The Collected Stories

by Earl

  Now the fox was close, jaws slavering. Atho unhitched his flint-headed axe, and held it in one hand. His ready spear was in the other. This was to be a battle beside which the struggle with the ferret in the glade had been a child’s game.

  The fox was three times as long as Atho’s body, and perhaps ten times as heavy. Its jaws in one mighty snap could crunch Atho in half. The fox had all the advantage—speed, power, weight and size.

  But Atho had courage all out of proportion to his size.

  The fox loped up almost carelessly, sure of its victory. Its lips drew back, revealing sharp ferral teeth. It sat for a moment three feet from its victim, as though grinning at this foolish little tidbit who did not even run, as every sane rabbit at least tried.

  Then it lunged forward, jaws wide for the kill.

  ATHO timed his stroke and brought down his flint-axe on the sharp, pointed nose. The fox leaped back with a bark of pain. The blow had been light and glancing, but it drew blood. With a snarl, the killer circled and came at Atho from the side, to drive him into the open.

  But Atho knew that was fatal. Cunning must be met with superior cunning. Still with his back to the stump, slowing Reynard’s attack by its presence, Atho swung again at the nose, heavily. This time he clipped off a piece and the fox howled in pain.

  Then from its throat issued a growl of rage. Gnashing its teeth, it closed in thrice more. And thrice more Atho’s arm beat down, gouging into the fox’s tender snout. The killer’s dark, beady eyes clouded with beserk fury, and Atho knew he had evened the odds, for rage is the poison of reason.

  Had the fox quietly and in its cunning worried Atho out of position, the battle would have ended in time with Atho’s death. But now the killer lunged without thought, clumsy in its sheer rage.

  The death-stroke—now was the time. . . .

  Atho leaped, as he had leaped before the ferret. Twice his height he leaped and landed on the fox’s neck. Digging his toes behind the jowls for a foothold, he raised his lance and plunged it down, through the fox’s throat. All this in a blur of swiftness.

  With a gurgling bark, the fox hunched. Atho’s feet slipped and he flew through the air, to land with a thump on the ground, his breath knocked out for the second time that day. When he arose, gasping and staggering, the fox was threshing wildly, clawing at the lance that pierced its throat and drained its life blood.

  A half hour later, Atho kicked the carcass.

  “Eyoo!” he cried, withdrawing his spear and waving it over his head. “Eyoooo! I have killed a fox!”

  Then he sobered from his wild elation at the great deed—there was no false modesty in Atho—and resumed his grim journey.

  Nothing else worthy of concern crossed his path. The night of the third day he reached the lone house of the Big People.

  CHAPTER VII

  Among the Big Ones

  ALL was quiet in the house as Atho crept through the rat hole he had used before, and emerged in the basement. He padded up the steps, bounding lightly from one to another. But the door here was closed!

  Atho pondered. Then he slipped back through the rat hole, and outside he plucked a supple ivy-vine from an oak tree, and returned. After several casts, the loop he had made caught around the doorknob. Drawing himself up, hand over hand, he grasped the doorknob in his arms and twisted, at the same time pushing with his feet against the jamb. The door creaked open two inches, and Atho lowered himself to the floor.

  He stood silently for a moment. The Big People had not heard.

  Now, where were the captives? Atho did not dare call out. He would have to search the house. His nocturnal-sensitive eyes would make them out if once they were within sight.

  His little form crept silently as a mouse through the giant rooms, first the kitchen, then the hall and living room. He found no sign of his quarry.

  Then, in another room, he found the first of the Big People, breathing loudly and regularly in sleep, in his bed. Atho looked at the face of the young man, from the rear bedpost, and almost thought of waking him. He looked kindly, somehow. But no. He was one of the terrible Big People, who had captured Elva and the others for some purpose known only to the Big People’s heartless minds.

  He crept out and into another bedroom. Here lay a woman-figure. Her face was sweet, but troubled-looking. Somehow, she reminded him of his Elva. These two, the man and girl, had been the ones he had heard whispering love-words to each other, on Bald Mountain that time. Was it possible—just possible—that they would know, therefore, what his love for Elva meant? How his heart was torn and pained by their separation? Would they help him, if they knew?

