Collected Short Fiction

by C. M. Kornbluth

  Peter wound the striking mechanism carefully, and watched as a little whir sounded. The minute hand met the Roman numeral, and with a click the chimes sounded out in an eerie, jangling discord. Peter thought with sudden confusion that all was not well with the clock as he had thought. The chimes grew louder, filling the little bedroom with their clang.

  Horrified, the young man put his hands on the clock as though he could stop off the noise. As he shook the old cabinet the peals redoubled until they battered against the eardrums of the draftsman, ringing in his skull and resounding from the walls, making instruments dance and rattle on the drawing-board. Peter drew back, his hands to his ears. He was foiled with nausea, his eyes bleared and smarting. As the terrible clock thundered out its din without end he reached the door feebly, the room swaying and spinning about him, nothing real but the suddenly glowing clock-dial and the clang and thunder of its chimes.

  He opened the door and it ceased; he closed his eyes in relief as his nausea passed. He looked up again, and his eyes widened with horror. Though it was noon outside a night-wind fanned his face, and though he was on the second-story landing of his Grandfather Packer’s house dark trees rose about him, stretching as far as the eye could see.

  FOR three hours—by his wristwatch’s luminous dial—Peter had wandered, aimless and horrified, waiting for dawn. The aura of strangeness that hung over the forest in which he walked was bearable; it was the gnawing suspicion that he had gone mad that shook him to his very bones. The trees were no ordinary things, of that he was sure. For he had sat down under one forest giant and leaned back against its bole only to rise with a cry of terror. He had felt its pulse beat slowly and regularly under the bark. After that he did not dare to rest, but he was a young and, normal male. Whether he would or not he found himself blundering into ditches and stones from sheer exhaustion. Finally, sprawled on the ground, he slept.

  Peter woke stiff and sore from his nap on the bare ground, but he felt better for it. The sun was high in the heavens; he saw that it was about eleven o’clock. Remembering his terrors of the night he nearly laughed at himself. This was a forest, and there were any number of sane explanations how he got here. An attack of amnesia lasting about twelve hours would be one cause. And there were probably others less disturbing.

  He thought the country might be Maine. God knew how many trains or busses he had taken since he lost his memory in his bedroom. Beginning to whistle he strode through the woods. Things were different in the daytime.

  There was a sign ahead! He sprinted up to its base. The thing was curiously large, painted in red characters on a great slab of wood, posted on a dead tree some twelve feet from the ground. The sign said ELLIL. He rolled the name over in his mind and decided that he didn’t recognize it. But he couldn’t be far from a town or house.

  Ahead of him sounded a thunderous grunt.

  “Bears!” he thought in a panic. (They had been his childhood bogies.) But it was no bear, he saw. He almost wished it was. For the thing that was veering on him was a frightful composite of every monster of mythology, menacing him with sabre-like claws and teeth and gusts of flame from its ravening throat. It stood only about as high as the man, and its legs were long, but it seemed ideally styled for destruction.

  Without ado he jumped for a tree and dug his toes into the grooves of the bark, shimmying up it like a child. With the creature’s flaming breath scorching his heels he climbed, stopping only at the third set of main branches, twenty-five feet from the ground. There he clung, limp and shuddering, and looked down.

  The creature was hopping grotesquely about the base of the tree, its baleful eyes en him. The man’s hand reached for a firmer purchase on the branch, and part came away in his hand. He had picked a sort of coconut—heavy, hard, and with sharp corners. Peter raised his eyes. Why not? Carefully noting the path that the creature below took around the trunk he poised the fruit carefully. Wetting a finger, he adjusted the placing. On a free drop that long you had to allow for windage, he thought.

  Twice more around went the creature, and then its head and the murderous fruit reached the same point at the same time. There was a crunching noise which Peter could hear from where he was and the insides of its head spilled on the forest sward.

  “Clever,” said a voice beside him on the branch.

