Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  “Hold!” Elak’s breathless whisper halted the wizard’s voice. “Hold! I see rescue, Zend.”

  “Eh?” The wizard screwed his head around until he too saw the short, ape-featured man who was running silently across the room, knife in hand. It was Lycon, whom Elak had left slumbering in the underground den of Gesti.

  The knife flashed and Elak and Zend were free. Elak said swiftly, “Up the stairs, wizard. Repair your magic globe, since you say its light will kill these horrors. We’ll hold the stairway.

  WITHOUT a word the gray dwarf sped silently up the steps and was gone. Elak turned to Lycon.

  “How the devil——”

  Lycon blinked wide blue eyes. “I scarcely know, Elak. Only when you were carrying me out of the tavern and the soldier screamed and ran away I saw something that made me so drunk I couldn’t remember what it was. I remembered only a few minutes ago, back downstairs somewhere. A face that looked like a gargoyle’s, with a terrible great beak and eyes like Midgard Serpent’s. And I remembered I’d seen Gesti put a mask over the awful face just before you turned there in the alley. So I knew Gesti was probably a demon.”

  “And so you came here,” Elak commented softly. “Well, it’s a good thing for me you did. I—what’s the matter?” Lycon’s blue eyes were bulging.

  “Is this your demon?” the little man asked pointing.

  Elak turned, and smiled grimly. Facing him, her face puzzled and frightened, was the girl on whom Zend had been experimenting—the maiden whose soul he had been about to unleash to serve him when Elak had arrived. Her eyes were open now, velvet-soft and dark, and her white body gleamed against the silver-black drape.

  Apparently she had awakened, and had arisen from her hard couch.

  Elak’s hand went up in a warning gesture, commanding silence, but it was too late.

  The girl said, “Who are you? Zend kidnapped me—are you come to set me free? Where——”

  With a bound Elak reached her, dragged her back, thrust her up the stairway. His rapier flashed in his hand. Over his shoulder he cast a wolfish smile.

  “If we live, you’ll escape Zend and his magic,” he told the girl, hearing an outburst of sibilant cries and the rushing murmur of the attacking horde. Yet he did not turn. “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Coryllis.”

  “ ’Ware, Elak!” Lycon shouted.

  Elak turned to see the little man’s sword flash out, shearing a questing tentacle in two. The severed end dropped, writhing and coiling in hideous knots. The frightful devil-masks of monsters glared into Elak’s eyes. The children of Dagon came sweeping in a resistless rush, cold eyes glazed and glaring, tentacles questing, iridescent bodies shifting and pulsing like jelly—and Elak and Lycon and the girl, Coryllis, were caught by their fearful wave and forced back, up the staircase.

  Snarling inarticulate curses, Lycon swung his sword, but it was caught and dragged from his hand by a muscular tentacle. Elak tried to shield Coryllis with his own body; he felt himself going down, smothering beneath the oppressive weight of cold, hideous bodies that writhed and twisted with dreadful life. He struck out desperately—and felt a hard, cold surface melting like snow beneath his hands.

  The weight that held him down was dissipating—the things were retreating, flowing back, racing and flopping and tumbling down the stairs, shrieking an insane shrill cry. They blackened and melted into shapeless puddles of slime that trickled like a little gray stream down the stairway . . .

  Elak realized what had happened. A rose-red light was glowing in the air all about him. The wizard had repaired his magic globe, and the power of its rays was destroying the nightmare menace that had crept up from the deeps.

  In a heartbeat it was over. There was no trace of the horde that had attacked them. Gray puddles of ooze—no more. Elak realized that he was cursing softly, and abruptly changed it to a prayer. With great earnestness he thanked Ishtar for his deliverance.

  LYCON recovered his sword, and handed Elak his rapier. “What now?” he asked.

  “We’re off! We’re taking Coryllis with us—there’s no need to linger here. True, we helped the wizard—but we fought him first. He may remember that. There’s no need to test his gratefulness, and we’d be fools to do it.”

  He picked up Coryllis, who had quietly fainted, and quickly followed Lycon down the steps. They hurried across the great room and into the depths of the corridor beyond.

