Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  “Didn’t the prof tell you?”

  “No,” said Mayhem, again fingering his discolored eye. “He was—ah—somewhat unreasonable. I fear he lost his temper.”

  “For two cents,” said Pete, “I’d lose mine. First, do I get that five grand you promised me?”

  “Of course. My check. Here.”

  Pete sighed. “Well, I can keep my temper for five thousand fish. And as for what happened—”

  He explained. Mayhem listened, open-mouthed. And, finally, the doctor burst out with questions.

  “Bombs? Gas bombs? What—how—”

  “Tear gas. Ammonia. The prof told me how.”

  “But you can’t make ammonia gas without electricity—”

  “We had it,” Pete grinned. “That’s how we lit up the big bulb in the ceiling. And we had Pharaoh’s throne wired up, too. A regular hot squat—electric chair to you, Doc.”

  “But—how? There were no facilities in Egypt for the development of current, were there? You couldn’t have used static electricity.”

  “Doc,” Pete said, rising, “I am going to use this five grand to start a concession at the New York Fair. Drop in sometime. I’ll show you around the dump. There’s one show called Zoo—Zoological Wonders you hadn’t ought to miss.”

  Mayhem stared. “Eh? What do you mean?”

  “They got some swell stuff there. Pandas and things. And,” said Pete, starting for the door, “they also got an electric eel that gives off enough current to play a radio and run a toy train. If one eel can do that, Doc, two dozen of ’em can do—pu-lenty! I had those eels wired for business!”

  1940

  THE LIFESTONE

  For thousands of years the Desert Nations had worshipped the Lifestone. And when Lang stole it he made his biggest gamble—a billion dollars against ten thousand lives!

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Wreck of the Starbird

  WITHIN the control room of the space ship it was impossible to hear the harsh clamor of the riveters. Walls of beryllium and insulation deadened the sound of repair work, but a deep, grinding vibration shook the giant craft. Outside in airless space, Captain Griffin knew, men in protective armor were working against time. Meteors swarm near Saturn, and unless the battery of photo-magnetic cells that lined the hull was replaced swiftly, the Starbird had made her last run.

  Space liners are never silent. There is always the distant hum of powerful machines, the faint patter of hurrying feet, the murmur of voices. All the normal sounds of life seem intensified through contrast with the deadly, illimitable emptiness stretching all around, a blazing curtain of starlight that blackens the skins of spacemen with rays that not even Polaroid glass can exclude. Somehow Griffin’s dark tan seemed oddly incongruous with his blonde, huge Viking build. Though he was still a young man, his hair was bleached almost white.

  Frowning, he glanced at a crumpled sheet of paper on the desk beside him. But a moment later he had forgotten it to stand before a porthole, gazing into the abyss, pale blue eyes narrowed. Unaided vision, however, was useless to discover the bullet-swift drive of a meteor. Only the photo-magnetic cells could protect spacecraft against the most deadly menace of outer space—and the cells were dead.

  The Starbird had been well on the outward run from Jupiter’s Ganymede when the alarm bells sounded. Now, standing alone in the room that was the ship’s brain, Griffin whispered an oath. Blind rage rose up within him, a cold, bitter anger against the unscrupulous greed of a third-rate transport company. Space flyers need unceasing attention to safeguard them against the innumerable dangers of their tremendous voyages, and the strains and stresses of hundreds of long trips had weakened the Starbird. But the owners would rather spend two thousand dollars in bribes to the inspectors than five or ten thousand for the replacement of shoddy equipment. So the guarding photo-magnetic cells, that automatically warned against the near approach of meteors and set up a compensating field of repulsion, had burned out near Saturn, and a dozen of the crew were working desperately on the outer hull, welding and connecting the emergency units.

  Thirty men were in the ship, more than half of them passengers who preferred to run the risk of traveling in a low-priced, shabby vessel rather than pay the exorbitant rates of the giant luxury liners whose owners dared take no chances with poor equipment. The Starbird was chiefly a freighter, carrying tons of machinery, fuel, and food supplies to the outer planets and their moons, which, though rich in minerals, were almost incapable of supporting human life.