  Atho pondered that for a long moment. If only he knew! But no, he could not take a chance. The Big People were an unknown quantity. They were cruel monsters, all of them, caring little about the tiny folk who happened to live in their world.

  As he pattered out of this room, he saw a gleam of light from an upstairs room. At the top of the steps, he peered cautiously around a partly ajar door, into a brightly lighted room. He almost gasped aloud.

  There before a table sat the third of the Big People, the man of the gold watch. His face was the face Atho had disliked from first glimpse. There were hard, cold lines. No emotion or sympathy or kindness lay there. He was turning the pages of what Atho vaguely knew to be a book.

  Then Atho started violently.

  Koro was there, too, standing on the table before a glinting surface that reflected his image, as still waters did. He was turning and admiring himself and his clothes. He was dressed in a miniature copy of the Big People’s clothing, evidently made for him. They were stiff, awkward garments, and ridiculous on Koro, but he seemed pleased.

  At sight of Koro, Atho’s lips had writhed. And the rage that pounded in his little breast was a killing rage. Almost, he leaped out, to fulfill the urge. But that would be folly, at this moment.

  THE Big One’s voice rumbled out. “Yes, Koro, I will civilize you and your people. You have been living like little savages. You look perfectly human in our clothing.”

  “I will be famous in your world, will I not?” Koro piped back. “And I will be the governor of our people there?”

  The Big One nodded absently, going back to his book.

  “Here is the clue,” he said, as if thinking aloud. “Eohippus, the tiny horse, survived in a world of mighty killers, because of its smallness. You Little Folk survived for the same reason. Our common ancestor evolved the man-branch. I will show that anology in my papers—” His voice trailed away in deep thought. Koro shrugged, understanding little of that.

  Atho crept away.

  Koro, breaking the sacred First Law into a thousand pieces, plotting with the Big One the enslavement of his people, deserved death. But first, Atho must find Elva and the others, and rescue them if possible. They were not in the lighted room, as his swift eyes had taken account.

  He pattered to the only room left, also a bedroom, but untenanted and dark. He noticed, finally, the high shelf against one wall, hung over a large item of furniture—a writing desk. On the shelf lay a queer object, a sort of cage of wire-netting. It was the same material the Big People used before their windows as screens to keep out insects, which they didn’t care for as food.

  Atho stiffened, as he stared, his eyes returning to full night-vision after the glare of the other room. He saw movement, beyond the wire-netting. A tiny form was pacing there, and Atho saw that it was one of the captives from the glade. Not Elva, but one of the men. Were they all there?

  Atho had to find out, though it would be tricky business with Koro and the Big One awake and near. Atho crept back to the basement door and retrieved his vine-lasso. Returning to the bedroom, he pondered the task before him, and then laid down his spear and bow, which would be in his way. With only the lasso and his flint-axe dangling in his belt, he clambered up one leg of the chair before the desk. From the chair he reached the top of the desk.

  His eyes glanced around in instinctive appraisal, as
always in the pursuance of something untried. Queer things lay on the desk—a pair of gloves, an inkstand, several pins and a writing pen with a steel dagger at the end. Atho did not know their names or uses. Nor did they concern him.

  The shelf was still high out of reach. He cast with his lariat for an iron projection that jutted out from the shelf beside the cage. The vine, though supple, was not easy to handle. The cast was four times over his head—twenty-five feet by a comparable scale of measurement.

  Each time the vine fell back, it made a slithering sound, loud to Atho’s ears. If only they wouldn’t hear, in the other room! Those in the cage did, however. They crowded to the netting, looking down wonderingly. Atho made a gesture to keep silent, and they nodded.

  But he almost cried aloud himself when he saw Elva’s face there. He waved and slung his vine-rope, with renewed determination.

  Finally it caught, and quickly Atho hauled himself to the shelf. The captives pressed against the wirenetting.

  “Atho!” one of them breathed.

  “Quiet!” hissed back Atho. “On your life. I will try to open this cage.”