  And five minutes later they were sprawled at full length under a tree in one of San-Mu’s numerous parks. Elak had snatched a silken robe from a balcony as he passed beneath, and Coryllis had draped it about her slim body. The stars glittered frostily overhead, unconcerned with the fate of Atlantis—stars that would be shining thousands of years hence when Atlantis was not even a memory.

  No thought of this came to Elak now. He wiped his rapier with a tuft of grass, while Lycon, who had already cleaned his blade, stood up and, shading his eyes with his palm, peered across the park. He muttered something under his breath and set off at a steady lope. Elak stared after him.

  “Where’s he going? There’s a—by Ishtar! He’s going in a grog shop. But he has no money. How——”

  A shocked thought came to him, and he felt hastily in his wallet. Then he cursed. “The drunken little ape! When he slashed my bonds, in the wizard’s palace, he stole the purse! I’ll——”

  Elak sprang to his feet and took a stride forward. Soft arms gripped his leg. He looked down. “Eh?”

  “Let him go,” Coryllis said, smiling. “He’s earned his mead.”

  “Yes—but what about me? I——”

  “Let him go,” Coryllis murmured . . .

  And, ever after that, Lycon was to wonder why Elak never upbraided him about the stolen purse.

  DICTATORS OF AMERICA

  Could John Stone and that lovely green-eyed Aphrodite free themselves from the mad Dictator who ruthlessly ruled the Americas of 2503 A.D.—with every fiendish scientific device of that generation at his hellish call?

  THE Pleasure Garden was a riot of colorful, sensual brilliance. Rainbow-hued fountains tinkled softly; warm lights glowed on the ivory flesh of half-clad girls who lounged on the velvety turf, their slim arms caressing the men beside them. Incense and heady wine flamed through the brain of John Stone as he sprawled on silken cushions, idly watching the bacchanale.

  Yet deep in Stone’s heart was a chill, deadly warning. He knew what lay behind this saturnalia, held at the order of Vail Nestor, Dictator of the Americas. Another night of red love to make Stone forget that he was rightful ruler of the land, that Nestor had killed Stone’s father two years before and assumed control of the government. Not for the. first time the young man felt rage rising within him, hatred for the tyrant who had brought his army of Vandals to Washington in 2503 A.D.—and who now held the country in a grip of iron!

  A white hand caressed his cheek, drew his head down to the ready lips of a blonde girl, her softly rounded shoulders and breasts scarcely hidden by gauzy draperies. But Stone pulled free—and paused, staring at the open clearing before him.

  In the violet glow of a spotlight a woman danced—and Stone’s eyes widened at sight of her. Slim as a naiad, yet her alabaster body set the man’s pulses pounding. She danced, languorously at first, and then faster, wildly swaying and whirling to the throbbing heat of unseen musicians. Laughing, she posed before Stone, flaunting the alluring beauty of her form, revealed by a translucent skirt and golden breastplates. She darted forward as the music swelled to a crescendo, and her lips brushed Stone’s ear. Her breath was an exotic perfume as she whispered, “Come! Come with me . . .”

  The girl beside Stone tried to hold him back, but he rose and let the dancer tug him into the shadow of the trees. She led him through the garden till the revelry was a far, faint hubbub in the distance. Then she paused, and Stone drew her close—set his lips against hers, feeling the pliant warmth of her body against his own. His throat was dry, and the flaming passion of th
e girl’s kiss was liquid fire racing through his veins.

  She drew back. Glancing around quickly, she said, “Wait, John Stone! I bring a message.”

