Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  “Trying?” Powell repeated ironically. “Oh, hello, Nickelson. Don’t mind us. We’re just making ourselves at home.”

  “So I see,” said the rabbity man, who had pushed his way through a hanging door. “What’s up?”

  “Somebody’s after my hide. Don’t know who or why. The films I canned tonight may tell me. Got ’em ready?” Nickelson turned from the missing window.

  “Yeah, they’re ready. Come in and I’ll run them off. Wait’ll I televise the police, though.”

  Powell put his hand on the other man’s arm. “Will you hold off till I see the run? I’ve a hunch.”

  “This is a police job.”

  “After. I want to see the prints first. Give me a break.”

  “Okay,” Nickelson said. “Hector, go get the safety crew. Can’t have a fire starting. Come on, Mike.”

  Powell, calmly puffing his cigar, followed Nickelson into the projection room and took his seat. His thin face was set. That was the one indication of his emotions.

  “I’ll use the infra-red,” Nickelson said. “Better visibility.”

  A picture grew on the screen, curiously lacking in depth and perspective. The hangar, falling apart, bared the space ship. A bright line streaked heavenward.

  “Slow it down!” Powell rapped out. Beyond the hangar, now a mass of tumbled planks, a gyroship lifted slowly. The telephoto lens brought it into clear visibility.

  Then, the film ran out; the picture vanished abruptly.

  “Again,” Powell said. “I want to focus on that gyroship. Use magnification. Even slower this time.” Nickelson obeyed. Once again the plane appeared. Abruptly, it increased in size.

  “More,” Powell said.

  Again the image was enlarged. The cameraman studied the screen. There were two men in the plane. The pilot was a man he did not recognize; the other face was familiar to him. He had photographed it more than once.

  “Dr. Max Owen,” Powell said quietly. “Yeah,” Nickelson seconded. “That’s the guy. Big-shot electro-physicist. Lives in Chicago. What’s the angle? He’s not connected with Eberle, is he?”

  “Dunno,” Powell grunted. “I’m going to find out. May be a scoop in it. Nickelson, I want you to do me a favor. Scrap the last part of that film. Don’t show the gyroship at all. But save the print; stick it in the vault.”

  “Why?” Nickelson asked. “I don’t get the angle.”

  “Evidence. Maybe. I’m going to see Dr. Max Owen. Somebody tried to kill me tonight, twice. That’s something I don’t like.”

  “Owen’s no murderer, Mike.”

  “Maybe not. But I’m flying to Chi tonight with Hector, and when I get back, I may have a scoop.”

  Powell got up and left. He had a hunch he was running into a story—a big one. And hunches, he thought, were made to be played.

  CHAPTER III

  One Enemy or Two?

  FOR centuries Chicago had been expanding into a giant city that strained up and out over Lake Michigan. Vast floating piers thrust into the smooth waters; the mighty span of a bridge reached across to the further shore. Powell, chewing a cigar and quietly cursing Hector in a low, monotonous undertone, let the erratic Martian chauffeur him in a rented autocar out Ninth Avenue to the floating section of the city.

  They drew to the curb of a square metallic block set in a garden the size of a city block. This was the home of Dr. Max Owen.

  Powell climbed out slowly, gazing without emotion at the vast, squatly designed house.

  “See you later, Hector,” he said. “Don’t forget to televise me.”

  The Martian nodded his shaggy head, thrust the car into gear, and skidded away. Powell casually felt a slight bulge in his pocket and nodded with satisfaction.

  A metal gate opened photo-electrically at his approach. He ambled along a winding path, and halted before a door in the front of the cube.

  An opaque panel before him, two feet square, glowed wanly.

  “Who is it?” a mechanical voice said.

  “Michael Powell. Summit Newsreels.”

  “Your business?”

  “With Dr. Owen.”

  There was a brief pause. Then the door slid into the wall. “Come in, please,” the voice said.

  Powell walked into a featureless hall of shining steel. He hesitated, staring around. Then the floor stirred under his feet.

  It dropped.

  Involuntarily, the cameraman cried out and grabbed for the gun in his pocket. But almost immediately he realized that this was merely an elevator. A bit abrupt, perhaps, but certainly not dangerous. Not as yet, anyhow.