  He turned with a cry. The speaker was only faintly visible—the diaphanous shadow of a young girl, not more than eighteen, he thought. Calmly it went on, “You must be very mancic to be able to land a fruit so accurately. Did he give you an extra sense?” Her tone was light, but from what he could see of her dim features they were curled in an angry smile.

  Nearly letting go of the branch in his bewilderment he answered as calmly as he could, “I don’t know who you mean. And what is mancic?”

  “Innocent,” she said coldly. “Eh? I could push you off this branch without a second thought. But first you tell me where Almarish got the model for you. I might turn out a few myself. Are you a doppleganger or a golem?”

  “Neither,” he spat, bewildered and horrified. “I don’t even know what they are!”

  “Strange,” said the girl. “I can’t read you.” Her eyes squinted prettily and suddenly became solid, luminous wedges in her transparent face. “Well,” she sighed, “let’s get out of this.” She took the man by his elbow and dropped from the branch, hauling him after her. Ready for a sickening impact with the ground, Peter winced as his heels touched it light as a feather. He tried to disengage the girl’s grip, but it was steel-hard.

  “None of that,” she warned him. “I have a blast-finger. Or didn’t he tell you?”

  “What’s a blast-finger?” demanded the engineer.

  “Just so you won’t try anything,” she commented. “Watch.” Her body solidified then, and she pointed her left index finger at a middling-sized tree. Peter hardly saw what happened, being more interested in the incidental miracle of her face and figure. But his attention was distracted by a flat crash of thunder and sudden glare. And the tree was riven as if by a terrific stroke of lightning. Peter smelled ozone as he looked from the tree to the girl’s finger and back again. “Okay,” he said.

  “No nonsense?” she asked. “Come on.”

  They passed between two trees, and the vista of forest shimmered and tore, revealing a sort of palace—all white stone and maple timbers. “That’s my place,” said the girl.

  CHAPTER II

  “NOW,” she said, settling herself into a cane-backed chair. Peter looked about the room. It was furnished comfortably with pieces of antique merit, in the best New England tradition. His gaze shifted to the girl, slender and palely luminous, with a half-smile playing about her chisled features.

  “Do you mind,” he said slowly, “not interrupting until I’m finished with what I have to say?”

  “A message from Almarish? Go on.”

  And at that he completely lost his temper. “Listen, you snip!” he raged. “I don’t know who you are or where I am but I’d like to tell you that this mystery isn’t funny or even mysterious—just downright rude. Do you get that? Now—my name is Peter Packer. I live in Braintree, Mass. I make my living as a consulting engineer. This place obviously isn’t Braintree, Mass. Right? Then where is it?”

  “Ellil,” said the girl simply.

  “I saw that on a sign,” said Packer. “It still doesn’t mean anything to me. Where is Ellil?”

  Her face became suddenly grave. “You may be telling the truth,” she said thoughtfully. “I do not know yet. Will you allow me to test you?”

  “Why should I?”

  “Remember my blast-finger?”

  Packer winced. “Yes,” he said. “What are the tests?”

  “The usual,” she smiled. “Rosemary and garlic, crucifixes and the secret name of Jehovah. If you get through those you’re okay.”

  “Then get on with it,” he said, confusedly.

  “Hold these.” She passed him a flowery sprig and a clove of garlic. He to
ok them, one in each hand. “All right?” he asked.

  “On those, yes. Now take the cross and read this name. You can put the vegetables down now.”

  He followed instructions, stammering over the harsh Hebrew word. In a cold fury the girl sprang to her feet and leveled her left index finger at him. “Clever,” she blazed. “But you can’t get away with it! I’ll blow you so wide open—”

  “Wait,” he pleaded. “What did I do?” The girl, though sweet-looking, seemed to be absolutely irresponsible.

  “Mispronounced the Name,” she snapped. “Because you can’t say it straight without crumbling into dust!”

  He looked at the paper again and read aloud slowly and carefully. “Was that right?” he asked.

