Bypass to Otherness (1961) SSC

by Henry Kuttner

  Witter looked startled, and, after a hesitant pause, laughed. "I never thought of that. Silly. What I always wondered was why they were starving when there was still plenty of gingerbread. Is it possible to be allergic to gingerbread?"

  "I do not think so. The gingerbread may have been poisoned-a man who would desert his family might have cause to hate them, also. Perhaps hate them enough to-Captain Witter!"

  There was a blank silence. Presently Wilier got up, heiled, and departed, carefully breaking step. The minister looked again at the picture on the wall, tapped the bulky report before him, and shoved it away to examine a typewritten sheaf which was carefully labeled IMPORTANT. It was important. In half an hour the Führer would broadcast a speech, one for which the world had been waiting. It would explain certain things about dubious matters, such as the ~ussian campaign. And it was a good speech-excellent propaganda. There were to be two broadcasts, the first to Germany, the second to the rest of the world.

  The minister rose and walked back and forth on the rich carpet. His lip lifted in a sneer. The way to conquer any enemy was to crush him

  -face him and smash him. If the rest of Germany had his own mentality, his own self-confidence, that ridiculous song would lose all its force.

  "So," the minister said. "It goes so. Left. Left. Left a wife and seventeen children-so. It cannot harm me. It can get no hold on my mind. I repeat it, but only when I wish to do so; and I wish to do so to prove that the doggerel is futile-on me, anyway. So. Left. Left. Left a wife-" Back and forth strode the Minister of Propaganda, his hard, clipped voice snappily intoning the phrases. This wasn't the first time. He often repeated the song aloud-but, of course, merely to prove to himself that he was stronger than it.

  Adolf Hitler was thinking about gingerbread and Russia. There were other problems, too. It was difficult being Leader. Eventually, when a better man came along, he would step out, his work done. The well-worn record slipped from its groove, and Hitler pondered the speech he held. Yes, it was good. It explained much-why things had gone wrong in Russia, why the English invasion had failed, why the English were doing the impossible by way of raiding the continent. He had worried about those problems. They were not really problems, but the people might not understand, and might lose confidence in their Führer. However, the speech would explain everything-even Hess. Goebbels had worked for days on the psychological effects of the speech, and it was, therefore, doubly important that it go through without a hitch. Hitler reached for an atomizer and sprayed his throat, though that was really unnecessary. His voice was in top shape.

  It would be distressing if-.

  Pfui! There would be no hitch. The speech was too important. He had made speeches before, swayed people with the weapon of his oratory. The crucial point, of course, was the reference to Russia and the ill-fated spring campaign. Yet Goebbels had a beautiful explanation; it was true, too.

  "It is true," Hitler said aloud.

  Well, it was. And sufficiently convincing. From the Russian discussion he would go on to Hess, and then-But the Russian question-that was vital. He must throw all his power into the microphones at that moment. He rehearsed mentally. A pause. Then, in a conversational voice, he would say,

  "At last I may tell you the truth about our Russian campaign, and why it was a triumph of strategy for German arms-"

  He'd prove it, too.

  But he must not forget for a moment how vitally important this speech was, and especially the crucial point in it. Remember. Remember. Do it exactly as rehearsed. Why, if he failed-There was no such word. But if he failed-No. Even if he did-But he wouldn't. He mustn't. He never had. And this was a crisis.

  Not an important one, after all, he supposed, though the people were no longer wholeheartedly behind him. Well, what was the worst that could happen? He might be unable to make the speech. It would be postponed. There could be explanations. Goebbels could take care of that. It wasn't important.

  Don't think about it.

  On the contrary, think about it. Rehearse again. The pause. "At last I may tell you-"

  It was time.

  All over Germany people were waiting for the speech. Adolf Hitler stood before the microphones, and he was no longer worried. At the back of his mind, he created a tiny phonograph record that said, over and over,

  "Russia. Russia.-Russia." It would remind him what to do, at the right moment. Meanwhile, he launched into his speech.

  It was good. It was a Hitler speech.

  "Now!" said the record.

  Hitler paused, taking a deep breath, throwing his head arrogantly back. He looked out at the thousands of faces beneath his balcony. But he wasn't thinking about them. He was thinking of the pause, and the next line; and the pause lengthened.

