Collected Short Fiction

by C. M. Kornbluth

  The Doll Master

  Dolls play an important part in witchcraft, just how important Fran Carlson only partially realized.

  FRAN WHISTLED when he saw the dolls. “So that,” he said, “is why Niela wanted individual photographs of all of us.”

  “Nice, aren’t they?”

  “Quite. Did you have a hand in this, Bette?”

  She shook her head. “It was all Niela’s work. I didn’t know a thing about it until I saw them. See, if you maneuver the arms and legs, they’ll stand up by themselves.” She picked up Fran’s doll. “Niela didn’t forget a thing; she’s cut out our signatures and pasted them around the waist of each respective cutout.

  “I hope you can stay awake until midnight, Fran; you’re to be my partner for dinner.”

  “What about Jerry? Isn’t he here?”

  “Niela’s cousin will take care of him.”

  “You mean Dorothy—the little redhead?”

  “Yes; she’ll keep Jerry occupied.” Fran smiled. “Then you and I can get together, eh?” He moved Bette’s doll closer to his own, made the two embrace. “Your image isn’t half the little teaser you are; see how nicely she responds?”

  “We’re not on the stage now, Fran,” she said. “You’re a good enough puppet-master, but I’m not a puppet.”

  That stung; he must think of a good retort. “You belittle me,” he drawled. “I’m more than that.”

  “Such as?”

  “A sorcerer. Ever hear of black magic, Bette? We have a good basis for it here. These dolls are representatives of all of us; they are our likenesses, and our signatures, a tangible part of our personalities are on each. All that is needed now is the proper incantation.”

  She laughed. “Then what happens?”

  He lit a cigarette. “Very interesting. The dolls come to life.”

  Her eyes were mocking. “Let’s see you do it.”

  He crushed the butt into a tray, and spoke rapidly in Latin. “That,” he announced, “is a minor spell. It puts the shadow of each person here into their respective miniature. It will endure until three o’clock.”

  “They don’t look any different.”

  “But they are,” he replied solemnly. Might as well make a good job of this, he thought. “Only you and I know that they are different; I shall not tell; you cannot.”

  There was no laughter in her eyes now. “Please don’t look so diabolical, Fran,” she whispered. Then, tearing herself away from his gaze, “If everyone’s soul-image is in his doll, then I don’t think we should let Jerry see us together like this. I’ll have to pull wool over his eyes—literally.”

  “No need for that; we will merely keep Jerry occupied. We’ll put Dorothy between him and us, so that he won’t have occasion to notice.”

  “Clever people, you wizards. What else can you do?”

  “Want a demonstration?”

  She nodded.

  “Then I shall.” He smiled and reached for her, surprised that she yielded, that she didn’t laugh and slip away as usual. There was nothing of the teaser about her now as their lips brushed, then clung to each other. He looked deep into the black of her eyes; there was no laughter now, only fierce desire.

  “Bette,” he whispered, “Bette!” She leaned against the table, panting. Then, as suddenly, the passion in her eyes died away to be replaced by a look of bewilderment. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that their dolls had been jarred apart.

  “I think that will do for demonstrations,” she said coldly.

  Fran smiled and held out his hand. “Forgive me,” he said quietly. “Shall we forget it?” Her eyes widened. “Look!” she exclaimed. “Someone’s doll has fallen into the water.”

  It was Harvey. Someone had placed him among the flowers. “Ferdinand,” thought Fran as he fished the miniature out. Then, aloud: “We’d better dry him off quickly; we wouldn’t want him to catch cold.”

  “YOU’VE MET BETTE FRAZER, of course,” said Niela, as Dorothy followed her in. “She draws pretty pictures for Jerry’s magazine. And Jerry rejects things.”

  “Oh,” chimed Dorothy, “are you an editor?”

  “Definitely,” nodded Frazer. He caught Fran’s eye. “Sorry, old fellow,” he chirped, “but that last novelette just won’t go.” He fished in his pocket. “Just had a new batch of rejection slips made up; you, you lucky person, are the first victim.” Bowing gracefully, he presented it to Fran.