  Glistening blank walls seemed to slide up around him. The floor jolted and stopped without warning. A slit widened before Powell’s eyes.

  He looked through a rectangular gap into a luxuriously furnished office. Rich rugs, Bohkara and Turkestan, covered the oak floor. Colorful tapestries draped the walls. There was period furniture, of the 1940’s, and behind a desk of glass brick a man was sitting. Rather, he was squatting.

  For Dr. Owen was immensely fat. He bulged over the chair that supported him; his clothing strained at its seams.

  Fat hung in pouches and bags on his hairless, sweat-shining face. Lashless, black, enigmatic eyes stared unwinking at Mike. Redly sensuous lips smiled at the cameraman with a remarkably sinister lack of humor and warmth.

  “I am always glad to see the press,” he purred. “The newsreels, rather. In what way can I aid you?”

  Before the cameraman could answer Dr. Owen waved a pudgy hand.

  “I forget my duties as a host. Please be seated. A cigarette?” He extended a box toward Powell, who took a black, gold-tipped cylinder. As he puffed, it ignited automatically; a speck of platinum black in the tip made a match unnecessary.

  POWELL sank down in a comfortable chair. He blew smoke through his nostrils and watched Owen. If the electro-physicist remembered his guest he made no sign. Sweat gleamed on the sagging jowls; the yellow hair, plastered back smoothly, shone.

  Without preamble, Powell shot off his surprise.

  “Last night I filmed Carlin Eberle’s take-off,” he said. “You’re familiar with that, of course?”

  “The Eberle experiment?” Owen nodded. “Yes.”

  “I was attacked from the air. Luckily, I escaped. But when I developed my film I saw, in the attacking plane, a man I recognized. I saw you, Dr. Owen.”

  “Indeed,” the other said. “Are you certain?”

  “I have proof,” Powell observed. “The master print is safe. An attempt was made to destroy it—” He paused.

  Owen was laughing. The gross face shook and quivered. The soft chuckle broke into a roaring bellow. Curiously, Powell felt a wave of apprehension sweep him. He waited, his eyes watchful on his host.

  Owen sobered. He drew out a silk handkerchief and mopped his sweating cheeks.

  “I apologize, Mr. Powell. Very bad manners on my part. But this proof you speak of, it does not exist. Look. I just received this on my telenews machine.”

  He thrust a ribbon of paper tape toward Powell, who snatched at it. Letters grew into words and those into explosive sentences before his eyes.

  “At noon today burglars entered the Los Angeles office of the Summit Newsreel Company, broke into the firm’s storage vault and exploded thermite bombs to destroy the stock of master prints. Nothing was saved; no clues were left. The attention of employees was first drawn to the catastrophe by the blast of exploding thermite. The lock was destroyed. How it was has not been established; but the police promise an arrest within twenty-four hours.”

  Powell tossed the tape aside. Again the cold premonition of danger struck through him, which his lean face did not reveal.

  “Odd coincidence, isn’t it?” he said lightly.

  “Very,” Owen smiled. “If this master print you speak of was among those that were destroyed, it’s—sad. Unless you have other prints. And I do not think you have.”

  Powell shrugged. “Okay. You weren’t in the Mojave
last night. It’s my word against yours, and you’re Dr. Max Owen. Still, when a man tries to bump me off, I like to know why. I’m funny that way.”

  “I do not think your life is in any sort of grave danger, Mr. Powell.” The cameraman leaned back and exhaled smoke.

  “I’ve got a hunch,” he said quietly. “Eberle’s new motive power for space ships must have been something pretty good. Good enough, maybe, to make rocketry obsolete. The rocket companies wouldn’t like that.”

  OWEN’S face remained immobile. Mike could find no clue on it.

  “I may be wrong,” Powell went on. “Somehow, I think I am. The rocket companies would rather play square, buy off Eberle if possible. Something else is behind this, something big. I can feel that. Big enough, maybe, to interest the IIB.”

  “The Interplanetary Investigation Bureau?” Owen asked slowly. “You think so?”