  A sound made Griffin turn swiftly. At the door stood a slim, round-faced man whose appearance of youth was belied by the lurking devil in his brown eyes. A smile of half-malicious amusement quirked one corner of the newcomer’s mouth. Felix Lang was apparently pleased. He had come aboard at Ganymede City, bound for Uranus; his nationality Griffin did not know, though he was sure Lang was not Earthborn.

  “Still worrying, Mister?” he asked, with the trace of some indefinable accent. “What’s the use of that?”

  Griffin nodded toward the porthole.

  “If a meteor hits us—”

  “We die quickly. Clean, sudden—but cold. That reminds me—” Lang calmly opened a drawer of the desk, extracted a flat silver bottle and drank deeply. He looked at Griffin, wise eyes glistening. “Distilled on Venus—and for medicinal use only. Bring on your meteors, Mister.” Griffin retrieved the bottle. “Every time you come in here you swipe a drink. We may need that liquor before long.”

  A DARK streak ripped past the port-hole, a black line drawn suddenly against the shimmering star-curtain.

  “That,” Griffin informed his guest, “is a meterite. Not far away, either. If there was an atmosphere out there it’d have looked like a comet.”

  “Even meteors are better company than the other passengers,” Lang said. “They know something’s wrong, and they’re scared stiff. The Venusians have a proverb—‘It is better to be devoured at a gulp by an ugly fish-lizard than to be absorbed slowly by the beautiful Medusa fungus.’ ”

  “Why must you spout quotations at a time like this?” Griffin asked. “My troubles won’t be over even when the repair work’s finished. Look at this.” He thrust the crumpled sheet of paper at Lang, who glanced at the signature and whistled.

  “Chief of the Interplanetary Guards! There is trouble, eh?”

  “There is trouble—and a hell of a lot of it. Ever heard of the Lifestone?” Lang blinked. “Who hasn’t? The most famous jewel on Mars—or in the system.”

  “It’s the most sacred fetich of the Desert Nations of Mars,” Griffin said. “Like the Kaaba—the Black Stone—at Mecca. The Martians have worshipped it for ages—the wasteland tribes, anyhow. A thousand years ago when Earthmen first dropped in on Mars the Desert Nations were praying to the Lifestone, and it’s the one thing no outsider can tamper with. Martians are insane on the subject. I’d rather take a sledgehammer to the Kaaba with a million Mohammedans watching me than to touch the Lifestone—or even look at it. The fetich-worship of ages—it’s old, Lang—older than Earth’s civilization. When man was a Neanderthaler the Desert Nations were in their prime, had the greatest culture the system ever knew. And they worshipped the Lifestone then. Now they’ve retrogressed; they’re uncivilized—but no Earthman has ever dared touch the jewel, and only four have ever seen it. I mean—five men.”

  “I see you’ve studied history,” Lang said drily.

  “The Lifestone’s been stolen. An Earthman stole it, the Martians say. And they’re in revolt. Unless it’s recovered every Terrestrial on Mars will be wiped out—and probably tortured first if that can be managed conveniently.”

  The groaning vibration that shook the ship increased in intensity. Griffin’s voice grew louder as he went on:

  “They traced the thief to Ganymede City, and they know he boarded the Starbird, Lang. You can’t see it, but there’s a gun in my pocket—and it’s pointed your way. So you’d better tell me where the Lifestone is before I squeeze the trigger.”
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  The other didn’t move, but his lips quirked in a one-sided smile. “You think I have it—that I’m the thief?”

  “Aren’t you?” Griffin asked.

  “Of course. But your suspicions hurt me, Mister. I thought—”

  GRIFFIN brought out his weapon—a flat, stubby automatic that carried both deadly and sleep-producing needles in its magazine. “Sorry, Lang. But we’re heading back to meet a Guardship as soon as the repair work’s finished. I’ve already sent a radiogram. You see, there are lots of people on Mars, and they’ll all be dead in a few weeks if the Lifestone isn’t brought back.”

  Lang snapped his fingers. “A few lives! They won’t be missed. The Earth Council will pay plenty before it gets the stone back.” Suddenly his smile broadened, and he grinned delightedly. “I tell you, Mister, I am a mighty clever little fellow the way I worked it—a damn plucky chap!” His strange accent grew stronger. “For two years I lived with the Desert Nations—you know they drink nothing but water? What a two years! Then one night I got my ship from where I’d hidden it, took aboard a few Martian big shots, and told ’em I’d learned the Lifestone was going to be stolen. We’d planned well. My cousin had already blasted his way into the temple when I got there. I don’t think he knew I was going to kill him.”