  “The gentleman with the injured look on his face,” interrupted Niela, “is Fran Carlson, one of Jerry’s top writers.”

  He bowed and took her hand. “But hardly a royal favorite,” he added, indicating the little green slip.

  Fran withdrew to a bottle of wine, and began searching for a corkscrew. “Did you hear,” asked Niela, proffering the instrument, “about Harvey’s falling into the fishpond?”

  “What!”

  “Careful; you’ll spill the wine.” Niela looked at him a moment, then started to laugh.

  “What’s funny?” he wanted to know. “Here I nearly massacre your rug and you go into semi-hysterics?”

  “If you could have seen yourself!” she choked. She paused and looked at him puzzledly. “Fran, you didn’t have anything to do with it, did you?”

  “Hardly. I didn’t know until you told me. By the by, I just read your latest book. Very neat, Niela; very neat.”

  His mind was swirling. Could it possibly be that . . . but no, that was impossible. He hadn’t meant it; the incantation had been sheer gibberish. He tried to keep his voice on a sane level. “How did it happen?”

  “The poor boy had much too much grape beverage, I think. Celebrating the success of his poetry. I told him to get some air—you know, stuff you breathe at times? Lee was driving up with a case of gin and saw Harvey standing by the fishpond with a horribly blank expression on his face—the kind he always has when he’s blotto. Then, all of a sudden, he tipped over—Lee said that was the only way you could describe it—and fell in head first. Strangest thing about it is that he only went in up to his shoulders; his foot caught in a root. Lee ran over to pull him out before he drowned, and, before he got halfway, Harvey pulled himself out—just like that.”

  “How is he now?”

  “All right. He’s wearing Lee’s suit and won’t have to take a bath Saturday night.”

  Fran smiled. Then a voice called in “Niela!” and she excused herself and darted away. He was grateful to be alone, for his head was whirling faster now. The dolls. Bette. Bette. The dolls. Dolls, dolls, dolls. What did it all mean?

  He slipped into the dining room again; the dolls were all as he had left them. None were where they would fall off the table; none where anything would fall on them. Chances were that no one would come in and upset them. He saw to it that Jerry’s and Dorothy’s dolls were paired off in a corner, and that Bette’s doll still clung to his. Then he went out of the room, looking for her.

  She was waiting for him in the lounge. Music called them and they danced out of the world into a place of splendor and enchantment. Her eyes were deep and there was a tenderness in them he had never seen before. They were dancing very close and stars fell about them as the music brought them still closer. “Bette,” he whispered, “Bette!” Her lips answered him.

  “WANT TO PLAY MURDER, BETTE?”

  “Who’s playing?”

  “Everybody,” said Fran.

  “I don’t know how,” she protested, whispering to him.

  “Not now,” he murmured. “They’ll know if we’re the only ones not playing.”

  He cleared his throat. “It’s very simple, but lot’s of fun. Everyone,” he held up a deck of cards, “gets cards until the deck is dealt out. Ace of spades is the murderer; ace of diamonds the victim. Ace of clubs is the District Attorney; king of diamonds the judge, and ace of hearts the executioner.

  “The joker is for the witness who first testifies. Witness has to give evidence damaging to someone else. Throws suspicion from the very start.
The DA, of course, is exempt. He has to weave a chain of evidence around the murderer within a given time, or pay a forfeit. If he picks the wrong person, or cannot decide, then the murderer gets a prize for a perfect crime after he explains how it was done—abiding by evidence given. All clear?”

  All was clear. Everything was going nicely, Fran decided, as he dealt the cards. Niela had suggested the game; Bette had kept everyone from the dining room. He looked at the clock; one thirty. There was time, then. He saw to it that Jerry received the murderer’s card and that he was the District Attorney.

  And, an hour later, all agreed that he had done a magnificent job of sifting through masses of misleading and contradictory evidence, and establishing the identity of the murderer beyond shadow of doubt.

  “And I demand,” he concluded, addressing the judge, “that this person receive the highest penalty that the law can give; that his effigy be hanged by the neck until adjudged dead.”

  Niela pronounced the sentence, and they went into the next room where Dorothy improvised a set of gallows.

