Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  The tire retaliated by hissing at Banjo in a threatening manner. This completely unnerved the beast, who promptly lost his courage and fled trembling under the house, where he cowered, moaning softly.

  Moore emerged from the car, cursing in a low, vicious monotone. He left the vehicle parked at the curb and conveyed Corinne and her luggage to the front door. This was opened by a skeleton who had somewhere got hold of a supply of parchment and drawn it about his crumbling bones in a rather haphazard fashion. The skeleton’s surname was Peters. His Christian name, if, indeed, he had ever possessed one, was lost in the mists of decades. He was the general factotum of the Moore household, and for the last forty years had concentrated on the single purpose of growing old ungracefully. For at least twenty years he had been cheating the undertaker. Moore had a well-founded suspicion that on Peter’s days off the man would make the rounds of various mortuaries and tauntingly cackle at the proprietors.

  “Ha,” said Peters in a rather gloating fashion, “a flat tire, hey?”

  Corinne eyed the fellow intently, but he was apparently not referring to her.

  Moore said, “Yeah. A flat tire. That fool dog bit it.”

  “I shall fix it,” Peters stated, and looked at the girl. Quite suddenly the man seemed to go mad. His toothless, shrunken jaws quivered, his face, with a faint crackling, broke into a horrid grin, and he began to cackle like a hen. “Well, well,” he shrilled. “Miss Corinne, as I live and breathe. What a surprise.”

  “How do you mean, surprise?” Moore asked coldly. “You knew she was coming.”

  Peters ignored this brutal attempt to throw cold water on his enthusiasm. His skeletal frame jiggled and shook with senile amusement. “Ha,” he said, “it’s been a long time. A long time. You’ve changed, Miss Corinne.”

  Corinne returned. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

  The humor of this remark almost finished Peters. He commenced a bizarre dance among the luggage, wheezing and flailing his arms in mad amusement. Leaving the old fellow to his octogenarian whims, Moore escorted Corinne into an adjoining room.

  SUSAN, Moore’s wife, was playing solitaire in a distracted fashion. She was small, plumpish, and still pretty, though inclined to hysteria. Patterns, she contended, puzzled her. Practically everything comprised a pattern. Preparing food was one pattern she had mastered, but such abstruse confusion as the vacuum cleaner, the radio, and solitaire left her utterly baffled. However, she rose to the occasion and greeted Corinne with a hospitable smile.

  Not until the welcome was over did Susan sniff. “Oh,” she exclaimed, pleased. “Violets. For me?” Corinne said, “Susan, I want to ask you a question. Do you hear a . . . a peculiar noise?”

  Susan shook her head. “Why, no. Nothing peculiar. Why?”

  “Not even a . . . a whistle?”

  “Oh, of course,” said Susan, beaming. “But that isn’t peculiar. It’s just a whistle.”

  Corinne closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Finally she was able to ask, “Do you know where it’s coming from?”

  “No. Do you?”

  Moore was annoyed at the turn the conversation had been taking. He whirled as fingers snapped, with a repugnant popping noise, behind him. Peters stood beckoning on the threshold.

  “Must you make that noise?” Moore asked irritably, coming over to the man. “It sounds like firecrackers.”

  Peters contemplated his knotted knuckles with satisfaction. “Sure does,” he agreed. “I’ve filled the tub for you.”

  For a second Moore was puzzled. What tub? Then light dawned. “Oh,” he said vaguely. “But I didn’t ask you to fill the tub.”

  “I put in bath salts,” Peters said enticingly. “Lots of bath salts.”

  “Why in Heaven’s name should I take a bath now?” Moore asked.

  “Because you smell,”, said Peters, clinching the argument.

  THERE WAS company for dinner. This was due to Susan’s efforts. She had always been worried about Corinne’s unmarried state, and took the opportunity of inviting Steve Watson, an eligible young man, to call that night. Moore cared little for Steve, who was a fine upstanding specimen of young American manhood, with a hearty booming laugh and a penchant for mirrors.

  Somebody had let Banjo into the house. When Moore came downstairs, shaved and cleansed, he was greeted by the mastodonic dog, who went into a frenzy of mad delight. The beast flung himself upon his master, nearly precipitating the startled man to the floor.

  “Down, damn you,” Moore said in a vicious undertone. “Go away and die. Scram.”

