Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  As the taxi rolled on, Hatch pondered. A queer thought came to him. The possessor of the telepathic function had almost the powers of a god. Power . . . a man might rule the world—rule it without despotism, cruelty or hatred.

  No. One man could never guide Earth. It would need a colossus—a giant such as evolution had never produced. Against that thought Hatch weighed another. If Manning had revealed his secret to the world, what would have been the result? War?

  Scarcely! The seeds of war are greed and selfishness and lust for power. With complete understanding, with all minds absolutely en rapport, the age-old curse of Mars would pass away. There would come in its place a truce . . .

  Gerold’s men would be combing the city by now. Van Boren—he had said the telepathic function could be transmitted. But how?

  The taxi-driver was worrying about a traffic ticket he had received. The thought-thread broke, turned to contemplation of a long-delayed dinner awaiting him. Hatch tried to concentrate upon the fellow, but gave it up presently. There was some trick to the transmission of telepathy he didn’t understand.

  The taxi stopped. Hatch got out, paid the driver, and looked around quickly. No one was in sight. Above him loomed the moonlit tower of an apartment house. Hatch hurried inside.

  Across the street, a man turned from a window and used the telephone.

  Jean Hill lived on the seventh floor. Her door showed no crack of light beneath it. Hatch listened, touched the buzzer.

  The door opened. A uniformed man stood on the threshold, a gun in his hand.

  “Lift ’em,” he snapped. “Quick!”

  Sick hopelessness tightened Hatch’s throat. He obeyed, stepped into the apartment at the other’s command. Three other agents were standing there. Jean Hill was sitting on a couch, her face chalk-white.

  Hatch smiled crooked. “Hello, kid,” he said. “Didn’t expect me at this time, did you?” Perhaps that would help to avert suspicion from the girl.

  “Sit down,” one of the agents said. Hatch read death in his mind. He complied.

  Jean started to speak, but was peremptorily silenced. They waited for about ten minutes. Then the door opened and Commander Perrett entered.

  He looked like Lincoln—a beardless, haggard Lincoln, with singularly gentle brown eyes. He wore a civilian suit of black that hung loosely on his gaunt frame.

  “All right,” he said quietly. “Take the girl to headquarters. Two of you remain on guard outside the door.” Then he said nothing till he and Hatch were alone in the room. The newscaster stood up, his fingers moving nervously.

  “Miss Hill had nothing to do with—”

  “I know. She won’t be harmed. I’ll release her in a day or so. My business is with you, Mr. Hatch.”

  “Yeah?” The newscaster felt oddly cold. “Well, I feel safer as your prisoner than as Gerold’s.”

  Light flared in the brown eyes. “Raymond Gerold is my most faithful helper. You can gain nothing by such tactics. Why did you try to escape?”

  “I was afraid of being killed,” Hatch said frankly. “Like Manning.”

  “That was—regrettable. He shouldn’t have escaped.”

  “Maybe he didn’t like being tortured.” Hatch was on dangerous ground, and he knew it. But Perrett’s face went suddenly pale and haggard.

  “They—he was tortured?”

  “Horribly.”

  Perrett went to a window, peered out unseeingly. “God! When will this stop? If you fools would only obey!” His heavy shoulders shook. Hatch felt a breath of amazement.

  He pressed his advantage. “You’re the one to stop it, aren’t you?” Perrett turned. “I know. But a thistle must be grasped firmly . . . let me explain myself, Hatch.” The autocrat’s face was suddenly fanatical. “For hundreds of years America has been a failure. Democracy is valueless. As long as men are what they are, they need a strong hand to guide them. And rule them.”

  “Do they want it?”

  “That doesn’t matter! All this cruelty and bloodshed will be finished soon. Revolt must be wiped out. In ten years—five—America will be a Utopia. You think I’m a power-mad dictator. The world thinks so. It isn’t pleasant for me.” The deep voice grew harsh. “But I am nothing. I’m the scalpel that cuts out cancerous growths from humanity. Don’t you imagine I’d like to live a normal life? Well—I can’t. Mankind has always needed a leader—a leader to hammer it on the anvil!

  When I die, America will be my monument, a nation without liberty, but with justice for all!”