  Bette came forward with a silk thread. Just the thing, thought Fran, to give it the oriental touch. But now he had eyes only for Jerry.

  It would probably go down as heart failure; Frazer’s heart had never been very good. He smiled as Dorothy raised the doll with the silken cord looped about its neck, and let it fall.

  His breath caught in his throat with a jerk. Now was the moment; now he would know. No one was looking at Jerry; all were watching the little figure that swayed back and forth at the end of the golden thread.

  The room was getting stuffy. Fran loosened his collar; something was biting into his throat. He’d had too much to drink; it always affected him like this. Strange, nothing was happening to Frazer; he didn’t seem to be harmed at all.

  Then, he almost laughed and cried at once. Laughed at the fool he’d been; cried because this thing meant so much to him. Of course nothing would happen to Jerry; hadn’t it all been a joke for Bette’s sake? Nonsense?

  Yet, it would have been such a convenient way of getting rid of her husband . . .

  But he was drunk . . . drunk. And his throat hurt. It was almost as if he were being . . . strangled.

  Strangled! Then he knew, knew before the little doll turned around and he saw that it was his own. And Jerry—Jerry’s doll stood over at the end of the table, its arms about Dorothy’s likeness.

  The little red-head laughed sweetly. “Sorry, your honor,” she said, “but the prisoner escaped. Daring jail-break. We had to hang someone, so we substituted the District Attorney.” Everyone laughed.

  But he couldn’t laugh. He leaned against the table in a paroxism of terror, clutching at his throat, trying desperately to tear something away—something that was biting deeper, and ever deeper. He wanted to shout at them, to tell them to take it down, but he couldn’t speak.

  The room was growing dark . . .

  “Look,” he heard Frazer say, “at this magnificent portrayal. A Carlson production!”

  God! They thought he was acting.

  Then, suddenly, the pressure was gone. He felt free. “Bravo!” cried someone. The room was somewhat misty; Harvey was taking flowers from the table. “On behalf of the company,” he was saying, “we wish to present you . . .”

  He heard Niela gasp. “Look at the way he’s lying.” Then, strangely, Bette flung herself to the floor, sobbing “Fran! Fran!”

  Across the floor was a mirror. He knew he would have to look into it, dreaded what he would see.

  The scream that burst from him was thrice horrible because he realized that no one heard . . .

  Dimension of Darkness

  I was only going to bump him off when the Doc pulled that switch. So how’m I goin’ to explain to Lucco what happened then?

  “DON’T SHOOT,” says Ellenbogan. “For the love of science, don’t shoot!”

  “Sorry, doc,” I says, slipping the safety catch. “I got my orders. That’s the way it goes. Got any last words?”

  “Look, Mr. what’s your name?”

  “Matt Reilly. Make it snappy, bud. I gotta be back in a few minutes for a tote job.”

  “I see,” he says slowly. “You don’t know what you’re doing, do you?”

  “I don’t see how that matters,” I says, “but they tell me you welched on a five grand pony bet. That right?”

  “Yes,” he says, breaking into a cold sweat. “But look—it’s awfully important that I don’t die for a few minutes at least. Someone told me that horse couldn’t lose, and I needed the money. I took my chances, I know. But will you let me off for just ten minutes while I wind up my work?”

  “Ten minutes,” I brood. “Okay, doc. But no funny business. And you don’t step out of this lab.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Reilly,” he gasps, wiping his brow. “You can trust me.” So then he goes puttering around his machinery, taping wires together, plugging light-cords in, tinkering up coils and connecting radio tubes and things. And I kept my eye on him and the clock. After a while I remind him, “Four minutes to go, doc. How about it?”

  “I’ll be ready,” he answers, not looking up, even. “I’ll be ready. Just this one interphasometer reading—will you look at this, please—my eyes—it’s a very small dial—”

  “Waddya want? Be specific,” I says.

  He freezes up as he sees my gun again. “Just tell me what number this needle is resting on, please. That’s all I have to know.”

  “Okay. This dial?” He nods, so I casually put my gun in his side and bend over to look. It was a seven. “Lucky seven, doc,” I says. “And I think your time’s up. Turn around, please.”