  But Banjo could not take a hint. Something seemed to have aroused the demon within his furry breast, and he pranced about Moore, sniffing with all his strength, until the man carried the dog away by main force and thrust him into the outer darkness. Banjo protested loudly.

  Straightening his apparel, Moore went in to meet the others. Susan was sitting happily in a corner, beaming upon Corinne and Steve Watson, who were conversing animatedly.

  “Hello, there,” Steve said, rising. “What ill wind blew you in? How’ve you—”

  There was a sudden pause. A deadly silence fell on the room. Finally Susan observed, “What a peculiar odor. We’re not having fish for dinner, are we?”

  Moore sniffed. He could detect nothing amiss. Corinne was eying her brother with a singularly incredulous expression.

  “Fish?” she inquired. “For dinner? I doubt it, Susan. You wouldn’t have any fish that dead.”

  Susan called Peters, who presently shuffled in. “Are we having fish for dinner?” she asked.

  “No,” Peters said firmly. “But somebody is. Not for dinner, though.” He turned to stare at Moore. “You didn’t take that bath, after all,” he accused.

  “Peters, open the windows,” Susan said hastily. This was done, though it didn’t help a great deal. There was an unmistakable reminder of fish in the room—very old and very dead.

  Steve had recovered his aplomb. “Ill wind is right,” he said, grinning and advancing on Moore. “Been long time, old man.”

  Moore eyed the other’s extended hand distastefully. Silently he gripped it. Simultaneously Steve let out an ear-piercing yell and sprang back, shaking his hand with vigor. Oaths bubbled up in his throat, and he suppressed them only by a mighty effort. The others looked at him wonderingly.

  “What on earth, Steve?” Susan asked.

  “Ha, ha,” Steve said, forcing his face into some semblance of a smile. “Always the joker, eh, Bert? How’d you do that? Nearly burned my fingers off.” He blew on the fingers in question.

  “What are you talking about?” Moore asked ill-temperedly.

  Moore disliked practical jokes, and especially pointless’ ones. But Steve seemed determined to carry the joke to its bitter end. With a quick dive he captured Moore’s hand and inspected it.

  “Funny,” he said after a pause. “Got wires up your sleeve, maybe?”

  “Why should I have wires up my sleeve?” Moore wanted to know.

  Steve looked annoyed. “Oh, very well,” he said. “Suit yourself. But it wasn’t very funny.”

  “I’m glad you realize it,” Moore returned tartly, and glanced at the puzzled faces of Susan and Corinne.

  Peters dragged in his shriveled frame. “Dinner’s ready,” he announced, and departed, mumbling something about bath salts.

  THE MEAL was not an unqualified success. A seagull might have devoured it with good appetite, but seagulls have a weakness for fish, dead or otherwise. The guests were somewhat nicer about such matters. Both Susan and Corinne kept handkerchiefs firmly pressed against their quivering nostrils. Only Steve was unprotected. He ate very little and got paler and paler as time wore on.

  To cap it all, a siren began screaming from some point suspiciously close at hand. Corinne, after a startled glance at her brother’s stomach, shut her eyes and took a deep breath. This was a mistake, as she immediately realized. Susan, luckily, was not much perturbed by the mysterious siren. Strange noises we
re continually making themselves heard. And radios were a pattern she could never understand.

  The unfortunate Steve, however, left early, after making an appointment to see Moore at the latter’s office, the next day. At least, Steve thought it was the next day. That infernal siren kept whooping deafeningly, and he seemed almost certain that Moore was responsible for it. Steve decided that his host was going mad, or else had developed a shocking propensity for practical jokes.

  Both Corinne and Susan retired early. Susan decided to sleep in the guest room with her sister-in-law, who sympathetically acceded to the woman’s request. As for Peters, he was detected stealthily sprinkling lysol about Moore’s bedroom. Moore told him to get-the hell out and angrily disrobed. He had an incipient hangover and was trying to solve a number of mystifying problems . . . Either he was crazy, or the world had become so. Moreover, there was a disturbing recollection of a certain bearded midget who had threatened—what? Some curse—the curse of Proteus, wasn’t it? The “blight of the five senses.”

  Moore took an aspirin and went to bed. Calm settled over the house, broken only by an ear-shattering wail as of a siren in agony.