  Elva pressed before him, her lovely face haggard and strained. Atho silently cursed the wire-netting that prevented his touching her. But their eyes spoke their love.

  “Are you all right, darling?” he whispered anxiously. He noticed now the strange costume she wore, like that of a Big One of the feminine sex.

  “Yes, but it has been horrible,” Elva half-sobbed back. “We have been forced to wear their kind of clothing, made by the woman of the Big Ones. We were told we must never expect to go back to our woodland home, and must learn to be like the Big People. Oh, Atho, our whole life will be ruined!”

  “And Koro brought this all on us!” Atho ground out angrily.

  Then he sprang away. Time was flying. He went to the cage-door but found it beyond his powers to open. Some strange metal device locked it securely. After examining all sides of the cage, he drew a breath and unslung his flint-axe. He would grind through the wire-netting.

  He began to rub the razor-sharp edge across several strands of the hard wire. It made a scraping sound, so loud that Atho stopped with a beating pulse. Surely the Big One in the lighted room must hear. Or if not he, then Koro with his keen ears. But no interruption came and Atho sawed away steadily, with the anxious hopeful eyes of the captives on every motion. One of the wire strands parted suddenly. Atho’s spirits surged. A dozen more and a way would be open.

  At last it was done. Atho dropped his flint-axe and thrust the split wires apart. The two-inch wide aperture was just enough for the little captives to writhe through. Atho extended his hand, and Elva came first. Then the others, till they all stood on the shelf. Atho slid down the rope to the desk top and caught Elva as she followed. The others began to follow.

  Suddenly there was a shout behind Atho. He whirled.

  KORO stood there, having just clambered to the desk-top from the chair. Shocked surprise was in his face.

  “Atho!” he gasped. “I thought I heard noises—”

  And with that Koro raised his voice in a shrill scream, before Atho could reach him. “Dr. Bolton! Help! The captives are escaping! Dr. Bol—”

  Atho flung himself forward. He drove against Koto’s legs as he tried to run and flung him heavily to the desk-top. Koro squirmed erect and backed away from the blaze in Atho’s eyes.

  “You are going to die, Koro!” Atho said in a low, deadly tone. “I am going to kill you with my bare hands!”

  The man who had just descended the rope charged forward grimly, but Atho waved him aside.

  “Back! Back!” he commanded. “This is my privilege!”

  Atho jumped forward, battering at Koro’s face with his hard fists. In desperation, Koro fought back. He had no further chance to turn, or breath to cry out. Blood streamed from his nose as Atho’s blows took effect. Twice more Atho grasped him by the middle, raised him, and flung him on the desk-top, so that its implements rattled. Then he flung himself on the stunned Koro, to grasp his throat and choke the treacherous life from him.

  “Atho!” Elva’s voice rang warningly. “The Big One comes—”

  Atho paused. He had forgotten that danger, in his blinding rage. Koro had the chance to suddenly leap up and back. He snatched up something, and when he turned, Atho was faced by a sharp murderous weapon—

  Atho barely checked his renewed attack in time to keep from impaling himself. He had no weapons himself; the spear and bow were below on the floor, the flint-axe above on the shelf. And Atho had to scramble back as Koro, face alight with triumph, charged at him, handling his weapon as a sword. One thrust, and the sharp point would kill Atho. The pseudosword flicked several times, as Atho dodged desperately, and once its point tore a gash in his arm.

  Atho faced quick death.

  And then something was thrust in his hand. It was a large, heavy implement, its end equipped with a steel part, which Elva had dragged from its place near a glass bowl filled with dark fluid.

  With the quickness of thought, Atho raised it in his two hands, as a lance, and drove it forward.

  Koro had just lunged forward, thrusting with his sword, intent on delivering the death-stroke . . .

  There was the pound of heavy feet at the door and then brilliant electric light flooded the room.

  Dr. Bolton rushed forward, having heard Koro’s cry of alarm. He reached the desk, stopped, staring at the strange tableau on his desk top. Two little men came at one another. One held a pin as a weapon, and lunged forward with it. But the other twisted aside agilely, gripping the desk’s writing-pen in his hand. With a furious thrust, he impaled his adversary.