  Important! Remember! Don't fail!

  Adolf Hitler opened his mouth. Words came out. Not quite the right words. Ten seconds later Adolf Hitler was cut off the air. It wasn't Hitler personally who spoke to the world a few hours later. Goebbels had had a record made, and the transcription, oddly enough, didn't mention Russia. Or any of the vital questions that had been settled so neatly. The Führer simply couldn't talk about those questions. It wasn't mike fright, exactly. Whenever Hitler reached the crucial point in his speech, he turned green, gritted his teeth, and said-the wrong thing. He couldn't get over that semantic block. The more he tried, the less he succeeded. Finally Goebbels saw what was happening and called it off. The world broadcast was emasculated. At the time there was considerable discussion as to why Hitler hadn't stuck to his announced program. He'd intended to mention Russia. Why, then-Not many people knew. But more people will know now. In fact, a lot of people in Germany are going to know. Things get around there. Planes go over and drop leaflets, and people whisper, and they'll remember a certain catchy German stanza that's going the rounds.

  Yeah. Maybe this particular copy of Astounding will find its way to England, and maybe an R. A. F. pilot will drop it near Berlin, or Paris, for that matter. Word will get around. There are lots of men on the continent who can read English.

  And they'll talk.

  They won't believe, at first. But they'll keep their eyes open. And there's a catchy little rhythm they'll remember. Some day the story will reach Berlin or Berchtesgarten. Some day it'll reach the guy with the little mustache and the big voice.

  And, a little while later-days or weeks, it doesn't matter-Goebbels is going to walk into a big room, and there he's going to see Adolf Hitler goose-stepping around and yelling:

  LEFT

  LEFT

  LEFT a wife and SEVenteen children in

  STARVing condition with NOTHing but gingerbread

  LEFT-

  HOUSING PROBLEM

  Jacqueline said it was a canary, but I contended that there were a couple of lovebirds in the covered cage. One canary could never make that much fuss. Besides, I liked to think of crusty old Mr. Henchard keeping lovebirds; it was so completely inappropriate. But whatever ouz roomer kept in that cage by his window, he shielded it-or them-jealously from prying eyes. All we had to go by were the noises.

  And they weren't too simple to figure out. From under the cretonne cloth came shufflings, rustlings, occasional faint and inexplicable pops, and once or twice a tiny thump that made the whole hidden cage shake on its redwood pedestal-stand. Mr. Henchard must have known that we were curious. But all he said when Jackie remarked that birds were nice to have around, was "Claptrap! Leave that cage alone, d'ya hear?" That made us a little mad. We're not snoopers, and after that brush-off, we coldly refused to even look at the shrouded cretonne shape. We didn't want to lose Mr. Henchard, either. Roomers were surprisingly hard to get. Our little house was on the coast highway; 'the town was a couple of dozen homes, a grocery, a liquor store, the post office and Terry's restaurant. That was about all. Every morning Jackie and I hopped the bus and rode in to the factory, an hour away. By the time we got home, we were pretty tired. We couldn't get any household help -war jobs paid a lot better-so w
e both pitched in and cleaned. As for cooking, we were Terry's best customers.

  The wages were good, but before the war we'd run up too many debts, so we needed extra dough. And that's why we rented a room to Mr. Hencharci. Off the beaten track with transportation difficult, and with the coast dimout every night, it wasn't too easy to get a roomer. Mr. Henchard looked like a natural. He was, we figured, too old to get into mischief. One day he wandered in, paid a deposit; presently he showed up with a huge Gladstone and a square canvas grip with leather handles. He was a creaking little old man with a bristling tonsure of stiff hair and a face like Popeye's father, only more human. He wasn't sour; he was just crusty. I had a feeling he'd spent most of his life in furnished rooms, minding his own business and puffing innumerable cigarettes through a long black holder. But he wasn't one of those lonely old men you could safely feel sorry for-far from it! He wasn't poor and he was completely self-sufficient. We loved him. I called him grandpa once, in an outburst of affection, and my skin blistered at the resultant remarks. Some people are born under lucky stars. Mr. Henchard was like that. He was always finding money in the street. The few times we shot craps or played poker, he made passes and held straights without even trying. No question of sharp dealing-he was just lucky.