  Powell played his ace. “Don’t think you haven’t left a trail,” he said. “The Eberle stunt isn’t the first one. We newsreel boys get around. The IIB will be definitely interested in what I’ve got to tell them.”

  Owen said nothing. He waited.

  “I don’t have to tell them, of course. Money talks.” Powell was bluffing. He knew practically nothing; but the electro-physicist might be doubtful. Owen heaved up his huge bulk.

  “I dislike blackmailers,” he said coldly. “I was not in that plane last night. However, you will please wait here. I shall return soon. You will find liquor in the cabinet on your left, the chromium one.”

  Powell watched him waddle through a door that slid up at his approach. The panel closed; the photographer was alone. He remained motionless for a moment.

  From his pocket he withdrew a bulky pair of goggles, with thick, heavy lenses. These he adjusted over his eyes. He pressed the switch on a tiny portable battery. Crackling flashes of hazy light gleamed on the lenses. The room became indistinct.

  Instantly, Powell rushed to the door through which Owen had vanished. It stayed closed, and he did not try to force it. Instead, he pressed the lenses closely against the steel, stained to imitate the texture and grain of wood, and waited.

  At first he saw nothing. Then the fluoroscopic principle went to work: the wall seemed to melt away, and a dim cluster of shadows appeared. The adapted Roentgen rays of the apparatus probed through solid metal, revealing what lay beyond.

  These X-ray goggles were something new, recently developed in the laboratories of Summit Newsreels. There were plenty of unusual devices in the Summit labs, not all of which had been released to the public.

  The goggles had been created as adjuncts to cameras fitted with X-ray lenses. Their construction required months of painstaking craftsmanship under microscopes, but their chief virtue was small size and portability. It had taken research scientists years to compress X-ray equipment so compactly and efficiently.

  Powell found vision far from good. He adjusted the focus, and still he could see little but the bulky outline of a tall box-shaped object. He recognized a televisor. It must have been that, in spite of its unfamiliar design.

  BEFORE it stood the shadow of a man—gross, ungainly Owen, manipulating dials. Light glowed on the screen of the televisor. Hastily, Powell drew an enlarging lens from his pocket and slipped it over the left goggle, closing one eye.

  A picture grew on the screen. Wavering and indistinct as seen through the fluoroscopic apparatus, nevertheless Powell could make out the seated figure of a man.

  No, this was no man, but an automaton—a robot.

  In the screen’s depths Powell saw the man-shaped creature of dull metallic sheen seated behind a table strewn with maps, papers and charts.

  He strained his eyes, trying to make out details. It was impossible. He saw only this vague impression of a metal body, a torso huge and cylindrical, surmounted by a globular head with great eyes. They seemed faceted, but Powell could not be sure. The lower part of the body could not be seen.

  Mike snatched a small black tube from his pocket and adjusted it. One end of the pencil-like object blossomed forth into a disk of pliant metal wires. The other end, a tiny capsule, Powell pulled off and unwound a length of conducting cord. The capsule he inserted in one ear.

  This was a super-sensitive microphone, capable of picking up sonic vibration through a directional beam. Had a phonograph been playing at Powell’s side, the mike, being focused on the televisor in the next room, would have transmitted not a note of music. And this, too, was a Summit device.

  Vibrations of a voice, impinging on the wall, came through the microphone to Powell’s ear. Faintly he heard Owen’s voice.

  “He’s guessing. I think so, anyway. But he may have found out something—”

  Another voice broke in, toneless, dispassionate, precise.

  “He has found out nothing. He can know nothing of my organization or your part in it. Send him away. Eberle’s ship will reach Venus soon and then my plans are made.”

  The televisor screen went dark. Powell leaped back, stuffing the goggles and mike into his pocket, as the shadow of Owen turned from the machine. When the physicist reentered the room, Powell was drinking whiskey neat and puffing on half a cigarette. He had broken off the other half and pocketed it before applying a match.

  TO Owen’s eye, it seemed as though Powell had not budged from his chair, save to secure a drink, since he had left the room.

  Owen took his place behind the desk. He dabbed at his cheeks with the silk handkerchief.

  “Well?” Powell asked.

