Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  “The Frog! The Frog!”

  Night came. Monk’s Hollow lay sleeping in the moonlight. A number of grim, armed men patroled the streets. Garage doors were left open, in instant readiness to rush aid in answer to a telephoned appeal for help. There must be no more tragedies like that of last night.

  At two in the morning Liggett had been jerked from an uneasy sleep by the frantic ringing of the telephone. It was the proprietor of a gasoline station on the highway several miles beyond the town. Something had attacked him, he shrieked into the instrument. He had locked himself within the station, but its glass walls would offer little protection against the thing that was even then creeping closer.

  But help had arrived too late. The station was an inferno of flame that fed on the underground gasoline reservoirs, and the men had only a glimpse of a great misshapen thing that bounded from the holocaust to escape apparently unscathed amid the hail of hasty bullets that greeted its appearance.

  But the proprietor of the station had, at least, died a clean death; he had been cremated, for some of his bones, unmarked by gnawing fangs, were later found among the ruins.

  And that night Hartley had found monstrous tracks beneath the window of his room in Liggett’s house. When he showed them to Liggett, the farmer had stared at him with a curious light in his eyes, but had said little.

  THE next attack came the following night. Hartley had fled from his bedroom and slammed the door just in time to escape the thing that clawed and slobbered and bellowed at the thin panel. But before Hartley and the aroused Liggett could return with their guns it had taken fright and escaped through the shattered window.

  Its tracks led into a patch of thick underbrush nearby, but to enter that tangled wilderness of shadow at night would have been sheer suicide. Liggett had spent half an hour at the telephone, arranging for the villagers to meet at his house at dawn to begin the pursuit. Then, since they could not sleep, the two men returned to Hartley’s bedroom and talked until nearly dawn.

  “It’s marked you down,” Liggett said. “It’s after you, like I thought I figgered—” He hesitated, scratching the stubble on his chin. “I figgered that maybe we could trap it—” Hartley caught his meaning., “Using me for bait? No!”

  “What else can we do? We’ve tried to track it, but it hides in the North Swamp by day. It’s the only way, unless you want it to kill more people. You can’t keep kids indoors all the time, Hartley.”

  “The National Guard—” Hartley began, but Liggett interrupted him.

  “How can they git it there in the swamp? If the thing could be got by ord’nary means we’d have done it. We’ll track it, come dawn, but it won’t do any good. Don’t you see, man, every minute counts? Even while we’re talking here the thing may be butcherin’ somebody. Don’t forgit—” He broke off, eyeing Hartley.

  “I know. You think I started it. But—God! I’ve told myself over and over that the thing’s a freak, some hellish outcome of an unnatural mating. But—”

  “But you know that’s not so,” Liggett said quietly. “You know what it is.”

  “No.” Hartley shook his head dully. “It can’t—”

  HE stopped, staring at Liggett’s face. The farmer was glaring past Hartley’s shoulder, incredulous horror in his eyes. He cried out a startled warning, sent Hartley spinning with a sudden push. The artist had a glimpse of a shining hideous countenance protruding through the window; a dreadful mask that was neither batrachoid nor human, but partook monstrously of the attributes of both. A great slit-like mouth worked loosely, and yellow, glazed eyes glared into Hartley’s; there was a choking stench of foul corruption, and the thing was in the room. Liggett’s gun blasted.

  The creature seemed to twist in midair, and the farmer went down beneath the onslaught. An agonized shriek welled out, broke off abruptly. The monster, crouching over Liggett’s body, lifted a muzzle wet with fresh blood and made a gobbling sound, dreadfully reminiscent of a chuckle, deep in its throat. Sick and shaking, Hartley felt the doorknob beneath his fingers, and he flung the door open as the creature leaped.

  He slammed it just in time, but a panel splintered under a terrific impact. Hartley fled along the hall as the door crashed.

  Outside the house he hesitated momentarily, glancing around in an agony of indecision. In the cold grayness that precedes the dawn he saw the nearest house perhaps two hundred feet away, but as he started to race toward it the thing came bounding into view, intercepting him. It had apparently crept out through the window by which it had entered.