  I remember the time we were all going down the long wooden stairway that leads from the cliff-top to the beach. Mr. Henchard kicked at a pretty big rock that was on one of the steps. The stone bounced down a little way, and then went right through one of the treads. The wood was completely rotten. We felt fairly certain that if Mr. Henchard, who was leading, had stepped on that rotten section, the whole thing would have collapsed. And then there was the time I was riding up with him in the bus. The motor stopped a few minutes after we'd boarded the bus; the driver pulled over. A car was coming toward us along the highway and, as we stopped, one of its front tires blew out. It skidded into the ditch. If we hadn't stopped when we did, there would have been a head-on collision. Not a soul was hurt. Mr. Henchard wasn't lonely; he went out by day, I think, and at night he sat in his room near the window most of the time. We knocked, of course, before coming in to clean, and sometimes he'd say, "Wait a minute." There'd be a hasty rustling and the sound of that cretonne cover going on his bird cage. We wondered what sort of bird he had, and theorized on the possibility of a phoenix. The creature never sang. It made noises. Soft, odd, not-always-birdlike noises. By the time we got home from work, Mr. Henchard was always in his room. He stayed there while we cleaned. On week-ends, he never went out.

  As for the cage .

  One night Mr. Henchard came out, stuffing a cigarette into his holder, and looked us over.

  "Mph," said Mr. Henchard. "Listen, I've got some property to 'tend to up north, and I'll be away for a week or so. I'll still pay the rent."

  "Oh, well," Jackie said. "We can-"

  "Claptrap," he growled. "It's my room. I'll keep it if I like. How about that, hey?"

  We agreed, and he smoked half his cigarette in one gasp. "Mm-rn. Well, look here, now. Always before I've had my own car. So I've taken my bird cage with me. This time I've got to travel on the bus, so I can't take it. You've been pretty nice-not peepers or pryers. You got sense. I'm going to leave my bird cage here, but don't you touch that cover!"

  "The canary-" Jackie gulped. "It'll starve."

  "Canary, hmm?" Mr. Henchard said, fixing her with a beady, wicked eye.

  "Never you mind. I left plenty o' food and water. You just keep your hands off. Clean my room when it needs it, if you want, but don't you dare touch the bird cage. What do you say?"

  "Okay with us," I said.

  'Well, you mind what I say," he snapped.

  That next night, when we got home, Mr. Henchard was gone. We went into his room and there was a note pinned to the cretonne cover. It said, "Mind, now!" Inside the cage something went rustle-whirr. And then there was a faint pop.

  "Hell with it," I said. "Want the shower first?"

  "Yes," Jackie said.

  Whirr-r went the cage. But it wasn't wings. Thump!

  The next night I said, "Maybe he left enough food, but I bet the water's getting low."

  "Eddie!" Jackie remarked.

  "All right, I'm curious. But I don't like the idea of birds dying of thirst, either."

  "Mr. Henchard said-"

  "All right, again. Let's go down to Terry's and see ~.vhat the lamb chop situation is."

  The next night-Oh, well. We lifted the cretonne. I still think we were less curious than worried. Jackie said she once knew somebody who used to beat his canary.

  "We'll find the poor beast cowering in chains," she remarked flicking her dust-cloth at the windowsill, behind the cage. I turned off the vacuum. Whish-trot-trot-trot went something under the cretonne.

  "Yeah-" I said. "Listen, Jackie. Mr. Henchard's all right, but he's a crackpot. That bird or birds may be thirsty now. I'm going to take a look."

  "No. Uh-yes. We both will, Eddie. We'll split the responsibility." I reached for the cover, and Jackie ducked under my arm and put her hand over mine. Then we lifted a corner of the cloth. Something had been rustling around inside, but the instant we touched the cretonne, the sound stopped. I meant to take only one swift glance. My hand continued to lift the cover, though. I could see my arm moving and I couldn't stop it. I was too busy looking.

