Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  “Eyes,” he groaned, shuddering. “Eyes that chased me through the forest. Quade, I’ve tasted every brew in the System, but I’ve never yet found one that made me see eyes. It’s a judgment. I’m going on the wagon—you’re my witness!”

  He turned to a spacesuit and fumbled with the oxygen tank. Abruptly a stream of amber liquid gushed out. “I hid the stuff here—but I won’t take another drop.” He tilted the suit until the tank was empty. “Out, damned spot! Out, I say!” the star recited, reverting to his days as a Shakespearian actor.

  And he pulled a tube of white pills from his pocket and gulped several.

  “High-powered benzedrine,” Stover explained shakily. “Stimulant. Best thing in the world to sober up.”

  “Well, don’t take too much of it or you won’t sleep for a week—look out!”

  Quade’s warning came too late. The tube dropped from Stover’s trembling hand and spilled its contents on the floor. The Bouncer popped out from somewhere and snatched up one of the pills, devouring it greedily. Quade retrieved the rest of the benzedrine before Bill could eat any more.

  He handed the container back to the actor. Stover would keep away from the brew now, Quade knew. One problem was solved. But a new one had arisen. What the devil were these fantastic creatures that emerged from the jungle piecemeal? And why hadn’t they ever been discovered before.

  Quade knew the answer to that. This was an unproductive, lonely outpost, avoided even by the nomadic Martian tribes. The few explorers who had come to study the Inferno hadn’t stayed long. Almost anything could exist undiscovered in this strange forest.

  A quick movement on the part of the Bouncer caught Quade’s attention. Bill was up in a chair, a curious glazed expression in his eyes. Picasso was crawling rapidly toward the floor, a perambulatory bump of blue-white on the chair’s blue-white steel. He reached the carpet, scuttled toward the door. Kathleen was there.

  Quade lifted a cautioning finger, glancing, puzzled, from Bill to Picasso. The latter climbed Kathleen, fell in her pocket, and hastily emerged carrying a piece of candy. She always had some chocolate for the Bouncer, who loved it.

  PICASSO reached the floor, returned to Bill’s chair, and went up its leg. He paused beside the Bouncer, who snatched the candy and ate it with intense satisfaction.

  “Well, well!” Quade said. “Know what happened?”

  “Picasso’s smarter than we thought,” Kathleen said.

  Quade answered sharply.

  “No, he isn’t. Bill’s the smart one. Funny I never thought of that—that the telepathic function might work both ways. Bill can read thoughts—we always knew that—but he can also send ’em out! At least he can when his brain’s pepped up with benzedrine, and when he’s got a half-witted subject like Picasso to work on. He sent out a mental command to Picasso and made him steal the candy in your pocket—I’ll lay money on it!”

  “Well, he deserves another piece for that,” Kathleen said, and acted on her words. And, smiling to himself, Quade went to the galley and secured sandwiches and coffee from the cook.

  An hour later he had decided on a plan. He had been pondering the mystery of the green claw, and had arrived at a possible solution. It seemed incredible, but—

  Quade called young Wolfe.

  “Get some weapons, kid. We’re going hunting. Get an electroscope while you’re at it—I’ve a hunch.” Remembering the Bouncer’s mind-reading abilities, he set out to find Bill, after ordering everyone aboard the ship.

  Wolfe brought several electroscopes, with lead shields for them.

  “You’re thinking the same thing I am, eh?” Quade grunted as they started out from the lock. “Well, I won’t believe it until I see it. It’s incredible.”

  Wolfe shrugged.

  “What about the robot animals we use in pics? They’re radio-controlled.”

  “Yeah, but—a living organism! Let’s go this way. The claw headed north.”

  They plunged into the depths of the forest. It was not difficult going, despite the size of the vegetation. Most of the trees’ vigor was concentrated in the broad, flat leaves that made a ceiling far overhead to catch the Sun’s rays. It was a green, dim twilight through which they moved, resembling the vague depths of the hydrosphere.

  Above the jungle, Quade knew, it was pleasantly warm, but at ground level an icy breeze chilled him. Some of the trees, he noticed, were thickly coated with a furry kind of moss, which apparently served to keep the cold from penetrating through the bark—a striking form of true symbiosis, mutual aid between parasite and host.

