Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  “Soon, let it be soon,” her voice sobbed. “Let the Master succeed and bring power again to Corinoor . . . dead and lovely Corinoor. I, queen and priestess of Corinoor, ask this of you like the meanest slave, naked and abased . . . Selene, mighty, Selene, turn your face again toward my people!”

  Silence, and the soft whisper of the moon-fires. The leopards were statue-still. Their green eyes dwelt enigmatically on the woman.

  Mason felt a queer chill touch him. Once more the eerie mystery of this haunted city shadowed him. He made a swift involuntary movement; one of the leopards coughed, sprang up on alert feet. The white leopard remained quiet, but the black one stalked forward, eyes intent on Mason. And there was something disturbingly strange about those eyes, the man realized—an intelligence that was more than a beast should possess.

  The woman leaped up in one quick movement, stood staring, red lips parted. Mason felt his throat tighten at sight of her loveliness. Her eyes were deep pools of jet. And, perhaps, she read something of Mason’s undisguised admiration, for the lips curved in a smile, and the low voice called a command.

  “Bokya! To me!”

  The black leopard halted, one paw lifted. Growling softly, it returned to the woman’s side. She made a peremptory gesture.

  Obeying, Mason walked forward down the ramp. His heart was thudding madly as he drew closer to the woman’s pale beauty, and a pulse of passion was beating in his temples. She was Aphrodite, goddess of love and all delight—

  Something he read in her eyes made Mason halt.

  Beauty was there, yes. But there was something else, something coldly alien and dreadful, that seemed to lurk hidden in those cryptic depths, a quality of soullessness that sent a shock of repulsion tingling through Mason. But before he could speak a thudding of racing feet sounded near by.

  IN Mason’s apprehensive glance at the door the woman read something of the truth. For a long moment she stood silent; then—

  “In here,” she whispered in Semite. “Make no sound!”

  She bent, touched the altar. The pale fires died. The altar was a bare block of dark stone. At the woman’s urging Mason mounted upon it hesitantly, stood rigid. Then, abruptly regretting his move, he made as though to leap down.

  He was too late. The moon-flames sprang up, crackling softly. All around Mason now was a wall of silver fire, hiding the woman and all else from his eyes. Oddly there was no perceptible heat. Rather, a queer chill seemed to emanate from the weird flames. Slowly Mason relaxed, realizing that he was in no immediate danger. Yet why had the woman helped him?

  Voices came from beyond the altar. Someone he could not see was speaking—questioning, demanding. The woman’s voice answered. Then, for a time there was silence.

  Again the moon-flames died. The room was empty, save for the leopards and the woman. She had cast a robe of white fur about her shoulders. Laughing a little, she beckoned Mason.

  “One of the Master’s servants,” she said. “He was searching for you. I sent him away. You’re safe—for a while, at least.”

  Mason got down from the altar, with a wary glance at the leopards. But, save for a growl or two, they paid him no heed. He came close to the woman, said in Semite:

  “You have my thanks, O goddess who rules men’s hearts.”

  Her face clouded at the flowery phrase. “Do not speak of goddesses. I worship one goddess—and I have fear of her, but no love. Well—what is your name?”

  “Mason.”

  “Mason—yes. And I am Nirvor. I do not think you have been in Al Bekr long, eh?”

  “Half an hour at most. You’re the first human being I’ve seen, except—” Some indefinable instinct of caution made Mason stop before he mentioned the Sumerian. Nirvor’s jet eyes grew keen.

  “Except—?”

  “The robots.”

  The woman smiled slightly. “What year do you come from?”

  Mason caught his breath. This confirmed his wild guesses. The power of the twin monoliths had flung him into time—as he had thought. Fighting back his questions, he said as calmly as he could, “1939.” And added, as an afterthought, “A.D.”

  “Then—as you would reckon it—I come from 2150, long in your future. I was caught by the time trap, as you were, and drawn back to this dawn-era before Egypt or Rome ever sprang from the dust. And here, in long-forgotten Al Bekr, I found—the Master.”

  Nirvor watched, but Mason made no sign. She said, “You have not seen him yet?”

  “No. Who is he?”