  And Hatch, reading the man’s mind, knew that he was sincere. Perrett followed his ideals—followed them blindly into a chaos of bloodshed and terror!

  “You mentioned Gerold. I tell you this; when I die Gerold will be my successor. He’s hated because of the work he does—must do. But that work will be finished soon. Gerold will carry on my work, and bring all Earth under his rule. Only then will there be peace and happiness on this planet.” Perrett’s eyes were weirdly luminous. “I am dying now. The doctors have given me a little more than a year to live. But before I die, America will have its weapon—telepathy.”

  Hatch opened his mouth to speak, felt a surge of hopelessness. He could say nothing to this man. Words would be useless against the impregnable armor of fanatacism.

  Perrett said, “So you must do as I wish. Van Boren will help. You won’t be harmed—I will not permit unnecessary violence. But you must obey! Even torture . . . if there is no other way.” He hesitated, asked, “Well? Do you see now?”

  “Yeah,” Hatch said. “All right. I’ll do what you want.”

  THIRTY-FOUR hours later Hatch stumbled on the secret. Caffeine tablets had kept him awake, shirtless and perspiring, his mental processes probed mercilessly by the keen questions of Van Boren. They were in an office on the twentieth floor of Headquarters, overlooking Los Angeles.

  And, suddenly, Hatch knew that he had discovered Manning’s method. Quite simple—yet it could not be described, any more than a color can be described to a man blind from birth. Concentrating, rigid with strain, Hatch abruptly realized that he could transmit the telepathic function. Though he did not attempt the experiment, he had a queer certainty that he had at last found the answer to the problem.

  He leaned back in his chair, smiling wanly with pale lips.

  “Got it, Van Boren. I’ve got it!”

  The scientist mopped his bald head. His eyelids were red and inflamed. “Good Lord! You’re sure? How’—”

  “I can’t explain it. I just—know. I could make you a telepath right now. I’m certain of that.”

  Van Boren stood up, swaying with weariness. Hatch read his mind.

  “Got to tell Gerold. He’s waiting . . .”

  “Wait a minute!” Hatch said sharply. “Get Perrett. He’s the man I want to see.”

  Without answering, Van Boren went out, locking the door. Hatch went unsteadily to a desk and poured a drink. He downed it with a shudder. His head was aching horribly, and there was a tight dry feeling behind his temples. Gerold, he knew, had ordered Van Boren to report directly to him, not to Perrett.

  And presently Gerold came in. He locked the door behind him and put his hand unobtrusively on his bolstered gun. “You’ve got it, eh?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then telepathize me.”

  Hatch hesitated. He was reading Gerold’s mind. And many things were clear to him now.

  Perrett had been a fanatic—but an honest one. Gerold was neither. Thoughts raced through the man’s brain, jumbled, vivid, triumphant. One idea stood out above all the others, as though written on Gerold’s forehead in letters of fire.

  Power!

  Power to rule America—to rule the world! And with no light hand! Hatch realized that Gerold hated Perrett, despised him for his ideals. He knew that more than once the chief of the secret police had planned to assassinate the autocrat and take the reins of government into his hands.

  And on that day liberty in America would cease indeed. A desp
ot would rule, with the mad selfishness of a Caligula, the monstrous appetites of an Augustus. Gerold would be the only man who knew the secret of telepathy—for he intended to kill Hatch as soon as he had acquired the power of reading minds.

  Now it was clear why Gerold had avoided the newscaster until this moment. Hatch would never betray his secrets (Gerold thought); dead men are dumb.

  Hatch looked at the gun. There was one chance—a nearly hopeless one. He took it.

  “I—I—” He let his voice fade, and went down in a heap. Through slitted eyes he watched the other.

  Gerold stood silent. He thought, “Is he shamming? Van Boren said he’s exhausted. I’ve got to hurry. Before Perrett finds out . . .”

  The agent drew his gun. Holding it, he knelt beside the newscaster.

  Hatch shot out his left hand. It closed on a cold steel barrel. He surged up; for a second the two men were face to face, straining for possession of the revolver. Gerold’s fingers stabbed at the other’s eyes.

  Hatch swung his fist in a vicious arc. It smashed against Gerold’s jaw. The agent was driven back. He gathered himself, still gripping the gun.