  Hartley suddenly remembered his automatic and clawed it out, fired point-blank at the creature as it came at him. There was a croaking snarl of rage, and the loose slit-mouth worked hideously; a little stream of foul black ichor began to trickle slowly from a wound on the wattled, pouchy throat of the thing.

  But it did not halt, and Hartley, realizing that a creature of such monstrous size must possess tremendous vitality, turned to flee. It was between him and the village, and as though realizing its advantage the thing kept at Hartley’s heels, giving him no chance to double back. The thought flashed unbidden into Hartley’s mind: the monster was herding him!

  He heard a window creak up, heard a shout. Then he was running for his life back along the road over which he had fled on the first night of the horror.

  At the thought, and at sight of a small lane—a rutted cart-path—joining the road at right angles, he twisted aside and raced along it. His only hope lay in somehow getting back to the village. Behind him came the gasping and slobbering, the rhythmic pounding that betokened the grim pursuit.

  He chanced a snap shot over his shoulder, but the hazy light of the false dawn was deceptive, and he missed. He dared waste no more bullets.

  The thing was herding him! Twice he saw paths that led back to the village, and each time the pursuing monster blocked his escape, circling with great leaps to his right until the paths had been passed. And presently the fields grew wilder, and the vegetation took on a lush, unhealthy greenness. He might have attempted to scale a tree, but there was none near enough to the road, and the pursuer was too close. With a dreadful shock of realization Hartley saw that the North Swamp lay before him—the ill-omened morass about which all the ghastly legends had centered.

  The ridge to the east was silhouetted against pale grayness. From far away Hartley heard a sound that sent a thrill of hope through him. The sound of an automobile motor—no, two of them! He remembered his neighbor’s shout as he had fled from Liggett’s house. The man must have gone for help, roused the village. But the snarling breathing was dreadfully close.

  Once the monster paused, and Hartley glanced over his shoulder to see it clawing in hideous rage at its wounded throat. The bullet must have handicapped it in the pursuit, else Hartley would long before have fallen beneath ripping talons. He brought up his gun, but the thing, as though realizing his purpose, sprang forward, and Hartley had to sprint in order to escape the great leaps. The sound of motors grew louder in the dawn-stillness.

  The path wound through the swamp. It was overgrown with weeds, rutted and pitted deeply, and at times the encroaching ooze had crept up until only a narrow ribbon of dry land was left. On all sides the lush greenness of the morass spread, with occasional open spaces of repellently black water. Over all lay a curious stillness, an utter lack of motion. No wind ruffled the tops of the grass-fronds, no ripples spread over the waters. The sounds of the pursuit, the roaring of the motors, seemed an incongruous invasion of this land of deathly stillness.

  The end came suddenly, without warning. Green slime covered the road for a distance of a dozen yards; Hartley, splashing through the icy, ankle-deep water, felt his foot go down into a hole, and fell heavily.

  wrenching his ankle. Even as he fell he rolled aside desperately felt a wind brush him as the monster’s impetus carried it beyond him.

  Hartley’s arms, outthrust, were abruptly embedded in something soft and clinging, something that sucked and pulled t
hem down inexorably. With a rasping cry he wrenched them free from the quicksand, fell back to the firmer ground of the road. He heard the sound of a shot, and, flat on his back in the ooze, saw a monstrous mask of horror incarnate looming above him. The sound of motors had increased to a roar, and a shout of encouragement came to his ears.

  The monster hesitated, drew back, and Hartley, remembering his gun, jerked it from his belt. He fired point-blank at the creature, and coincidentally with the report of his own gun came a volley from the cars. Lead whined above him, and he felt a stinging pain in his shoulder.

  SUDDENLY it seemed as though the monster were a huge bladder, punctured in a dozen places, pouring out black and nauseous ichor. With a hoarse gasping cry it flopped aside, made a crippled, one-sided leap, and came down in the bog beside the road. Then, swiftly, it began to sink.