  Crestfallen, the girl sat down. “Yes,” she said. “I’m sorry. You seem to be okay. A real human. Now what do you want to know?”

  “Well—who are you?”

  “My name’s Melicent,” She smiled deprecatingly. “I’m a sorceress.”

  “I can believe that. Now why should you take me for a demon, or whatever you thought I was?”

  “Doppleganger,” she corrected him. “I was sure—well, I’d better begin at the beginning.

  “You see, I haven’t been a sorceress very long—only two years. My mother was a witch—a real one, and first-class. All I know I learned from her—never studied it formally. My mother didn’t die a natural death, you see. Almarish got her.”

  “Who’s Almarish?”

  She wrinkled her mouth with disgust. “A thug!” she spat. “He and his gang of half-breed demons are out to get control of Ellil. My mother wouldn’t stand for it—she told him right out flat over a Multiplex Apparition. And after that he was gunning for her steady—no letup at all. And believe me, there are mighty few witches who can stand up under much of that, but Mother stood him off for fifteen years. They got my father—he wasn’t much good—a little while after I was born. Vampires.

  “Mother got caught alone in the woods one morning without her tools—unguents, staffs and things—by a whole flock of golems and zombies.” The girl shuddered. “Some of them—well, Mother finished about half before they overwhelmed her and got a stake of myrtle through her heart. That finished her—she lost all her magic, of course, and Almarish sent a plague of ants against her. Adding insult to injury!” There were real tears of rage in her eyes.

  “And what’s this Almarish doing now?” Peter was fascinated.

  Melicent shrugged. “He’s after me,” she said simply. “The bandur you killed was one of my watchdogs. And I thought he’d sent you. I’m sorry.”

  “I see,” he breathed slowly. “What powers has he?”

  “The usual, I suppose. But he has no principles about using them. And he has his gang—I can’t afford real retainers. Of course I whip up some simulacra whenever I hold a reception or anything of that sort. Just images to serve and take wraps. They can’t fight.”

  Peter tightened his jaw. “You must be in a bad way.” The girl looked him full in the eye, her lip trembling. She choked out, “I’m in such a hell of a spot!” and then the gates opened and she was weeping as if her heart would break. He stood frozenly, wondering how he could comfort a despondent sorceress. “There, there,” he said tentatively.

  She wiped her eyes and looked at him. “I’m sorry,” she said sniffing. “But it’s seeing a friendly face again after all these years—no callers but leprechauns and things. You don’t know what it’s like.”

  “I wonder,” said Peter, “how you’d like to live in Braintree.”

  “I don’t know,” she said brightly. “But how could I get there?”

  “There should be at least one way.”

  “But why—what was that?” shot out the girl, snatching up a wand.

  “KNOCK on the door,” said Peter. “Shall I open it?”

  “Please,” said Melicent nervously, holding up the slender staff. He stood aside and swung the door wide. In walked a curious person of mottled red and white coloring. One eye was small and blue, the other large and savagely red. His teeth were quite normal—except that the four canines protruded two inches each out of his mouth. He walked with a limp; one shoe seemed curiously small. And there was a sort of bulge in the trousers that he wore beneath his formal morning-coat.

  “May I introduce myself,” said the individual, removing his sleek black topper. “I am Balthazar Pike. You must be Miss Melicent? And this—ah—zombie?” He indicated Peter with a leer.

  “Mr. Packer, Mr. Pike,” said the girl. Peter stared in horror while the creature murmured, “Enchanted.”

  Melicent drew herself up proudly. “And this, I suppose,” she said, “is the end?”

  “I fear so, Miss Melicent,” said the creature regretfully. “I have my orders. Your house has been surrounded by picked forces; any attempt to use your blast-finger or any other weapon of offense will be construed as resistance. Under the laws of civilized warfare we are empowered to reduce you to ashes should such resistance be forthcoming. May I have your reply?”