  The Bouncer hopped along quietly, subdued and a little frightened. His huge eyes, capable of seeing into the infra-red and ultra-violet, found the gloom no handicap, but more than once the two humans were forced to use light-tubes. They came out into a little clearing, and paused as a thunderous roar boomed out.

  “Wait a minute,” Quade said. “Come here, Bill.” The Bouncer huddled close to Quade’s legs, shivering. Reading Wolfe’s thoughts, he said faintly,

  “What’s this coming? It’s a—a Teapot.”

  Sure enough one of the reptilian Teapots was trotting slowly into the clearing. It paused as the booming died, and fell to work cropping a growth of succulent moss. An incredible thing scampered into view from the gloom.

  IT looked like a balloon, stretched tightly over a pale, circular disc. About as large as a man’s head, it ran rapidly on several boneless legs until it was a dozen feet from the Teapot. Then the balloon swelled; the disc vibrated suddenly. A tremendous booming sounded.

  With a start the Teapot lifted its flat head and swiftly departed. The balloon ran after it. Wolfe mopped his forehead.

  “It was a lung,” he said to Quade. “If I know my physiology, it was a lung. And a diaphgram. The air pressure made the diaphragm vibrate and caused that sound.”

  “Right. Can you guess why? Ever see the way Gerry Carlyle’s men do jungle-hunting on Earth? They form a semi-circle, close in around their prey, and raise a racket with drums and gongs to frighten the animals toward them. I’ll bet that’s what our balloon was doing. Driving the Teapot toward—”

  He stopped, eyebrows lifted.

  “Give me an electroscope.”

  Carefully, Quade withdrew the instrument from its lead sheath. But the gold leaf remained stiff, unwilted. He shook his head.

  “Not yet. Let’s get going.”

  Unenthusiastically, the Bouncer hopped after the two men. He liked this journey even less when several bodiless eyes flitted down from trees to vanish in the shadows, and when a ten-foot tentacle, equipped with suckers, writhed across their path. It came straight for Quade, and he blasted it out of existence with a well-placed explosive bullet. He examined the carcass.

  “No trace of brain, is there? Those whitish threads—nerve tissue.” He tried the electroscope again, and this time the gold leaf wilted.

  The jungle had thinned as they climbed a steep slope. It straggled out into rank grass; then to a bare expanse of rock resembling quartz. The two men topped a little ridge, the Bouncer beside them. And they stood silent, staring down into a shallow crater.

  Somehow, Quade was reminded of a group of machines, working steadily, inexorably, efficiently. Yet he knew that in the organisms below him was something more than created energy. Life dwelt in them.

  In the center of the pit was a pool, in which a small gray object bobbed. A dozen feet away, ringing the basin, were five huge gray sacks, pulsing slowly. From them occasionally long tubes would uncoil, to reach out to the thing in the pool and remain fastened to it for a time.

  Beyond the gray sacks, in another circle, were—the thought hit Quade suddenly—jaws! Roughly spherical, they each possessed a gaping orifice that spasmodically opened and closed. From them larger tubes connected directly to the grayish bags.

  “Jumping Jupiter!” Wolfe said softly. “It’s alive!”

  PAST the two men scuttled a tentacle, carrying the writhing, kicking body of a Teapot. It ra
n to one of the huge jaws and thrust the reptile within. The mandibles closed with a cracking sound; when they opened the Teapot was mashed into fragments.

  “What leverage!” Wolfe said. “It’d take a diamond drill to crack a Teapot!”

  Quade nodded slowly.

  “I think I get the set-up. Those jaws smash the food into bits and then push it through those tubes—see that peristalsis?” Little ripples were shaking the hose that connected the jaw they had been watching to one of the gray bags. “Push it to the stomachs. Those gray things are the stomachs—they’ve got the necessary digestive glands in ’em, naturally. And—see those humps on top? Lungs, I’ll bet. In the stomachs the necessary fats, carbohydrates and so on are given to the blood, which is aerated through the lungs. Then the blood is given to that thing in the pool every so often.”

  “The thing in the pool—”

  “It’s the brain, of course,” Quade answered Wolfe’s amazed question. “Remember the electroscope? That’s the answer.”

