Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing.”

  Sightless eyes stared in Carver’s direction. But after a moment Ardno returned to his meal.

  THE NEXT DAY there were whispers in the City. The Ship had returned. And the crew were frightened and puzzled. Something had stopped them in space—some force they could not understand. They had returned to Earth, but not under their own power, unable to comprehend what had happened to them.

  So much the tales said, furtively murmured among the Helots. There was a curious air of unrest in the City when Carver slipped out that night, and, walking swiftly along the road in the twilight, unaccustomed thoughts stirred in his mind. Apparently the Lords were not omnipotent. They could be defeated. But—Carver smiled bitterly—not by Helots. Not by unarmed slaves.

  Abruptly he stiffened. A familiar figure was coming toward him, vague in the distance. With a cold shock he recognized his father, and saw that two men—guards!—were moving swiftly in Ardno’s direction. Blindly the old man walked, gnarled hands outstretched fumblingly, his feet guided by the hard surface of the road.

  “No!” Carver tried to shout. “Go back! Back!”

  Somehow he knew why Ardno was here. The old man had come to find death that would release himself and his son from an existence that had grown intolerable. No longer would Carver need to risk torture by smuggling food to his father. And, for Ardno, blindness and agony would be over. As Carver raced on, a part of his brain was saying, over and over, “This is best. It’s the best way out.”

  The affair was finished before Carver reached the group. Ardno was quite dead, a limp, misshapen huddle beside the road, and the two guards were sheathing their guns. One of the soldiers turned to face him.

  “Well? What d’you want, Helot?”

  Ever after that Carver was to remember how the sinking sun glowed redly behind the two men, outlining their slim figures with a hazy aura. And he remembered, too, the silhouette of an arm coming up, a gun gripped in a slender hand. Strangely he felt no emotion; he seemed to be outside his body, watching it dispassionately, listening to its hoarse breathing.

  “Well?”

  If he said the wrong thing—if he revealed his relationship to Ardno—it would mean perhaps death, at least torture. Carver hesitated. His great shoulders shook as he fought for air, through a throat dry and clamped.

  One of the guards said something in an undertone. The other nodded, moved forward, his weapon’s muzzle not a foot from Carver’s chest.

  “Helot—back to the City! At once!”

  Carver shrank away, looking down at the gun. And beyond it he saw, almost at his feet, the blind staring eyes of Ardno.

  The Helot, Carver roared—and the powerful engine that was his body swept into action. One huge hand drove down, clasped the gun and wrenched it free. He scarcely heard the report or felt the bullet tear along his palm. He saw nothing but the startled white face of the guard, and beyond it the other man drawing his weapon.

  “He’s mad!” the disarmed soldier cried, and screamed in agony as the gun’s butt smashed into his face, pulping its delicate features in bloody ruin. He staggered away, still shrieking, and Carver lunged at the other man.

  A bullet hit the Helot’s side and glanced off his ribs. But that could not stop Carver. Without glancing at the bellowing gun he came forward like the drive of a piston, and his fist cracked cleanly against the soldier’s chin. The man went back bonelessly and dropped, his head twisted at an impossible angle.

  THE OTHER GUARD lay limp and unconscious. Breathing harshly, Carver stared around. Cars were approaching. The Helot’s side hurt. He touched it, and was surprised by the amount of blood that smeared his hand.

  Insensate rage mounted within Carver, and he stood with his fists clenched, facing the City. This will mean death, he thought.

  And a new mate for Morna.

  The realization stabbed his brain. His lips moved wordlessly. He turned and ran toward the forest, and behind him came a fusillade of shots.

  From the woods a man came to meet him—such a man as he had never seen before. Ten feet high, moving with lithe, unhurried swiftness, he was at Carver’s side before the Helot had covered three yards. Carver growled an oath, lunged at this new enemy, teeth bared in a snarl.

  And without warning came—the inexplicable. Around the two there lifted a wall of cold flame, crackling softly as it grew and came together fifteen feet above the ground to form a dome. They stood within a little hut of fire, springing apparently from the Earth itself.