  Again Hatch’s fist lashed out. Gerold went down and stayed unmoving.

  The newscaster put the weapon in his pocket. He went to the door, unlocked it, opened it a crack. No one was outside.

  WITH an assumption of carelessness, Hatch stepped out into the hall. A guard was lounging by a window thirty feet away. Hatch walked toward him quickly. His head was throbbing with a sick, blinding headache.

  The guard looked up sharply. Hatch said, “Where’s Commander Perrett? He wants to see me right away. Important.”

  There was a silent scrutiny. “Okay.” The man put out his hands to frisk Hatch, but the newscaster forestalled him.

  “I know the rules.” His smile cost him an effort. “Left hand pocket.” The other grunted, took possession of the gun. “All right. Come along.”

  They went to an elevator, and emerged three floors above. Together they went along a brightly-lit corridor. The guard pointed to a door at the end. “That’s it—”

  A voice shouted, “A prisoner has escaped! Shoot him on sight! Description follows—”

  The guard moved swiftly, but Hatch was faster. He hit the man on the point of the jaw as he wrenched at his gun, and put all his strength in the blow. Without waiting to see the result, Hatch sprinted along the passage. He gripped a door-handle, felt it snatched out of his hand. Beyond his shoulder Hatch saw Perrett rising from a desk, his face startled.

  “Stop!” Perrett cried. “Don’t shoot him!”

  The guard holstered his weapon. “Let him in.”

  Hatch said, “Better have him guard the door. Gerold’s out to kill me.”

  “Search him . . . nothing? All right. Stand guard outside.”

  The agent obeyed. Hatch moved toward the desk, and Perrett put his hand on a gun. “Well?”

  “I’ve found the secret. Gerold wanted it for himself. He plans to kill you—I read his mind.”

  Perrett’s gaunt face twitched. “It won’t work, Hatch. Your bluff’s no good.” He moved toward a buzzer.

  “Wait!” Hatch was thinking quickly. “You don’t believe me. You think Gerold’s as sincere as you are. You haven’t seen the greed and lust for power in his brain. Okay. I’m here to give you what you want, Perrett—the telepathic function.”

  “Yes?”

  “But first I’ve got something to say. You’re going to listen to me. If you don’t I’ll manage to kill myself, somehow, and you’ll never learn the secret. Is it a bargain?” Perrett nodded. “Very well. I’ll listen, of course.”

  Hatch chose his words carefully, despite the flaming ache in his head. “You’re sincere. So were the Spanish torturers when they burned heretics to save their souls. Gerold isn’t sincere. He knows that if telepathy spreads over the world, he’s doomed, like the rest of his kind. Have you ever read Stuart Chase? Back in 1938 he wrote a book called The Tyranny of Words. He didn’t foresee telepathy as the solution, but he faced a vital problem squarely. Chase knew that the thing that’s wrecking civilization is failure of understanding. No two men use the same word with the same meaning.”

  “What does Christianity mean to you? Ruthlessness. The death of a thousand men to save the world. Christianity means something else to every man. No two people use the same word with the same meaning, the same referent. Words without referents have caused all the wars and hells that ever existed on Earth—emotional catchwords, Perrett! Patriotism—fascism—capitalism! Meaningless! Meaning something different to everybody.”

  Hatch was nearly blind with the throbbing agony against his temples.

  “Man’s a pawn today, his emotions swayed by propaganda and psychology. Dictators hide their real motives, their lust for tyranny and power, behind a mask. Or else they’re blind fanatics. Telepathy will rip away that mask. When a war is declared, it’ll be easy enough to find out who’s responsible, and why. Back in 1918, if the world had been telepathized, how long do you suppose that hell would have lasted? Germans were told by propagandists they were fighting to save the Fatherland. The same sort of vicious propaganda sent Americans to France. The same thing’s happening today. Men are learning to hate the Eastern Commune—why? Because they don’t understand it. The Orient hates us—for the same reason. All Earth’s plunging down to a holocaust, as it did seventy years ago, for the same reason—misunderstanding. That’s why I say—it won’t happen again!” Perrett’s face was terrible. He tried vainly to speak. Hatch flung up a restraining hand.