  Lang shook his head sadly. “No. However, it was the best way. The scheme was that he’d make a bluff at stealing the jewel and then escape. My companions naturally would make sure the Lifestone was okay—and that’s when I took it. I got all six of them with five shots, not counting the bomb I used on my cousin. Three of the Martians were armed, too. What a smart chap I am!” he finished.

  Griffin was sure now that Lang had some of the conscienceless Callistan stock in him—the cold-blooded, passionless exactitude of that race, and probably some candid, naive Venusian blood as well. He said, eyebrows lifted, “Well, you clever little fellow, just hand over the Lifestone before I puncture your hide.”

  LANG’S reply was cut short. Without warning came catastrophe swift and complete. A rending, jarring crash shook the ship, and the scream of escaping air. Thunder of valves shutting deafened the two momentarily. A sudden cessation of gravity showed that the controls had been wrecked.

  They floated up from the floor as the ship lurched, then drifted down slowly. Emergency gravitational fields were being automatically created. But the power was failing fast.

  Griffin dived for the door, making use of every projection to pull himself along and increase his speed. Over his shoulder he promised, “I’ll settle your hash later, buddy!”

  Alarm bells shrieked. Above their hysterical clamor a toneless robot voice bellowed, “Go at once to the lifeboats that have been assigned you. Do not wait to get your luggage. Hurry!”

  Lang followed the captain more slowly, still smiling. The Starbird was smashed; a glance at the instruments had told that. The meteorite, a small one, had driven slantwise through the body of the hull, wrecking the engine room and warping and weakening the whole structure of the ship fatally.

  The next quarter of an hour was to Griffin an eternity of hopeless activity. For the important thing now was to avoid loss of life. Perhaps some had already perished in the crash; he could not tell. The crew were well trained, and at last the lifeboats were filled and cast off. Several of them, however, were useless, and the others jammed to capacity. As the last of the tiny ships floated free of the airlocks Griffin turned hastily to seek a means of escape for himself.

  Finally he found a boat that was spaceworthy. About to enter it, he paused, remembering that he had not seen Lang since the crash, though he had checked every survivor. With methodical haste he began to search the collapsing liner.

  He found Felix Lang crumpled in the corner of a corridor, blood smearing the wall and oozing slowly from a scalp wound. A lurch of the buckling ship had apparently knocked him unconscious. Griffin hoisted Lang’s light form to his shoulders and hurriedly retraced his steps.

  The great liner was singing a threnody of death. Tortured metal screamed; the crash of safety doors sounded as compartment after compartment burst its seams and let the atmosphere escape. The air in the corridor abruptly became a roaring gale against which Griffin fought grimly. Frigid chill of space touched him with congealing fingers as he thrust Lang into the safety boat and sprang in after him, sliding the door shut with numbed hands.

  Machinery rumbled, suddenly went silent. With no sense of movement the boat slipped silently into the vast abyss, a tiny speck of flotsam on an ocean whose shores were infinity.

  Two men, alone in space . . .

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Selenites

  “THIS is a hell of a fix,” Griffin said, sombrely chewing the bit of his pipe. He couldn’t smoke; there wasn’t enough air.

  Lang smiled sleepily. “The Venusians have a proverb—‘Men who dance on the teeth of dinosaurs should not complain if they are devoured.’ ”

  “One more of those lousy proverbs and I’ll wring your neck,” Griffin promised. “Only two days since the wreck, and the air’s almost gone. Maggoty food, the water-vaporizer working when it feels like it, not enough power to send out an S O S—and you talk about dinosaurs’ teeth.”

  “We sent several calls for help,” Lang pointed out. The little man did not seem discommoded by his plight; the bandage about his head only gave him a certain air of rakehell deviltry. “Somebody may have heard it. When the other boats are picked up there’ll be a search.”

  “Like looking for an atom in the Pyramid,” Griffin grunted. “That reminds me: where’s the Lifestone?”

  “I left it on the Starbird,” Lang smiled. “I don’t believe you.”