  “I don’t quite see.”

  “You know what nerves are, don’t you? Electrical impulses are sent along ’em to the muscles from the brain. There’s a gap the nerve-impulses have to jump—the synapse, where the tissue doesn’t quite connect. Well, if the electric potential can jump a tiny gap—why not a larger one, if it’s given more power? Why can’t it jump an inch—or a foot? And if it can jump a foot—why not miles?”

  “You mean all those claws and eyes and tentacles are really part of this thing?”

  “Sure. It’s a logical evolution. The great terrestrial dinosaurs died because they couldn’t move fast enough to get sufficient food. But in an organism more highly evolved, why couldn’t perambulatory attachments develop? Extensions of the parent creature, which could, wander around to get food?

  “There isn’t much game on Mars, and a big animal couldn’t exist. It’d be a destructive circle. It couldn’t get food enough to create enough energy to travel enough to get enough food. Sounds crazy, but that’s the answer.” Quade glanced down at the brain in the pool.

  “That thing sends out electrical impulses that order its various extensions around. It sees with the mobile eyes. It’s like a—a—”

  “Like a jigsaw puzzle,” Wolfe said, gulping. “Good name for it. Jigsaw! Think it’s intelligent?”

  “Lord knows,” Quade grunted. “I don’t think it knows we’re here. None of its eyes is around.”

  He was soon to find himself wrong. The Bouncer, who had been jiggling frantically, clutched Quade’s leg.

  “Hunger,” he said. “Tired. More—food. What? Danger? One—one—one movings. Hurt me?”

  Quade’s jaw dropped.

  “Wolfe, did you think that?” he snapped.

  The youngster shook his head. “It must be—”

  “Yeah! Bill’s getting thought-impulses from the brain down there. Translating them into English, as well as he can. Come on, Bill. Spill some more.”

  THE Bouncer became violently excited.

  “Food, food, food. Many . . . much. Grow. One, one, one—here. Away—one, one, one, one, one—”

  He continued to count, while Quade frowned.

  “Not so easy. I gather that brain knows we’re here. ‘One, one, one’—that’s the three of us. But the other part—I know! He means the rest of the crew, back in the ship. Thinks we’re good to eat.”

  Wolfe got out a gun. Quade shook his head.

  “Wait a minute. Maybe we can communicate with this thing.” He turned, staring down into the crater. “Hey, there!” he shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Can you hear me?”

  No response. Wolfe said, “Tony, I know a bit about metals. I’m not sure that thing’s flesh and blood.”

  “Eh? It uses blood—we saw that.”

  “That gray stuff that covers it isn’t flesh. It’s some sort of metal. If I had a spectroscope I’d be certain. But it’s metal, Tony, I’m sure of that. Maybe flesh inside. Some combination of metallic ions with our own kind. There’s metal in your body, you know that.”

  “Damn little of it,” Quade said. “Iron’s in everybody—but in very small proportions.”

  “I think that brain’s covered with metal of some kind. Maybe no metal we know. Maybe in little plates, so the blood-tubes can get in to the brain arteries. There’s radioactivity, I’m pretty sure; that would give you the power to jump a mile-long synapse. The electroscope—look out!”

  A claw was edging tentatively toward them, flanked by an eye and a voice-bladder. The latter bellowed at them deafeningly. The eyes watched coldly, while the claw ran in and tried to bite Wolfe. He blew it to bits with a bullet.

  A low buzz came from Quade’s pocket. He drew out a flat box, touched a lever. It was a pocket radio, often necessary in interplanetary work, though its small size precluded use over long distances, and prevented installation of a televisor screen.

  Kathleen’s voice said urgently, “Tony? There’s trouble on the ship. A lot of claws and things are attacking us.”

  Wolfe shot a tentacle and aimed another accurate bullet at the eye, which failed to dodge it.

  “They can’t get in, can they?” Quade asked. “Lift the ship.”

  “They dissolved the porthole-glass with something—some acid. The beryllium-steel keeps them out, but they got in the engine-room first of all. Some of the men got panicky and tried to shoot ’em. One of the engines is damaged. And they’re all—well, a lot of ’em are in there, and the rest are busy with the portholes.”

  “Shoot them,” Quade said. “Deal out the guns.”