  The quicksand took it. Its huge hind-quarters, black and glistening, corded with muscle, disappeared almost immediately, and then the distended, leprously white belly. Hartley, sick and fainting, felt hands lifting him to his feet, heard questioning voices that seemed to come from a great distance.

  But he had eyes only for the abysmal horror that was being engulfed a dozen yards from him, the webbed and spurred flail-like talons that were desperately beating the slime, the misshapen, hideous head that rolled from side to side in agony. From the gaping mouth of the thing came a ghastly outpouring of croaking shrieks, a monstrous bellowing that suddenly grew horribly familiar, articulate, thick and guttural; a frenzied outcry of blasphemy such as might come from the rotting tongue of a long-dead corpse.

  All the men fell back, white with loathing; and Hartley dropped to his knees, retching and moaning in an agony of horror, as the thing, its mouth half choked with the hungry quicksand, bellowed:

  “Awrrgh—ugh—ye—blast ye! Blast ye all! May the curse o’ Persis Winthoip rot yer flesh an’ send ye down to—”

  The frightful outburst of sound gave place to a terrible gargling shriek that was abruptly choked off. There was a brief commotion in the ooze; a great bubble formed and burst . . . and age-old stillness brooded once more over the North Swamp.

  THE TRANSGRESSOR

  A curious tale of time-travel

  THE night was oven-hot. Thor, my Great Dane, was panting in a corner, and occasionally growling to himself. I was alone in the house.

  So I thought. Thus, when I heard a tentative cough from near by I looked up in surprise—and my jaw dropped. I stared unbelievingly at the face before me.

  For, feature for feature, it was my own!

  “Well,” said the intruder. “So it worked. I’ve conquered time!”

  The dog barked.

  I sprang to my feet, overturning the chair. Involuntarily my gaze went past the man to the door he had closed behind him. I knew what was behind that panel. And therefore—I guessed.

  I said, “Who are you?”

  “Jim Harline.”

  My own name. Something of fear—dread of the unknown—must have crept into my eyes, for the man said,

  “Don’t be frightened——” And the voice was my own! “Surely you’re not afraid of the result of your own experiment.”

  “What do you know about that?” I asked.

  “You’re all ready for it, aren’t you? In about half an hour you’re planning on the final test. But—sit down.” As I dropped back into the chair Thor got quickly to his feet. His eyes were hard and brilliant. He padded to the drinking-pan by the table, but did not drink.

  “My experiments have dealt with the possibility of moving about in time,” I said. “I’ve completed a model—but this—visitation!” I made a vague gesture.

  “Naturally my coming surprises you.” He hesitated. “It’s difficult to explain. Our identities are confused, I think. We are the same person—and yet we’re different, because I’ve lived a half-hour longer than you have.”

  “How did you get in this house?” Indirectly he answered, “You’re ready to give your time machine the final test. It will work. You’ll project yourself half an hour backward in time. You’ll see yourself sitting there reading—as I saw you. You’ll speak—as I did.”

  I snatched at an obvious straw. “How do you know this?”

  “I experienced it. Just half an hour ago I was sitting where you’re sitting now, talking to a mysterious visitor who looked like my double.” Suddenly the man glanced aside at Thor. The huge dog was pacing nervously about, little flecks of foam on his jaws. “It’s hot,” he said, irrelevantly.

  I looked at my visitor carefully. His body was apparently as solid and real as my own. There was only one distinguishing feature between us: a fresh cut had peeled away half an inch of skin from his forehead.

  Observing my glance, the man touched the wound with his handkerchief. “Hit my head on the control lever,” he explained. “The damned machine gives you a nasty jolt when it starts. Watch out for it.” He grinned crookedly. “I forgot. You can’t. The cycle has to repeat itself.”

  My thoughts were chaotic. I could not understand. Gropingly I said, “But the cycle must start some place. It started with you? You say you’ve already lived through the period of time I’m now experiencing?”

  He nodded.

  “Then you sat in this chair”—I patted its arm—“reading, but didn’t get interrupted by a visitor, for nobody went through before you.”