  “Eh?” She was a gleaming statue in the moonlight, a statue of sensuous madness, and at first Stone did not understand. Then his eyes widened. “A message? What—”

  “From the Scientists. Vail Nestor has ruled the Americas for two years now, keeping you a prisoner here. But all over the country men are getting ready to march on Washington, aided by the weapons the Scientists have made. The rising will come next week, and then—if we succeed—you’ll be restored to power. The people loved your father, and they know you—trust you. Nestor they hate. So—”

  “Nestor’s making America into a nation of slaves!” Stone growled. “But this is good news! I’ve tried to escape, Lord knows! But Nestor’s powerful. “The girl nodded. “I know. But he didn’t dare kill you, for then all America would rise and crush him. He wanted to drug you with pleasures, making you his tool, obedient to his wishes. He’d kill you now if he could get rid of your body without leaving traces—but that’s impossible in these times. He could ray you to ashes, dissolve the ashes—but the Scientists would detect what had happened.”

  “Well?”

  “Hold yourself ready. We’ve learned that Nestor’s discovered how to break the space-time continuum—how to break down the wall that surrounds this universe. He’s found out how to open a gate into another dimension, and such a device will be a terrible weapon in his hand. So the revolt will come in a week. You must be ready.” The girl glanced up as an aircraft droned overhead, its lights glowing against the stars. “I’m called Dorna. If I send you a message—”

  And then, without warning, came—the inexplicable!

  All light vanished.

  Instantly utter darkness blanketed Stone and Dorna. The man whispered an oath, his hand going to his belt for a weapon that was not there. The starlight overhead, the distance searchlights—all had flashed out and disappeared in one jet-black curtain. Very faintly a distant humming sounded.

  “Dorna!” Stone said sharply. There was no response. He made a. movement toward the girl—

  HE could not stir! Some amazing paralysis held him fettered. His body was numb and devoid of feeling—and a strange lassitude was creeping up and overwhelming his mind.

  The humming grew louder. A cold gray radiance began to grow, and in its light Stone saw Dorna beside him, her slim, half-nude body stiff and rigid. But, aside from her, Stone could see nothing. The sky was invisible; in its place was a gray ceiling of radiance.

  Above him something swam into view. A platform, hanging unsupported in empty air, about which shimmering streamers of light played. Somehow it hurt Stone’s eyes to look at that platform ; there was a strange vibration about it that made it a thing half-real, half-solid—and transparent at times in a ghostly fashion. It floated down slowly. On it stood Nestor, Dictator of the Americas—and a girl.

  Clean-shaven, raggedly handsome, wearing the unornamented gray uniform of the Vandal army, Vail Nestor smiled down at Stone. The girl—

  This was Aphrodite . . .

  No earthly woman could have such beauty, Stone thought. Cool green eyes, faintly mocking, watched him intently, and curved lips twisted into a smile. Her rounded breasts pushed out the sheer green robe she wore, a garment that clung to her thighs and lyric hips, outlining them and. the tapering columns of her legs. Aphrodite, risen from the sea . . .

  Nestor pointed, turned to his companion—and the girl nodded. She lifted her hand, which held a shining metallic device. And a curious feeling began to oppress Stone—a feeling of weightlessness. His feet seemed to have difficulty in resting on the ground. A strong pull was dragging him up toward the platform.

  He could not move, could not stir a muscle to break the strange fetters that bound him. He felt himself lifted, felt himself moving up with increasing speed. At his side Dorna kept pace. They were on the platform, and Nestor’s low laughter was in Stone’s ears.

  “So we are ready, Marsalaya,” he said. “It was not difficult—” His hand went out, touching studs on a low keyboard near by. A wrenching jar shook Stone. He lay full length on the platform, rigid and motionless, watching with wide eyes. Beside him was Dorna, a silent statue.

  The grayness changed. A sense of frightful vertigo clutched Stone. He seemed to be falling vertically, and at the same time slipping sideways with tremendous speed. For an amazing moment he was conscious of two selves, coexistent, hanging on the borderline between two sectors—one the edge of the space-time continuum—between dimensions!

  Swiftly Nestor kicked at Dorna’s body. The green robed woman cried out, tried to stop him—but too late. Dorna rolled from the platform, and Stone caught a glimpse of her face twisted with horror. Then sheer madness came.

  As the girl fell from the platform, something seemed to rip her form apart, shredding it instantly into its component atoms, rending the atoms, tearing, whirling—

  Nestor murmured, “She exists in two dimensions now, Stone. Her body, her mind, her ego are split and destroyed down to the least electron. For you—” The jutting jaw thrust forward—“I have other plans!”