  The girl surveyed him haughtily, then, with a lighting-like sweep of her wand, seemed to blot out every light in the room. Peter heard her agitated voice, “We’re in a neutral screen, Mr. Packer. I won’t be able to keep it up for long. Listen! That was one of Almarish’s stinkers—big cheese. He didn’t expect any trouble from me. He’ll take me captive as soon as they break the screen down. Do you want to help me?”

  “Of course!”

  “Good. Then you find the third oak from the front door on the left and walk widdershins three times. You’ll find out what to do from them.”

  “Walk how?” asked Peter.

  “Widdershins—counterclockwise. Lord, you’re dumb!”

  Then the lights seemed to go on again, and Peter saw that the room was filled with the half-breed creatures. With an expression of injured dignity the formally-attired Balthazar Pike asked, “Are you ready to leave now, Miss Melicent? Quite ready?”

  “Thank you, General, yes,” said the girl coldly. Two of the creatures took her arms and walked her from the room. Peter saw that as they stepped over the threshold they vanished, all three. The last to leave was Pike, who turned and said to the man: “I must remind you, Mister—er—ah—that you are trespassing. This property now belongs to the Almarish Realty Corporation. All offenders will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. Good day, Mister—er—ah—”. With which he stepped over the door and vanished.

  Hastily Peter followed him across the line, but found himself alone outside the house. For which he was grateful. “Third oak from the left door,” he repeated. Simple enough. Feeling foolish he walked widdershins three times around and stopped dead waiting for something.

  What a sweet, brave kid she had been! He hoped nothing would really happen to her—before he got there.

  He felt a sort of tugging at his serge trousers and stepped back in alarm. “Well?” shrilled a small voice. Peter looked down and winced. The dirtiest, most bedraggled little creature he had ever seen was regarding him with tiny, sharp eyes. There were others, too, squatting on pebbles and toadstools.

  “Miss Melicent told me to ask you what I should do,” said Peter. As the little leader of the troop glared at him he added hastily, “If you please.”

  “Likely tale,” piped the voice of the creature. “What’s in it for us?”

  “I dunno,” he said bewildered. “What do you want?”

  “Green cloth,” the creature answered promptly. “Lots of it. And if you have any small brass buttons, them too.”

  Peter hastily conducted on inventory of his person. “I’m sorry,” he said hesitantly. “I haven’t any green. How about blue? I can spare my vest.” He carefully lowered the garment to the ground among the little people.

  “Looks all right,” said the leader. “Jake!” One of the creatures advanced and fingered the cloth. “Hmm—” he said. “Good material.” Then there was a whispered consultation with the leader, who at last
shouted up to Peter: “Head East for water. You can’t miss it!”

  “Hey,” said Peter, blinking. But they were already gone. And though he widdershin-walked for the next half hour and even tried a few incantations remembered from his childhood they did not come back, nor did his vest.

  So, with his back to the sinking sun, he headed East for water.

  CHAPTER III

  “MAHOORA City Limits,” said the sign. Peter scratched his head and passed it. He had hit the stretch of highway a few miles back once he had got out of the forest, and it seemed to be leading straight into a city of some kind. There was a glow ahead in the sky; a glow which abruptly became a glare.

  Peter gasped. “Buildings—skyscrapers!” Before him reared a sort of triple Wall Street with which were combined the most spectacular features of Rockefeller Center. In the sudden way in which things happened in Ellil he turned a blind corner in the road and found himself in the thick of it.

  A taxi roared past him; with a muttered imprecation he jumped out of the way. The bustling people on the sidewalks ignored him completely. It was about six o’clock; they were probably going home from their offices. They were all sorts of people—women and girls, plain and pretty, men and boys, slim, fat, healthy and dissipated. And striding along in lordly indifference Peter saw a cop.

  “Excuse me,” said Peter elbowing his way through the crowd to the member of Mahoora’s finest. “Can you tell me where I can find water?” That was, he realized, putting it a bit crudely. But he was hopelessly confused by the traffic and swarms of pedestrians.