  “You want the secret of telepathy—well, take it!”

  A blaze of unearthly power seemed to rush from Hatch’s eyes. Using his newly-discovered strength, he sent the telepathic function surging into Perrett’s brain.

  MANNING had bequeathed the gift to Hatch. Now the newscaster shared it with Perrett. For a long moment the frightful tension, then Hatch relaxed, staggering against the desk. Perrett put up a faltering hand to his forehead.

  “You needn’t talk,” Hatch thought silently. “I can hear your mind, and you can hear mine. You and I are equal now—except for one thing. I can give the telepathic power—and I didn’t tell you how to do that.” Perrett whispered, “God! I can read your mind—yes!”

  “Then read what I saw in Gerold’s brain. Thoughts don’t lie. Can you see inside Gerold now, as I did?” Perrett’s eyes were glazed. “You’re bluffing,” he forced out through white lips. “Not Gerold. Not—”

  “Go to him,” Hatch’s mind said. “Find him. Read his brain. Then look at this monument you’re leaving. See how pretty it is, built on the bones of dead men. And see what Gerold plans to do to that wonderful monument of yours!”

  Silently Perrett went to the door. He looked back over his shoulder, and, reading his mind, Hatch saw hell. Then he went out. Glancing down at the desk, the newcaster realized that the gun was gone.

  He followed Perrett into the hall, heard the elevator door click shut.

  An audiophone bellowed, “This is important! A prisoner has escaped. Shoot him on sight. Shoot to kill.” Halfway down the passage Hatch saw the limp figure of the guard he had knocked unconscious. A revolver lay beside him.

  If he could escape now—go into the city and share his power with others—tell them the secret, and let them pass it on to their fellow-men. Telepathy couldn’t be stopped then. It would spread out over California, over America, over the world! Nothing Perrett or Gerold could do would halt the inexorable tide. And Earth would be liberated . . .

  But Hatch hadn’t realized his weakness. He took a few steps, and his knees buckled. He fell in a crumpled heap, nearly screaming with the grinding agony of his brain. He could not stand up, but slowly he dragged himself toward the guard.

  Fifteen feet to go—ten—five—

  The man was moving.

  Hatch doubled up helplessly for a moment, the world blanketed in a veil of red-shot darkness.

  The guard awoke. He
saw Hatch.

  The newscaster shot out his hand in a desperate attempt to reach the gun. He was too late.

  The guard kicked it out of reach. He pulled out his own weapon.

  The audiophone thundered, “An escaped prisoner! Kill him on sight!”

  Hatch dragged himself onward, sick and blind and deaf. The guard lowered his gun, squeezed the trigger.

  A dead voice said, “Wait.”

  The elevator door was open, and Commander Perrett was coming out. Blood stained his shirt-front and trickled down the ill-fitting suit.

  The guard dropped his weapon, staring at Perrett. He rocked on his feet, his eyes glazed.

  “Hatch,” he whispered.

  The word, and the thought behind it, penetrated into the newscaster’s numbed brain. He looked up, saw Perrett, and realized that he looked on a dying man. And with the dictator died the outworn rule of autocracy, and the seeds of war and fear and hatred.

  “I have killed Raymond Gerold,” he said to Hatch. “Now your secret belongs to the world.”

  THE HUNT

  Alvin Doyle came into the Wizard’s House with a flat, snub-nosed automatic in his pocket and murder in his heart.

  Luck favored him in that he had been able to trace down his cousin, Will Benson, before the executors of old Andreas Benson’s estate had found the trail. Now fortune was still on his side. Benson’s cabin was in a little canyon two miles from the village of Monk’s Hollow, and the superstitions of the villagers would not allow them to go near there by night.

  Will Benson was next of kin to the dead Andreas Benson. If Will died, Doyle would be the inheriting legatee. Consequently, Doyle had come to Monk’s Hollow, and, with a gun in his pocket, had casually inquired about his cousin, taking pains to arouse no suspicion.

  Will Benson was a recluse—and worse, men told Doyle over their beer. They whispered wild tales of what he did at night in his cabin, where drawn blinds hid unknown terrors from the eyes of the hardy prowler, and of ominous sounds that heralded a menace unknown.