  “We’ve done that. We can’t use guns in the engine room—it may cause more trouble. Have to use axes. We’re trying to get the things out, so the engine can be repaired. Are you all right?”

  “Sure,” Quade lied, shooting at an advancing claw.

  “Hold on,” the girl’s voice said. “Be back in a minute.”

  “Not so good, eh?” Wolfe said. “Let’s try for the brain. Though I don’t think—” He fired down at the gray object in the pool. The bullet ricocheted. He tried another at one of the sacklike stomachs, with equal results. Then at one of the grinding, huge jaws. All seemed to be covered with the same curious metallic substance.

  “See what a triple-charge will do,” Quade said, stuffing a bullet into the chamber of his gun. All it did was to knock Quade down with the recoil. The brain bobbed slowly, undisturbed.

  “They bite,” the Bouncer said. “Eat them.”

  “I don’t like the way that thing’s thinking,” Wolfe said with a flash of grim humor. Quade grunted.

  “Maybe high explosive would worry it, but I doubt it, somehow. Hope we don’t run out of ammunition too soon.”

  Claws, tentacles, eyes, and voice-bladders suddenly materialized from the forest. They converged on the two men.

  “Good. One, one, one. Eat soon,” the Bouncer said contentedly.

  CHAPTER IV

  Angle Shot: End of Jigsaw

  A BOARD the camera-ship Kathleen was having a tough time. The vessel was surrounded by an avid horde of piecemeal monsters, intent upon capturing the occupants and dragging them into Jigsaw’s various jaws. Each man had been equipped with guns, plenty of ammunition, and an ax, and cautioned not to use the triple-charge cartridges within the ship.

  Kathleen retired to the engine room, after seeing that each porthole had a guard. The tentacles could climb effortlessly all over the ship. They were giving ground somewhat now, and presently the last one was chopped into bits as he fled under a rheostat.

  The men took their places at the ports of the engine room, while others set to work repairing the wrecked machine. Luckily, there were plenty of spare parts, and soon the motors were humming gently. Kathleen spoke to Quade via radio.

  “Lots of ’em hanging on the hull, eh?” he said. “Well, turn on the gravity plates full speed. Circle around low—the atmospheric friction will cook ’em. Then come after us pronto.” He didn’t mention that he and Wolfe
, fighting furiously, had been forced back unpleasantly close to one of the grinding jaws. The Bouncer was far from encouraging. Whenever he spoke, it was merely to relay the brain’s avid anticipation of more food.

  “HOW much ammunition have you got left?” Wolfe asked. “I’m down to my last clip.”

  “Two more,” Quade groaned. “Look out!” He fired two shots in quick succession. “Almost got Bill that time.” The Bouncer, with a horrified glance at the jaw, not a dozen feet away, squeaked shrilly and took a strangle hold on Quade’s leg.

  “God bless Von Zorn,” Quade said under his breath. “Wait until I see that fat-headed baboon again—if I ever do. I’ll—”

  With a scream of displaced air the camera-ship flashed down from the sky. It hovered as Quade spoke urgently into the transmitter. A moment later a rope ladder was dropped, and Quade said, “Get it, Wolfe! I’ll guard you—your ammunition’s gone.”

  After a second’s hesitation Wolfe obeyed. Quade emptied his gun, threw the useless weapon at an advancing claw, and went up the ladder like a cat, with the Bouncer hanging to his leg with a grip like a steel-trap.

  “All gone,” the creature said sadly as he was drawn through the porthole. “No food. Too bad.”

  That, apparently, was Jigsaw’s reaction, broadcast to Bill’s receptive mind.

  The huge platform in the ship’s transparent nose was crowded. All were staring down at the fantastic brain in the pool, and the organs that surrounded it. Kathleen hurried up.

  “Are you hurt, Tony?”

  “Nope. Are you? . . . Good. Looks like we came off okay—or did we?”

  “Four of the men were bitten, but the doctor says they’ll be okay. He’s got an anti-toxin—says the bites injected a poison similar to formic acid.”

  “Yeah,” Quade said thoughtfully. “We’re up a tree now, though. We’ve got less than a week to finish The Star Parade—”

  “Can’t we do it somewhere else on Mars?”