  Inside the cage was a-well, a little house. It seemed complete in every detail. A tiny house painted white, with green shutters-ornamental, not meant to close-for the cottage was strictly modern. It was the sort of comfortable, well-built house you see all the time in the suburbs. The tiny windows had chintz curtains; they were lighted up, on the ground floor. The moment we lifted the cloth, each window suddenly blacked out. The lights didn't go off, but shades snapped down with an irritated jerk. It happened fast. Neither of us saw who or what pulled down those shades. I let go of the cover and stepped back, pulling Jackie with me.

  "A d-doll house, Eddie!"

  "With dolls in it?"

  I stared past her at the hooded cage. "Could you, maybe, do you think, perhaps, train a canary to pull down shades?"

  "Oh, my! Eddie, listen."

  Faint sounds were coming from the cage. Rustles, and an almost inaudible pop. Then a scraping.

  I went over and took the cretonne cloth clear off. This time I was ready; I watched the windows. But the shades flicked down as I blinked. Jackie touched my arm and pointed. On the sloping roof was a miniature brick chimney; a wisp of pale smoke was rising from it. The smoke kept coming up, but it was so thin I couldn't smell it.

  "The c-canaries are c-cooking," Jackie gurgled. We stood there for a while, expecting almost anything. If a little green man had popped out of the front door and offered us three wishes, we shouldn't have been much surprised. Only nothing happened.

  There wasn't a sound, now, from the wee house in the bird cage. And the blinds were down. I could see that the whole affair was a masterpiece of detail. The little front porch had a tiny mat on it. There was a doorbell, too.

  Most cages have removable bottoms. This one didn't. Resin stains and dull gray metal showed where soldering had been done. The door was soldered shut, too. I could put my forefinger between the bars, but my thumb was too thick.

  "It's a nice little cottage, isn't it?" Jackie said, her voice quavering. "They must be such little guys-"

  "Guys?"

  "Birds. Eddie, who lives in that house?"

  'Well," I said. I took out my automatic pencil, gently inserted it between the bars of the cage, and poked at an open window, where the shade snapped up. From within the house something like the needlebeam of a miniature flashlight shot into my eye, blinding me with its brilliance. As I grunted and jerked back, I heard a window slam and the shade come down again.

  "Did you see what happened?"

  "No, your head was in the way. But-"

  As we looked, the lights went out. Only the thin smoke curling from the chimney indicated that anything was going on.


  "Mr. Henchard's a mad scientist," Jackie muttered. "He shrinks people."

  "Not without an atom-smasher," I said. "Every mad scientist's got to have an atom-smasher to make artificial lightning."

  I put my pencil between the bars again. I aimed carefully, pressed the point against the doorbell, and rang. A thin shrilling was heard. The shade at one of the windows by the door was twitched 'aside hastily, and something probably looked at me. I don't know. I wasn't quick enough to see it. The shade fell back in place, and there was no more movement. I rang the bell till I got tired of it. Then I stopped.

  "I could take the cage apart," I said.

  "Oh no! Mr. Henchard-"

  'Well," I said, "when he comes back, I'm going to ask him what the hell. He can't keep pixies. It isn't in the lease."

  "He doesn't have a lease," Jackie countered. I examined the little house in the bird cage. No sound, no movement. Smoke coming from the chimney.

  After all, we had no right to break into the cage. Housebreaking? I had visions of a little green man with wings flourishing a night stick, arresting me for burglary. Did pixies have cops? What sort of crimes. I put the cover back on the cage. After a while, vague noises emerged. Scrape. Thump. Rustle, rustle, rustle. Pop. And an unbirdlike trilling that broke off short.

  "Oh, my," Jackie said. "Let's go away quick." We went right to bed. I dreamed of a horde of little green guys in Mack Sennett cop uniforms, dancing on a bilious rainbow and singing gaily. The alarm clock woke me. I showered, shaved and dressed, thinking of the same thing Jackie was thinking of. As we put on our coats, I met her eyes and said, "Shall we?"

  "Yes. Oh, golly, Eddie! D-do you suppose they'll be leaving for work, too?"

  "What sort of work?" I inquired angrily. "Painting buttercups?" There wasn't a sound from beneath the cretonne when we tiptoed into Mr. Henchard's room. Morning sunlight blazed through the window. I jerked the cover off. There was the house. One of the blinds was up; all the rest were tightly firm. I put my head close to the cage and stared through the bars into the open window, where scraps of chintz curtains were blowing in the breeze.