  “And quite right, too,” the little man admitted unblushingly. “What good would it do you if I gave it to you?”

  “None. And I don’t think I want it. Right at present I’m safe enough if I sleep with one eye open, but if I had the Lifestone you’d cut my throat with your toenail—if you got the chance. Keep it, and I hope it chokes you.”

  The little ship swayed, jarred. The blanket of stars was blotted out from the portholes on one side. The televisor—which was practical only for transmission over short distances—buzzed sharply. Griffin sprang to it, threw a switch. On the screen a pattern of dots danced madly, and then resolved themselves into a face.

  The fat, silver-skinned countenance of a Selenite looked at Griffin. One of the race that dwelt on the Dark Side of the Moon, beneath the titanic dome that held life-giving atmosphere and a civilization.

  “We’re alongside,” the Selenite said in his soft, shrill voice. “And—wait a minute—”

  Grating of metal jarred the boat. Abruptly there was blackness outside the portholes.

  “We’ve got you,” the Selenite said with satisfaction. “Wait till we pump air in the lock and you can come out.”

  “Good!” Griffin said, breathing deeply. Due to the lack of air he had been taking shallow breaths for a long time, though he had scarcely realized it. “You came along just in time.”

  “Come out now,” the televisor murmured, and the face faded from it. Lang was already working on the door. It slid open; a gust of cool, fresh air, with a faint tangy flavor, sent new vigor coursing through the two men. Starved blood drank it in gratefully.

  Griffin followed Lang out to the floor of the lock. Bare walls of steel were all around them; a slit of light widened.

  In silhouette a grotesque shadow loomed.

  “Captain Griffin?” the Selenite’s voice whispered. “But come in, come in! We are anxious—” His gross body drew back, was visible as a shapeless bag overgrown with an iridescent crop of feathery fronds, inches long—adaptations of the silvery scales that covered the bare skin of his hand and face.

  Faceted eyes gleamed from the puffy face, so startlingly human in contour—yet so strangely alien.

  A LITTLE warning note clanged at the back of Griffin’s mind—the hunch that had so often warned him of danger. But he had no choice. H
e entered the cabin, Lang at his heels, stared around. Drapes and cushions of violet samite made the room luxurious. Lounging on a low couch was another Lunarian, very tall, skeleton-thin, with his mobile lips pursed ironically. The faceted eyes were unreadable.

  The door clanged shut. A puffy hand pointed to a table nearby, with cushions piled invitingly around it. “We’ve prepared, Captain Griffin. Food—and drink. Probably you’re both hungry. Don’t wait on ceremony; eat while we talk.”

  Griffin hesitated, but Lang hastily snatched up a rosy, aromatic drink and drained it at a gulp. His round face glowed.

  “May the gods reward you,” he said unctuously, bowing to his hosts. “Is that a pheasant? Ah-h—”

  Griffin hesitated, and then sat down beside Lang, who was industriously refueling. A drink of the rosy liquor strengthened him, and he turned to say, “You got our S. O. S.”

  The Selenite nodded. “The other lifeships have been picked up, Captain Griffin. Ether calls have been going out for two days. The wreck of the Starbird is front-page news.”

  The slim one waved a languid hand. “I am Elander. This overstuffed gentleman is Thurm. We’re on a pleasure jaunt to Ganymede City.”

  Lang, busy with a pheasant, said, “My name’s Felix—”

  “Lang,” Thurm interrupted, his plump face smiling. “Oh, you’re front-page news too. You and the Lifestone.”

  Griffin froze. Lang’s brown eyes flickered, went stone-hard. He didn’t move.

  “Elander and I have decided to take the Lifestone,” Thurm went on pleasantly. “The Earth Council will pay us, not you, Mr. Lang. To use an archaic term, we shall indulge in a little hi-jacking.”

  Griffin had the needle gun out of his pocket. “Sorry,” he said. “I’ll have to take command, in that case. We’re going back Sunward—muy pronto! The Lifestone’s travels are over. From now on it’s taking the quickest road home.”

  Abruptly a glimmer of light blinded Griffin. He cursed pulled the trigger—and saw the needle projectile fall, flattened against a transparent wall that had suddenly materialized between him and the Lunarians.