  “He is from the future—my future as well as yours. Five thousand years later than your time-sector—nearly ten thousand years from now, in earth’s dusk. He built the time projector, and with its aid traveled back to this almost prehistoric city. The projector was wrecked, but the Master determined to rebuild it. He conquered Al Bekr, and with the robots he made, turned it into a city of science. Then he set to work to repair the projector.”

  “How did you get here?” Mason asked. “I don’t see—”

  “The twin monoliths have in them atomic power, and when this is released, the time-warp is set in operation. Any object within their field of force is hurled into time. This is true now, or a million years from now. Mason, the green time-towers that the Master builds now will stand in this valley when Al Bekr is a life-less wilderness. They will stand in your day, and they will stand in mine, and through the ages, holding within them the power of time travel. Once in a thousand years, perhaps, a human being will be within range of the towers when the force is released, perhaps by lightning, as it was when I was captured. My caravan had camped beneath the palms of an oasis in the valley of Al Bekr, and I, wandering in the storm, sleepless, was between the green towers when lightning struck. I was drawn back through time to the period in which the projector first existed—now, when the Master rules Al Bekr.”

  MASON’s mind was busy with this explanation. He said, “Are we the only ones who have been captured by the monoliths?”

  “You and I, and the Master—and one other. He—” Nirvor hesitated. “We shall not speak of him.” She sank down beside the altar, stretching like a cat. The leopards watched silently. Nirvor eyed Mason from half-lowered lids, pale ash-blonde lashes sweeping her cheeks.

  “It has been lonely here,” she said. “Sit down, Mason.”

  He obeyed. The woman went on.

  “Long and long have I waited. The Master has promised to return me to my own time, to aid me in rebuilding my dead city, marble Corinoor. But in the meantime I wait among these barbarians—I wait, and I worship Selene, and my leopards guard me . . . they, too, were captured by the time-towers when I was.” A slim hand caressed the furry jaw of the black beast. From half-closed eyes it peered at her, growling softly.

  “They are wise, Mason—Bokya and Valesta. Long before Corinoor fell our scientists had evolved certain creatures, and the sacred leopards were wisest of all. Remember, Mason—Bokya and Valesta are very wise . . .”

  With a lithe movement Nirvor moved close to Mason. She whispered, “But I grow tired of wisdom. I am—woman.”

  Slim arms stole about Mason’s neck. Nirvor’s perfumed breath was warm in the man’s nostrils, a perfumed madness that mounted headily to his brain. His throat was dry and clamped.

  He bent his head, pressed his lips against Nirvor’s scarlet ones. When he drew back he was trembling a little.

  “Mason,” the woman whispered. Her eyes met and locked with the man’s. And, for the second time, Mason saw something alien in them.

  A cold, cruel, distant something that made him draw back involuntarily, appalled by the subtle horror in Nirvor’s eyes. Mason could not understand exactly what repulsed him; he was not to know this until much later. But he knew, with a dreadful certainty, that the woman was a Horror . . .

  Her lips were suddenly twisted with menace. But she choked back a flood of words, stood up, and Mason stood up beside her. This time she did not let her gaze meet the man’s. She lifted pale hands to her throat, unb
uckled the clasp that held the robe. It slipped down rustling to her feet.

  Mason tried to look away—and found he could not. Nirvor might be evil—but she was a goddess indeed, a marble Galatea sprung to life and instinct with passion. She stepped forward; her bare arms went about Mason’s neck.

  Setting his jaw, he tore them free, thrust the woman back. Remembrance of the inexplicable strangeness in Nirvor’s eyes was too strong.

  “You say you come from the future,” Mason whispered, gripping the woman’s wrists. “How do I know what—creatures—may exist then?”

  She caught the implication. Fury blazed in the jet eyes. She tore free, sprang back, shrilled an angry command.

  “Slay him, Bokya—slay!”

  The black leopard sprang erect. It crouched, stalking slowly toward Mason.

  A voice said sharply, “This man is the Master’s, Nirvor. Slay him—and you die!”

  CHAPTER III

  VENGEANCE OF THE MASTER

  MASON turned his head, saw Erech, the Sumerian, at the door. The man came striding swiftly down the ramp, his cold eyes harsh.