  Fear shook Carver. But in the newcomer he saw only menace, and he leaped forward.

  And halted. Some incredible force held him motionless, draining his muscles of power, holding him paralyzed. He stood fighting against invisible bonds, glaring at the other.

  It was utterly silent, save for the faint crackling of the flame-wall. Against the pale glow loomed the gigantic figure, and now Carver realized that he was not looking upon a human being.

  For this man was cast in human mold, yet about him was an air of alienage—a calm and passionless withdrawal in the pale eyes—that told more than did his abnormal height. He wore a scanty, sleeveless robe, and his muscles beneath ivory skin were those of a colossus. Somehow the fear and hatred in Carver’s mind faded and fled away as he looked into the wise, ancient eyes of the giant and read in them a message.

  He did not hear it, but words seemed to form within his brain, unmistakable as though spoken by an audible voice. It said softly, “I will not harm you.”

  From the dome of fire above, a flaming tendril dropped straight for Carver’s head. It touched his hair, seemed to probe through skull and brain, an utterly incredible search that found the secret citadel of the man’s being and—examined! To Carver it was as though he lay naked before the eyes of a god. He sensed some incredible communion, a flood of knowledge pouring from him into—what?

  The sensation vanished. The finger of light was gone. The giant put a huge, yet somehow graceful hand on Carver’s shoulder. Once more a wordless thought came to the Helot.

  “You are safe here. Your enemies cannot break through the barrier.”

  CARVER KNEW that he should have been frightened, yet he felt only a vast and utterly new sense of peace. The gray eyes of the giant aroused in him a sensation he could not analyze. He seemed to look through them into another world.

  The huge man seemed to listen. He bowed his head in acknowledgment. To Carver he said, or seemed to say, “Hearken, for you must remember this. Your masters—they who call themselves Lords—have sent out a craft beyond the atmosphere of this world. And therefore they have brought themselves within the ken of the Watcher.”

  Carver whispered, “The—Watcher?”

  “Aye. A being evolved from Man, but so alien to us that we can comprehend little of his attributes. From a dead Galaxy he came, to guard this Galaxy of ours. For Man is born to serve—but to serve those beneath him, not those above. Far in the future, life in this Galaxy will have evolved to a state where it is sheer energy—a superintelligence composed of all the beings from all the planets in this star-cluster. From a single cell we go upward, till at last we become as the Watcher—a being of energy, of life itself. And when that time comes, we shall leave our dead group of worlds to find another Galaxy struggling up evolution’s path, and we shall guard and guide it as the Watcher guides and guards us. For ages we of Mars have known the Watcher and communed with him. He prevented us, in our days of savagery, from bringing war to the other planets—as he shall do again now.”

  The walls of flame brightened, casting a white glow over the Martian.

  “The Lords rule your world, and rule it unwisely. In time they might learn wisdom, but they must not bring the seeds of folly and war to the other planets. So the Watcher turned back their spaceship and brought me here from Mars to aid him. He—and I—have learned much from the minds of your people. You are the last of fifty we have examined, and the Watcher has decided on the best c
ourse.”

  Carver could not entirely understand, yet a surge of hope mounted in him. “You’ll help us kill the Lords?”

  Ageless sorrow stood for a moment in the Martian’s pale eyes. “No. You are yet barbarians. You have a long road to travel. But in your group—you Helots—there are the germs of courage and strength and truth. So, for a hundred years, all power will be taken from the Earth.”

  “I don’t understand——”

  “You cannot. Science has been lost to you for ages. Yet there are dreamers among you, and after the hundred years have expired, you will rediscover the wisdom of your ancestors. Use it; do not misuse it. The Watcher has power over vibration and over energy—you cannot understand that, but know this: the Lords are hereafter weaponless. Their guns are toys. Their great machines will halt for lack of fuel. If they continue to rule the Helots, they must do so by brawn or brain alone—and they cannot succeed in that. From this hour you are equal to the Lords.”

  A mad little flame of vengeance grew and danced in Carver’s eyes. The Martian lifted his hand.