  The next morning Moore took the opportunity of escaping before Susan and Corinne arose. He spoke briefly with Banjo, who was puzzled by a harsh buzzing emanating, apparently, from his master’s stomach. The enticing odor of decadent fish was gone, and in its place was a strong aroma of peach blossoms, which did not appeal to the dog’s rather finicky tastes. Banjo halfheartedly wrapped his tongue around Moore’s extended hand, and then galloped away.

  A cold shower and restaurant coffee had heartened Moore considerably, and, when he entered his law office, he went so far as to smile at the receptionist. She was a dangerously pretty brunette with bad eyes—immoral eyes, Moore sometimes felt.

  “Good morning,” she said cheerily. “How are you today?”

  “Fine, Miss Brandon,” Moore returned. “What’s on the docket?”

  “You have an appointment with Mr. Watson in half an hour. He telephoned—”

  “Oh, yes,” said Moore, remembering Steve’s words of the, preceding night. Chilled at the prospect of viewing the large and offensively healthy face of Mr. Watson, Moore entered his office, sank down behind his desk, and began to open his mail.

  This took considerable time. Moore was brooding over certain legal papers when the dictograph buzzed, announcing Mr. Watson.

  “Send him in,” Moore said.

  The door opened. Steve stood on the threshold, smiling in a forgive-and-forget manner. His hand quivered, ready to be extended for a hearty shake. His mouth opened, and then closed again.

  “Well?” Moore asked. “Come in and sit down.”

  Steve did not obey. He came in, rather gingerly, but refused to seat himself. Instead, the man leaned on the desk, bent his large body over it, and peered at Moore in a disconcerting fashion.

  “What’s the matter now?” Moore inquired.

  Steve started slightly. He looked around the office, retreated to the door, and called Miss Brandon.

  “Yes?” she said, coming forward.

  “You said Mr. Moore was in his office.”

  “Why, he is. I—”

  “He’s not,” Steve declared firmly. “There’s nothing in there but a duck.”

  Moore abruptly let out a string of oaths in which Steve’s name figured largely.

  “Listen!” Steve said. “It’s quacking at me.”

  Miss Brandon entered the office, her eyes wide. She looked at Moore, who glared back.

  “Why, so it is a duck,” she exclaimed. “It must have flown in through the window.”

  “Ducks don’t fly,” Steve pointed out. “And where’s Mr. Moore?”

  “He must have stepped out for a minute,” Miss Brandon said, still puzzled. “Would you care to wait?”

  “You’re fired,” Moore yelped. “As for you, Steve, kindly step to hell. I’m going out and get a drink.” Angrily he rose, marched between the motionless figures of Steve and Miss Brandon, and opened the door. That done, he slammed it after him and departed.

  Then man and woman looked at one another uncomfortably. Steve wet his lips.

  Miss Brandon said, “The door. It opened by itself.”

  “Yeah,” Steve said slowly. “Just before that duck reached it. There’s something very funny going on around here. I don’t think I’ll wait for Mr. Moore. He might bring back a lion with him. Or a gorilla. Good morning, Miss Brandon.”

  MEANWHILE a duck waddled along the hall and paused before the elevator. It couldn’t possibly have reached the buzzer, yet the button was depressed as by an invisible finger. Presently the cage arrived and the door opened. A dark-hued youth looked around wonderingly.

  “Gawn down!” he cried.

  Moore entered the elevator. He realized that the boy was staring at him with popping eyes.

  The sound of harsh, vitriolic quacks resounded menacingly. Blinking, the youth closed the door, dropped the cage, and brought his passenger to the lobby.

  The duck emerged from the elevator and proceeded, in a stately manner, toward the nearest bar.

  Somehow Moore’s thoughts kept going back to the bearded midget. Once more, he realized, curious glances were being cast at him by innumerable passers-by. What on earth was amiss? Up to last night his life had been sane and orderly, but now—

  Gradually in Moore’s mind began to grow a suspicion that all was not well.

  He encountered considerable difficulty at the bar. The counterman would not take his order. Worse, the man ignored Moore completely, despite short, pithy demands, delivered in a voice calculated to rouse even a bartender from the depths of apathy. Finally, disgusted, Moore went to a table and sat down. Before he could collect himself, two large, jovial, and drunken gentlemen had joined him, taking chairs on each side of Moore.