  “Hear me? Nirvor—”

  The silver priestess hissed shrilly. The black leopard hesitated, slunk back to its place. Nirvor turned blazing eyes on the Sumerian.

  “Since when have you commanded me?”

  “I speak for the Master,” Erech said smoothly, with an undertone of faint mockery. “And I do not think that even you care to defy him.”

  With an angry gesture Nirvor turned away, touched the altar. Again the pallid moon-fires sprang up. The Sumerian said, “I shall not speak of this episode to Greddar Klon. Nor would I advise you to do so.”

  The priestess made no reply, and Erech gripped Mason’s arm, nodding toward the door. Silently Mason followed the other. Once they were in the corridor Erech blew out a long breath of relief.

  “She’s a demon, Ma-zhon—she and her familiars, those giant cats. Come along!” He pulled Mason with him till they reached the Sumerian’s apartment. There, safely ensconced on furs, Erech grinned wryly.

  “I thought the metal men had you. But you’re not safe yet. Unless you want to take your chances with the Master—”

  “Why should he harm me?” Mason asked, without much assurance.

  “Well, there was another man who came as you did, out of nothing—a man named Murdach. He’s in the vaults, chained and captive. I don’t know why. True, Greddar Klon may not chain you—”

  “I’d rather not make the experiment,” Mason said. “But doesn’t the Master know I’m here?”

  “He isn’t sure. Nirvor won’t betray you, for that would mean betraying herself. I think you can hide in Al Bekr for a while, anyway. It’s easy to find a white camel in a herd, but if it’s dyed brown—” The Sumerian got up, found a length of cloth and a light cloak. “You’d best wear these.”

  Mason nodded. “When in Rome,” he observed, but the other only stared. Then he remembered—Rome would not be born for thousands of years. Quickly Mason stripped, fashioned himself a loin-cloth, threw the cloak over his shoulders. Erech handed him a dagger. “I have no better weapon,” he apologized. “My scimitar I need myself.”

  He led the way out into the passage, talking as he walked. “As for the Master, I don’t know where he came from. Once Al Bekr was a paradise. Then Greddar Klon came, and with his magic enslaved us all. I was visiting Al Bekr when he arrived, having had occasion to flee Nippur.” Diabolic mirth tinged his grim face for a moment.

  “When my caravan got here, Alasa ruled. Then suddenly Greddar Klon came. I did not see that. Some say he sprang out of empty air, in broad daylight. He made himself ruler, took Alasa as hostage, and keeps her imprisoned. He has made this into a city of fear. Look about you!” Erech flung out an arm at the green-lit corridor. “Al Bekr was not unduly beautiful before, but now it’s like living underground with devils! Well, cities are no places for men anyway. If I—but none can escape. Some have tried, and died. Greddar Klon’s slaves are everywhere.”

  The passage broadened. Behind them came quick footsteps. Mason felt the Sumerian nudge him. Racing past came a metal robot. If it saw them, it gave no heed. From the distance came the thudding tramp of many feet. The clanging note of a bell rang out.

  Erech cursed. His eyes rolled, as though seeking a way of escape. More robots passed them. Mason gripped his dagger.

  “No!” The Sumerian seized his wrist, pulled his hand from the weapon. His voice was low and urgent. “There’s danger, but we may escape. Come!” He quickened his footsteps.

  THE metal men moved on, arm-tentacles swinging, bulging eyes astare. The clatter of their footsteps filled the passage. The bell clanged out again.

  “It summons the city to the Council Room,” Erech said. “All must be there. We’ve no chance to find a hiding place for you now. We must wait . . .”

  Five minutes later they emerged into a great high-ceilinged room. It was vast, awe-inspiring in its bare hugeness. It was of white stone, windowless, lit with the inevitable green-glowing bars. Tunnel mouths ringed the walls. A multitude of men and women, a few children, were pouring from the passages.

  Guided by Erech, Mason joined the rest. At one end of the great chamber was a raised dais, bare save for a silvery metal ovoid that hung in the air, apparently without support. It was perhaps seven feet long. Strangely it reminded Mason of a coffin. At sight of it he felt Erech grow tense beside him.