  And the victim—it was Koro—fell dead.

  Dr. Bolton stood rooted in surprise. It had happened too quickly for him to intervene. He was aware that Scott and Helena had just entered, still in their night-clothes, staring in horrified fascination at the little drama.

  Then a slow smile came over Dr. Bolton’s face.

  “The little devils!” he murmured. “It’s just like a play, performed for our benefit, by puppets on a stage! Think of the sensation they will be to the world. They’re natural born little actors, by Heaven—”

  “Good God!” exploded Scott. “Don’t you realize, Dr. Bolton, what a tragedy this represents to the Little Folk? The traitor, Koro, meeting his just reward for betrayal. It’s not a play. To them it’s the meaning of their whole life—”

  On the desk-top, Atho looked down at the dead body of Koro, wild exultance in his veins. It was the first time within memory that one of the Little Folk had killed another, but never had cause been more just.

  Elva’s soft hand was pulling at his arm.

  “We must flee, Atho!” she cried. “The Big People will catch us again!”

  Atho awoke to the exigency of the moment. His eyes darted about, but he saw no escape. The doors of the big room were closed, the windows down. They might leap to the floor and lead the Big Ones a merry chase, but eventually they would be caught.

  “There is no escape,” Atho announced to his party, almost calmly.

  “But what will we do?” Elva moaned. “I cannot stand further imprisonment—”

  Atho put his arms around her protectingly and patted her shoulder. All the while, he had been hearing what the Big Ones spoke.

  “Listen!” he told her. “Listen to the Big People. I think perhaps there is a drama unfolding among them, as vital as ours—”

  DR. BOLTON had waved a weary hand, at Scott’s last words.

  “Nonsense! Must we argue about this forever? Look at it rationally. We’ll civilize the Little Folk. We’ll find a place for them in our civilization. As little actors and acrobats, they’ll delight audiences. Or, if you will, think of more serious tasks for them. As surgeons’ helpers, with their quick little hands, performing delicate operations beyond our skill. Or as makers of fine watches, tools, instruments—oh, I see limitless possibilities, if they’re trained right.”
/>   “Trained?” Scott groaned. “Like little slaves!”

  Shrugging, Dr. Bolton moved closer to the desk-top, where the Little Folk had gathered in a knot. They shrank back.

  “Back in your cage,” he said. “The new one too. He’ll replace Koro. Don’t try to escape. You can’t get out of this room. I will lift you one by one—”

  Dr. Bolton extended his hand toward the pair that stood arm in arm. The little man struck at his fingers with the pin he had picked up, pricking him.

  “We will not be your slaves!” Atho piped defiantly. And beside him, Elva sent a pleading glance at Scott and Helena.

  Dr. Bolton gasped, then scowled blackly. “Little man, I’ll—”

  His hand reached again, as though to grasp Atho and squeeze—”

  Scott clutched the scientist’s arm and whirled him about.

  “I’ve had enough of this, Dr. Bolton!” he blazed. “For three days you’ve played with these creatures like an all-powerful god. You forced Helena to make those little clothes that are utterly hateful to them. You’ve been trying to cram our civilization down their throats. You want to take them from their free, happy life in the wild and gear them like tiny cogs in our mechanical civilization. Can’t you see it would destroy their souls? Can’t you see the pain and fright in their little eyes as we monsters talk over their fate?”

  “And can’t you see how those two love one another, man and girl, just as Scott and I do?” Helena murmured, staring down tenderly at Elva in Atho’s arms.

  “They’re entitled to their own lives, and they’re going free!” Scott concluded. “I won’t let them be the guinea-pigs of science, the playthings of the world.

  They were never meant for that.”

  “How romantic!” scoffed Dr. Bolton. “But from the practical, scientific viewpoint, it’s silly talk.” His voice became harsh. “Scott, if you stand in my way—”

  But Scott was through talking.

  His fist lashed out, clipping the scientist neatly on the chin. Without a sound he crumpled to the floor.