  Before the other could answer there was a low buzzing sound. Owen swung his body about and pressed a concealed button. Out of the wall a small televisor appeared as though by magic. Its view-screen was shimmering.

  “Pardon,” Owen said over his shoulder, and twirled a knob. The screen cleared. The face of Hector grew upon it.

  “Mr. Powell, please, thank you,” the Martian shrilled.

  Owen seemed to hunch forward in his chair like some bird of prey. An ugly smile twisted his lips. He nodded to Powell, who rose and stood beside his host.

  “Hello, there, Hector,” he observed.

  “I get bulls?” the Martian asked, relapsing into colloquialism. “You okay, boss?”

  “I’ll join you in half an hour,” Powell said. “If not, you know what to do. See you soon.”

  Hector broke the connection. Powell turned to meet the masked stare of Owen’s black eyes.

  “You are careful, it seems,” he said, “though a bit luridly melodramatic. All these precautions are unnecessary. I assure you I have no intention of harming you. You may leave now, if you wish.”

  “That all you got to say?”

  “That is all,” Owen said decisively. “Good afternoon.”

  CHAPTER IV

  Pursuit in Space

  IT took one hour to get to New York headquarters. Mike Powell took an elevator to the office of the big chief, M.H. Gwynn, who received him somewhat coldly. He was a well-fleshed, carefully-massaged executive who looked the part. He affected flashy tweeds and consistently smoked a briar pipe. Gwynn, as he often said, was just one of the boys. The boys had other names for him.

  “In trouble again?” he asked when Powell burst into his office. “What’s the matter now?”

  “Listen, Chief,” the cameraman said, restraining his impatience. “Did you hear about the thermite bombs going off in our L. A. vault?”

  Gwynn winced. “I heard about it. A cool million it’ll cost us, too, even though we’re insured. What about it?”

  “That bombing was staged to destroy a print I made of the Eberle take-off last night. I canned something—well, big. I don’t know how big. But I’ve a hunch it’ll be a whopper if you give me a free hand.”

  The chief froze. “Last time I gave you a free hand you went off to Marspole North and drank the city dry. Sorry. You’ll get an assignment in due time.”

  “But this is big!” Powell expostulated.

  “What do you want?” Gwynn asked.
>
  “Send me off to trail the Eberle ship to Venus. Something’ll crack before it lands, or after. I want to be on the spot with plenty of film.”

  “Can’t spare you,” Gwynn stated with finality. “I’m short of spot men and there’s something breaking in New York. Something right up your alley.”

  The news instinct in Powell grew dominant.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. Disconnected stuff, but too much of it. Insanity. Monstrous births. Trouble with the fruit-fly genetic experiments at the U. Cyclops, teratisms. And crime! An outbreak of it. Matter of fact, Mike, we’ve been keeping it under cover by government orders. There’s something decidedly queer happening in New York. Only Manhattan Island, for some reason. Occurrences that might happen occasionally, but not weekly. I got a tip today that a hunk of protoplasm in the labs had developed rudimentary gills and a spine. Know what that means?”

  POWELL whistled. “But that couldn’t happen!” he protested. “It did. For three months New York has been under some screwy sort of influence. The government’s got men working on the problem, and they asked me to hush it up for fear of a panic. But when snakes start sprouting feathers—yeah, that happened too. A king-snake at the Zoo. Pin-feathers, so help me!”

  “Feathers developed from scales during the evolutionary climb,” Mike pointed out.

  “And I’ve got false teeth and whiskers. But I wasn’t born with ’em. I want you on the spot, Mike, to track down all these weirdies.”

  “That’s big, all right, Boss. But I’m on something bigger, I think. Just let me go off to Venus. I can be back pronto. Then I’ll can New York for you. This is really big. I got a hunch.”

  “Just what is all this about?” the chief wanted to know. “What was on that print these mysterious enemies of yours destroyed?”

  On the verge of telling Gwynn about Owen, Powell hesitated. The boss of Summit Newsreels was afraid of unfavorable publicity and libel suits. And Owen had a good reputation, the best.

  “Can’t tell you,” Powel said finally. “But any newsreel company would pay me plenty to get this exclusive.”