  The room was filling with a surging multitude, brown-faced, furtive-eyed. They spoke in hushed tones among themselves, casting occasional quick glances toward the dais. To Mason it was strange indeed to hear the low mutterings of a language which no longer existed save among a few scholars—in his time, at least.

  From the high ceiling a black disk dropped. Its descent was arrested, and it hung swaying above the crowd. The whisperings died into silence.

  Two robots, side by side, emerged from a tunnel mouth beyond the dais. At their heels came rolling something like a great metal sphere, with the top sliced off—a huge hollow cup. Over its edge Mason saw a swollen, blue-veined bald head, bulbous and hideous—a monstrously bloated caricature of a human skull. Two sharp, beady eyes peered out intently from beneath that tremendous brain case.

  Mason cast a sidelong glance at the Sumerian. Erech’s eyes were cynical—yet they were troubled, too. Mason realized that the warrior’s half-contempt for the Master had been not quite real—that it masked an uneasy, reluctant fear of Greddar Klon. To Erech the Master must appear like some monstrous baroque, for he did not realize or understand, as did Mason, that with the passing of hundreds of thousands of years the human race would evolve into beings like the strange man on the dais.

  Slowly the car rolled on behind the robots. A pale, slender hand, with elongated, tentacular fingers, writhed into view above the edge of the cup. The robots paused on the dais, and the car wheeled between them to face the audience, among which, Mason saw, other robots stood like guards. A murmur went up from the throng.

  “The Master!”

  Mason lifted a quizzical eyebrow. He could understand now how Greddar Klon maintained his rule over the superstitious natives of Al Bekr, playing on their fear of the unknown. The entire auditorium, he saw suddenly, was like a huge theatre, cunningly arranged to impress the beholder with its mystery, its strangeness. Mason might find danger in the formidable science of Greddar Klon—but this mummery he could recognize and discount. Somehow he did not feel so utterly lost and helpless now.

  The Master lifted a slender hand, and the throngs knelt. Mason found a position behind a fat, shaven-headed man in a woolen cloak.

  From the black disk dangling overhead came a flat, metallic voice. Mason glanced up cautiously. The apparatus—a radio amplifier, probably—must be strange indeed to Erech and the others.

  “I have imprisoned Alasa, your queen,” the voice said emotionessly. “For a long time she has been my hostage, ever since I learned she was plotting to revolt against me. I have warned
you, people of Al Bekr, that at the first sign of another revolt she would die. Well—there has been no such attempt. That I grant.”

  THE Master’s inscrutable eyes roved over the kneeling throng. Mason looked down quickly as the probing glance moved toward him. Again the toneless voice sounded.

  “The prison of Alasa has been in plain view, as a warning. Yet it was forbidden to touch it. That command has not been obeyed.”

  Greddar Klon’s head bent for a moment. A robot appeared in the tunnel mouth behind the dais, a tentacle-arm curled about the neck of a girl who walked beside it—a girl of perhaps twenty, her dark eyes distended, her hair matted with dried blood. She wore a plain white robe, torn and stained.

  The metallic ovoid that hung above the dais dropped lower. The silvery sheen changed. Over its surface a shimmering play of color crawled. It became transparent as glass.

  Within it was a girl.

  Mason felt the Sumerian nudge him. “Alasa—our ruler,” Erech whispered.

  She lay within the transparent coffin, eyes closed, her dark hair falling in ringlets about an ivory, piquant face, and there was a strangely elfin beauty about her, enhanced by the close-fitting green garment she wore. Mason caught his breath, staring with his eyes. A scarcely noticeable movement went through the throng.

  “It is death to touch Alasa’s prison,” the disk said coldly. “Let no one turn away his eyes.”

  Robots held the white-robed girl firmly. Others brought forward a curious appliance. Swiftly they ripped away the single garment, baring the captive’s slim body in utter nudity. She cried out, fought vainly to escape.

  But the robots were too strong. Dozens of circular disks, transparent as glass, were pressed against the girl’s flesh, clinging apparently by suction. Flexible tubes led from them to a bulky machine on the dais.