger.” Earlman looked puzzled. “But why, Don? Why?”
Gregson didn’t answer. His face was strained, thoughtful.
“Why?” repeated Earlman. “Why should he want to steal a thing he can’t sell, can’t eat, can’t do anything with but sit and look at? Why?”
* * * *
General Penn asked the same question, but unlike Earlman he demanded an answer. Slumped in his chair behind the wide desk he looked even older and more harassed than he had when this whole thing had started. Don could understand that. The general, literally, had his neck on the block.
“Well?” The voice reflected the strain. Harsh, heavy with irritating undertones, it carried too much of a barrack square, too little of understanding or patience. “You’ve found what you said to look for. Now, what’s the answer?”
“We’ve found something I said might possibly happen,” corrected Don. “It has. What answer are you looking for?”
“Are you crazy?” Penn surged out of his chair. “You know what the top-priority is! Find Klieger! What other answer would I be interested in?”
“You might,” said Don quietly, “be interested in finding out just why he left in the first place.”
Penn said a word. He repeated it. Don tensed then forced himself to relax. Slowly he lit a cigarette.
“Three weeks ago,” he said, “Albert Klieger decided to leave Cartwright House and did so. Since then you’ve had all field units concentrate on the one object of finding him. Why?”
“Because