  “Wait. You must not begin your task with evil. Seek no revenge on those who were your masters. Leave them; they cannot halt you. Go forth into the fields and forests beyond the cities; learn to live as free men. Learn to till crops and kindle fires. Grow wise. And in a hundred years Earth will have power again.”

  Carver whispered, “The Lords——”

  “They must learn to live, and forget how to rule. Else they will starve in their giant cities. Now wait: with the Watcher’s aid I shall speak to the Helots all over your planet. Wait——”

  CARVER SENSED a strange tenseness in the air, as though it shook under the burden of power inconceivable. Through the man’s mind came a thought, and he knew, with a curious certainty, that the same thought came at the same time to the brain of every Helot in the world.

  “Come forth from your cities! The Lords are powerless; their rule is broken. Harm no one—but come forth! You are free henceforward!”

  The Martian looked down at Carver. His smile was very tender as he placed his hands on the Helot’s shoulders.

  “You must lead your people now, and give them the Watcher’s message. So farewell—brother!”

  A blaze of light blinded Carver. He staggered back, rubbing his eyes. When he could see again, he stood alone on the sloping hillside. Martian and walls of flame had alike vanished. Though the Sun had set, a full Moon washed the bulwark of the City, half a mile away, in gleaming brilliance.

  A knot of men stood in a puzzled group beside the road, staring toward Carver. Beyond them were several autocars. And further down the road Carver could see other vehicles coasting to a halt.

  At this time, he knew, the City should be bright with innumerable carbon-dioxide lamps. Yet its windows were dark. From far away came a faint triumphant shouting.

  A few soldiers separated from the others and came toward Carver hesitantly, their guns leveled. He went to meet them, and briefly felt a surge of hatred that dried his throat with its intensity. But he fought it down, as he fought down the momentary fear that arose at sight of their weapons.

  The guards squeezed triggers—vainly. They stood undecided finally forming a barrier, shoulder to shoulder, against the advancing Helot.

  Without perceptible effort he pushed them aside. They were weaklings, he thought contemptuously. And, strangely, all hatred of the Lords had left him. Before him lay a mighty task, and he could not halt now to destroy those who had been his masters.

  The Lords stood staring after him as he swung along the road, a tall defiant figure in the moonlight. From the gates of the City a horde was pouring, men and women who had been Helots—slaves no longer! Among them, Carver knew, was Morna, Morna who would bear his child. Still the mob pressed forward, shouting.

  Carver went down to meet his people.

  BEYOND THE PHOENIX

  A tale of Elak of’Atlantis, and an evil priest who was more than human and. who worshipped a foul god—a tale of perilous sorcery and thrilling action

  1. A King Dies

  And the torchlight touched the pale hair

  Where silver clouded gold,

  And the frame of his face was made of cords,

  And a young lord turned among the lords

  And said: “The King is old.”

  —G.K. Chesterton

  “I WON’T KILL you quickly,” said Lycon, a fierce grin of satisfaction on his round face. “No. I’ve suffered your insults too long. I must bring an offering each day to the altar of your stinking god, eh? An ear for that!”

  He brought down his sword in a vicious sweep.

  “Good! Now your nose, Xandar—you’ve sniffed out too many victims with it already. Thus—” Again steel flashed.

  “And an eye, Xandar—see? I remove it with the point. Very carefully. For a copper coin I’d make you eat it.”

  “Drunken little fool,” Elak said, coming over to the table. “Leave the roasted pig alone. It won’t be fit to eat after you’ve finished carving it.”

  Lycon looked down at the succulent brown carcass on the great wooden platter. “I’ve not hurt it,” he said sullenly.

  “You’ll be having us swinging by our necks if you keep yelling threats against Xandar. I don’t like him any more than you do. But—under the king—he rules Sarhaddon.”