  “Seven,” he broods, seeming to forget all about me. “So it checks. The number proves it.” Then, quick like a fox, he spins around and throws himself at a switch. Startled, I blazes away with the roscoe and some glass breaks.

  “Look out!” yells Doc Ellenbogan. “You’ll be caught—” And then I sees that there’s something awful solid and black turning and growing in the middle of a piece of machinery. “Gas!” I thinks, whipping out a handkerchief and clamping it over my nose. I aimed straight at the doc this time, before running. But then the black thing explodes in one big rush and I’m flat on my back.

  “I’M SORRY I had to get you involved,” says Ellenbogan. “How do you feel?” Then I see that I’m lying down inhaling smelling-salts that the doc is holding. Like a flash I reaches for my heater. But it’s gone, of course. Then I guess I says some nasty things to the doc, on account of even the Frank V. Coviccio West Side Social and Athletic Club don’t use gas. And you know what louses they are.

  “Don’t misunderstand, please,” says the doc with remarkable self-control, considering the names I applied to him. “Don’t misunderstand. I have your gun, and I’ll give it back to you as soon as you understand clearly what has happened. Where, for instance, do you think you are?”

  And there’s something in his voice that makes me sit up and take notice. So help me, we ain’t in his lab or anywhere near Columbia University that I can see. So I ask him what’s cooking.

  “The fourth dimension,” he says, cold and quiet. So I look again. And this time I believe him. Because the sky, what there was of it, is the blackest black you could ever hope to see, and not a star in sight. The ground is kind of soft, and there’s no grass to speak of, except a kind of hairy stuff in tufts. And I still don’t know how we can see each other, the doc and me, because there isn’t any light at all. He glows and so do I, I guess—anyway, that’s what it looks like. “Okay, doc,” I says. “I’ll take your word for it.”

  So what does he do? He hands me back my gun! I check the roscoe for condition and aim it. “Mr. Reilly!” he says sharply. “What are you intending to do now?”

  “Plug you like I was supposed to do,” I reply. And instead of looking worried he only smiles at me as if I’m a worm or something. “Surely,” he says, gentle and sweet, “there wouldn’t be any point to that, would there?�
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  “I dunno about that, doc. But Lucco would damage me real bad if I didn’t do the job I’m supposed to. So that’s the way it is, I guess. You ready?”

  “Look, Mr. Reilly,” he snaps. “I don’t take you for an especially bright person, but surely you must realize that this is neither the time nor the place for carrying out your plans. I don’t want to lose my temper, but if you ever want to get back to your own world you’d better not kill me just yet. While I appreciate your professional attitude, I assure you that it would be the height of folly to do anything except take my orders. I have no weapons, Mr. Reilly, but I have a skull full of highly speciallized information and techniques which will be more valuable to you personally than my cadaver. Let’s reach an understanding now, shall we?”

  So I thinks it over. And Ellenbogan’s right, of course. “Okay, doc,” says little Matt. “I’m on your staff. Now tell me when do we eat—and what?”

  “Try some of that grass,” he says. “It looks nutritious.” I picks a bunch of the grass and drop it in a hurry. The crazy stuff twists and screams like it was alive. “That was a bum steer, doc,” I says. “Many more of those and we may part company abrupt-like. What about food and water?” And the minute I think of water I get thirsty. You know how it is.

  “There should be people around,” he mutters looking over his shoulder. “The preselector indicated protoplasm highly organized.” I take him by the arm. “Look, doc,” I says, “suppose you begin at the beginning and tell me just where we are and how we get back home and why you brought us here. And anything else that comes into your head. Now talk!”

  “Of course,” he says, mild and a little hurt. “I just thought you wouldn’t be interested in the details. Well, I said this is the fourth dimension. That is only approximately true. It is a cognate plane of some kind—only one of the very many which exist side-by-side with our own. And of course I didn’t mean to take you here with me; that was an accident. I called to you to get out of the way while you could, but the pressure belt caught you while you were busily carrying out your orders, which were to shoot me dead.