  The sense of vertigo gripped Stone again. Grayness seemed to close in upon him, blotting out his senses . . .

  He awoke slowly, vaguely conscious of dim red light all around. The girl whom Nestor had called Marsalaya stood above him, the metallic weapon in her hand. She leveled it at him.

  Painfully he tried to leap to his feet, to roll away. He could not. From the corner of his eye he saw little green patches of grass all around, and, in the distance, curiously regular tiny mounds of stone. Amazement struck through the man. Incredibly tiny creatures were moving all around him—

  Human beings—fantastically small! From the girl’s weapon a ray of green light sprang out, struck his breast—flowed all over his body, bathing him in weird fire. But there was no pain. Merely a curious shrinking sensation—and again he noticed the little men, grown somehow larger. And the grass—surely it was a forest, steadily increasing in size. He saw above him, through an emerald veil, Marsalaya, a towering giant. Abruptly realized what was happening. The power of the green ray was reducing his body to infinitesimal size.

  Stone lost consciousness, but not completely. Dimly he was conscious of being guided through winding corridors . . . and there came a time when he lay staring up at a black shining ceiling, realizing that he was once more in control of his faculties.

  PAINFULLY he crawled to his feet.

  The paralysis had left him. The room in which he stood was a square of polished blackness, with a window through which dim red light crept. He went to it.

  It was no earthly landscape at which he gazed! A dull, red sun, thrice the size it should have been, hung over a world of jungle gone mad. A tremendous green sweep of forest lay from horizon to horizon far below, giant trees towering hundreds of feet into the air, huge vines writhing and twisting like serpents. They seemed to move as though alive—and with a dreadful certainty Stone knew that they were living things. Plant-beings, coiling and darting up as though striving to reach him. He shuddered in the cold wind that blew across this alien world.

  A low voice said something in a language that was certainly not English. Yet, amazingly, Stone understood. The words seemed to form in his brain, as though by thought-transference.

  “You are awake? How do you feel?”

  The girl, Marsalaya, stood nearby as he turned—still Aphrodite, with the tender body of a goddess and cryptic eyes of emerald. With a stride Stone reached her, gripped her arms, the soft flesh denting beneath his fingers. Involuntarily he felt a little thrill at the girl’s nearness, at the exotic fragrance that crept out from her long auburn tresses.

  He fought it down, glared at her savagely. “Where the devil am I? Where’s Nestor?”

  Marsalaya laughed at him. Again the unfamiliar syllables rippled from her red lips—and again his mind understood the m
eaning of the strange words. “But you do not ask that. You ask, ‘Will she understand my tongue?’ I read your mind, John Stone.”

  “Yeah? Then, if you can understand me—take me back to Washington! I’m needed there. Take me to where Nestor is!”

  Green eyes mocked him. “Washington? It has never existed in this universe. Another dimension—another time-sector—why, this Washington of yours may have been dust for a million years! Or it may not have yet sprung from the soil of your planet. No—you must obey me. You cannot do otherwise.”

  “That so?” Stone grunted. He prisoned the girl’s wrist, swung her about and bent her arm up behind her back. She fought savagely, writhed free, clawed at his face with her nails. But Stone was too strong for her.

  He bent the girl back easily, prisoning her hands with one of his own. “Where’s Nestor?” he growled.

  “Gone back to your planet! He—when he came through the dimensions, he told me certain things. In return he asked me to destroy you.”

  Stone looked down at that alluring face so close to his own. “Well?”

  “I—I agreed—but I had no wish to slay you. Let me go! Please! “Her lips were twisted in pain.

  Stone released her warily—and swung about abruptly as a shadow darkened the room. Behind him Marsalaya’s voice came, soft, urgent.

  “Do not move! As you value your life! He may pass . . .”

  Something flitted past the window, a black formless object that sent a shudder down Stone’s back, though he could not have said why. He waited, but the thing did not return. “What was that? “Stone asked the girl.