  This, unhappily, was true. Since the two adventurers had come to Sarhaddon, a little-known city in western Atlantis, they had risen high in the service of king Phrygior, eventually attaining posts in his personal bodyguard. But they had more than once incurred the dislike of the high priest, Xandar, perhaps because they were outlanders who had come from the seaport city of Poseidonia. At any rate, Xandar disliked the two, and took pains to make this clear. It was within his power to levy tribute from any citizen, and therefore Lycon’s purse was usually empty. He stole as much as was safe from Elak, but the latter had lately become suspicious.

  “I don’t like this,” Elak said now, his dark wolf-face set in harsh lines. “We’re supposed to be with the king now. Always, when he’s asleep, his men guard him. Yet the captain sends us down here to the kitchen to wait for—eh? A message, he said.”

  “This is as good a place as any,” Lycon observed, draining a huge drinking-horn. “What foul mead! Twelve cups and I can still walk. It was not like this in Poseidonia.”

  Elak turned away in disgust. He went to a mullioned window and stared down at the lights of the city, spreading over Sarhaddon Valley. Gaunt granite cliffs rose all about them, and a silver tracery nearby marked the course of Syra River. It flowed under the castle, to disappear, so the tales went, into the Gates of the Phoenix, a place in which Elak did not believe, but in which every other inhabitant of the city did. He knew, of course, the traditional death-ceremony of the kings. Their bodies were placed aboard a royal barge, and set adrift on Syra—and returned, as the tavern stories went—to the land of their fathers beyond the Phoenix Gates.

  Elak grunted softly and touched the hilt of a slim rapier that hung at this side.

  “I’m going back,” he said. “Wait if you want. I’ve a feeling——”

  Without finishing, he hurried into the hall and up a winding stone stairway, followed by Lycon, who was gulping mead from a horn as he came. The staircase was a long one, for King Phrygior slept in a high tower that rose above the gray stone battlements of the castle. And the sound of furious battle came to Elak and made him whip out his rapier, snarling a bitter oath.

  “Curse Lokar for a traitor!” he whispered, blade ready as he bounded up. Behind him the drinking-horn dropped from Lycon’s hand and went clashing and ringing down; but the noise it made could not be heard above the tumult in the king’s apartments. Elak gained the ante-room and stood for a moment staring.

  At his side and below him the deep well of the tower dropped down, bounded by the winding staircase. Yet, somehow, it seemed to Elak that as he stared into the room a dozen feet away he was looking into the abyss of a
pit even deeper—a bottomless well that stretched beyond infinity. A blackness lay beyond the threshold, almost tangible in its tenebrous intensity. It was as though a jet curtain had been stretched across the doorway, barring entry.

  Yet from beyond came the sound of battle, and abruptly the king’s voice in a shout of agony.

  Impulse rather than reason sent Elak forward, plunging across the threshold, breaking through the dark veil. For a brief instant the chill of polar lands clawed at his flesh, and he was blind. Then Elak was in the midst of a shambles, his sight restored, and as he saw from the corner of his eye the black curtain behind him had disappeared completely.

  THE room was a wreck. Priceless tapestries had been torn down and lay in sword-ripped tatters, smeared with blood. Not a piece of furniture was upright. Above the familiar smell of incense rose the acrid odor of sweat and blood, and at Elak’s feet a man lay with his throat torn open, rags of cartilage protruding from the ghastly wound. A dozen corpses were here—few men survived. One of these was Lokar, captain of the guard, who was just swinging his sword down in a stroke that would have decapitated Phrygior, who was clawing at an overturned table in a desperate endeavor to regain his feet.

  Elak moved with lightning speed. His rapier, sword-arm and body formed one incredibly swift thrust of movement, and Lokar shouted and let go his sword, which clashed harshly on the stones as it fell. The giant soldier whirled, clutching an impaled wrist from which red spurted. He saw Elak, and bellowed wordless rage.

  Ignoring his wounded arm, Lokar sprang for Elak. And Elak made a motion of giving ground, his rapier hanging loose. At the last moment the adventurer leaned forward, bracing one foot on the flagging, and whipped around the rapier-point with flashing, deadly speed. Lokar saw the danger too late. The slender blade ground into his eye, burst through the thin shell of bone, and sheathed itself in the man’s brain.