  “Hold on. I did get interrupted.”

  “But you couldn’t have. Didn’t you start the time cycle?”

  “Lord, no! I’d already traveled around the loop. Look here.” He reached for a convenient magazine and drew a figure on it—a line that intersected itself, like the letter P.

  “Thus. The straight line—the vertical one—is our normal progress in time. We’re both existing, right now, at the point where the lines intersect. But you’ve reached that point normally; I haven’t. I’ve lived a half-hour longer, traveled backward in time, and moved along the loop back to the point of intersection.”

  Suddenly the dog howled. I said sharply, “Quiet, Thor!”

  My visitor went on after a moment, “It isn’t a paradox, really. If you were to travel back through time for thirty years, you’d see yourself as a baby. But that baby would also see you, the man who’s thirty-two years old, if just as you’re seeing me, the man who’s half an hour older than you are.” His eyes changed. “But there’s something”—he paused, staring again at the dog—“something I can’t remember—a blank space in my memory. And I’ve a feeling it’s—very important. A memory that has been eradicated . . . why should that happen?” He came close, gripping my arm with hard fingers. “It isn’t logical. There’s no reason for it.”

  I stared at him. “Perhaps if you explain what you did——”

  “Well, I went into the laboratory when the clock struck eight. I can remember that, but just before it is the blank spot in my memory—the part I can’t remember. I went into the lab and got into the time machine. I pulled over the lever and felt a jerking shock. I said that was how I got this cut on my head, didn’t I? Yes . . . well, then—the machine had stopped. At first I thought I’d failed. But I looked at the clock on the wall, and it showed seven-thirty instead of eight. As easy as that! I got out of the machine and came in here. You were sitting reading . . .”

  He was silent. It was very strange to see my own face set in lines of wonder and triumph and apprehension.

  “Then the experiment was—will be—a success,” I said, and he grinned wryly.

  “A success—yes.” He was looking at me, but far beyond. His gaze dwelt beyond earth. It looked into the unknown. And he said, “I have gone too far. I know that, now. There are laws which must not be transgressed. We may think there are ways of overcoming them, but we forget one thing. Beyond those laws we know there are others—and they may be very terrible. I think there is no room for rebels in this universe.”

  BRIEFLY the tension held us; then it snapped, and he said, “Give me a drink—a cold one. It’s damne
d hot.” I mixed a highball—two of them. We looked at each other over the glasses. I noticed that the fingers of his right hand were blood-stained. The dog paced the floor, panting. Foam flecked his mouth.

  My visitor drank deeply and sank into a chair. Thor paused to stare at him. The two, man and dog, gazed, and I heard a little growl rumble in the Great Dane’s shaggy throat. And suddenly the most dreadful look came over the man’s throat.

  He shouted something—I don’t know what. He sprang to his feet. At the sudden movement Thor crouched. The dog’s eyes were glaring and as I saw the foam-frosted, lolling tongue I realized the truth. The heat—Thor’s refusal to drink water . . .

  Well, it was over soon. I killed Thor with a chair that splintered as it crushed his skull. But my double was gripping the table’s edge, blood bubbling from a throat torn open by the dog’s fangs.

  He looked at me, and there was horror unspeakable in his eyes—a terror beyond life and beyond death. Then he came down, his outflung arms sending papers fluttering to the floor. Very slowly he slid from the table and crumpled into a quiet heap.

  His wrist was pulseless. I looked down at his still face, and glanced at the dog, and finally at the door of my laboratory. I did not look away. For in that split second as I stared at the panel a brief, inexplicable shock racked me. Something seemed to move within my brain. I found myself quietly walking into the laboratory.

  A little voice whispered within my head. It said, “Stop. You’ve forgotten something—something important.” I did not heed it. I did not know what I had forgotten.

  In the laboratory was a high, boxshaped framework, the time machine I had created. It stood there, its bright metal gleaming in the light, and I paused to run a caressing hand over its surface. Then I climbed inside and seated myself before the control board.