  “There’s plenty of room,” Moore said sharply. “Why sit here? This table’s occupied.”

  The men eyed one another. One said, “Jimmy, did you hear that?”

  “Yes,” said Jimmy. “I heard-it. And I hope I may never hear the like of it again.”

  “Indigestion, maybe?” the other man asked hopefully.

  Jimmy shook-his head. “Not me. Or you. An elephant perhaps, might emit that sound, or a . . . a—” He groped for the right word.

  “A dugong?” suggested the other, trying to be helpful.

  Jimmy paused to consider. “What,” he asked at length, “is a dugong, Joe?”

  Joe said: “It’s like a seal.” Jimmy gave his companion a long, disgusted look and finally shook his head. “No,” he said solemnly. “Not a dugong. Here’s the waiter. I want Scotch. Two Scotches.” Seeing the waiter, Moore decided to bring matters to a head. He didn’t want two drunks at his table. And it was his table. Priority of right. He demanded—

  But the waiter refused to answer. He looked sharply at Joe and Jimmy and hurried away.

  “That noise again,” Joe said quietly, repressing his panic.

  “I know,” Jimmy replied. “We have got to be calm. If there’s a noise, something must be making it.”

  “If there’s a noise?” Joe inquired. “You know damn well there’s a noise.”

  “All right,” said Jimmy pacifyingly, “There’s a noise. It—”

  “Low, ordinary sots,” Moore growled.

  By common consent Joe and Jimmy looked at the chair between them. They remained perfectly quiet for some time. Eventually Joe said in a flat, toneless voice, “It’s a duck.”

  Jimmy was disposed to argue. “How do you know it’s a duck?” he demanded. “Ducks don’t patronize barrooms.”

  “How do I know it’s a duck?” Joe repeated ironically. “Just look at it. What else could it be?”

  “It might be a drake,” said Jimmy in a sudden burst of inspiration. This about finished Moore, who rose, and, not waiting for his liquor, fled, leaving Joe and Jimmy to argue fruitlessly about ducks and drakes.

  HE ALMOST ran i
nto Susan and Corinne, who were returning from Moore’s office, having failed to find the man there.

  “Well,” he said, planting himself before the two women. “Hello.”

  Suddenly he felt himself kicked painfully in the middle. Susan let out a short, shrill scream and looked down. A duck was indulging in strange contortions at her feet.

  “For Heaven’s sake!” she said. “Why, the poor thing. I almost stepped on it.”

  Breath returned to Moore. He nearly strangled on bitter, words. “Susan,” he said in a muffled voice, “it isn’t funny. Not a bit funny. Just what is the matter with you, anyway?”

  “It’s hurt,” said Susan. “Listen to it quacking.”

  Then the woman did a horrid thing. She stooped, calmly picked up her husband, and cradled the thunderstruck man in her arms. Moore’s brain cracked and toppled. He sought vainly to maintain a grip on sanity. By some incredible feat of legerdemain his wife had picked him up—a man weighing one hundred sixty pounds—and was cuddling him at the corner of Broadway and Seventh Street-.

  Vainly Moore tried to writhe free. “Put me down!” he almost screamed. “Damn it, Susan, stop this foolishness! Put me down before—”

  “Oh,” Susan murmured, “it’s frightened. Poor little thing. Maybe it’s hungry. What do ducks eat, Corinne?”

  “I don’t know,” said Corinne, who had been watching the spectacle with mingled emotions. “By the looks of that duck I imagine it eats its young. Or human flesh. Watch out.”

  Her warning came too late. Moore, seeing a plump portion of his wife’s bare arm temptingly near, had done an ungentlemanly thing. He bit it. With a cry Susan released her husband, who fell heavily to the ground.

  “Beaked by a duck,” Corinne said. “Are you hurt?”

  “No,” Susan replied, inspecting her arm. “But I must say you have an odd sense of humor, Corinne.”

  “So has the duck,” said the girl. “Look at the horrid little creature go.”

  Moore was running down the street in a frantic attempt to escape his wife—a Frankenstein’s monster, he thought. What on earth had got into Susan? Whence had she drawn this extraordinary burst of strength? Remembering that for fifteen years he had lived under the same roof with this Amazon, Moore shuddered and redoubled his speed.