Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  SUDDENLY Steve Watson reappeared, on his way back to Moore’s office fortified by a slug of rye. With typically quick thinking he took in the situation at a glace. Pelting toward him came a duck—a duck Steve had seen before. And ten feet away stood Susan ad Corinne.

  Obviously this must be a tame duck—one belonging to the Moore menage. While Steve had never realized that Moore went in for raising poultry, he promptly decided that the man must have bought the fowl as a surprise for his wife. Some people do these things. Steve himself had once purchased an alligator and mailed it to a friend as a gift. Unfortunately the friend had not summoned, up enough energy to punch the donor in the nose.

  Steve captured the duck with a deft motion and turned toward, the woman with a flashing smile. “Got him!” he said triumphantly. “I always turn up at the right time, don’t I?” He marched toward Susan. “It’s yours, isn’t it?”

  At this strategic moment the magic spell cast by the bearded midget wore off temporarily. Moore was restored to his rightful self. Steve was horrified to find himself suddenly borne down under the weight of a large, vigorous, and murderously active Bertram Moore.

  Moore wasted no time on idle speculation. He was atop the prostrate Steve, and the latter was momentarily too terrified to move. It seemed a good opportunity to commit homicide, and Moore did his best, sinking his hands into Steve’s throat “and endeavoring to throttle the-man.

  Susan had recognized her husband. He had appeared somewhat suddenly, it was true, but she decided Bertram must have sprung from a convenient window and hurled himself upon Steve in a mad fit of jealousy. Uttering remonstrances, she rushed, forward and, tried to pull her husband off his strangling victim.

  “Go away,” Moore said over his shoulder. “I’ll be through here in a minute.”

  A warning whistle came from Corinne. “Scram!” she said urgently. “The Cossacks!”

  A bulky, uniformed figure pushed itself through the gathering crowd. Moore felt himself lifted from the prone and gasping Steve. More policemen arrived.

  “You,” said the first officer, “had better come along with me.”

  Someone in the crowd indicated Susan. “She was helping him.”

  Susan was captured. Steve, likewise, was taken into custody. Corinne, feeling slightly insane, tried to help by tugging at the first officer’s (arm.

  “You don’t want to arrest them,” she urged, smiling seductively. “They’re friends of mine. They were just . . . er . . . fooling.”

  “Oh,” said the policeman, “friends of yours, eh? Didn’t I hear you call me a Cossack? Judge Sturm will be glad to see you.”

  JUDGE HORATIO STURM sat on the bench and eyed his fingernails. An impeccable man, Judge Sturm. His dapper, lean figure, clad in the best of taste, had graced the bench for years, and his bland, lean face, with its deceptive smile, had looked upon many malefactors and felons. Now it looked upon four new ones with no great approval.

  “Good morning,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

  “Disturbing the peace is the charge, your honor,” said the arresting officer. Judge Sturm lifted a chiding finger.

  “Tut, tut,” he remonstrated. “Must we make the conversation sordid? Can’t we simply have a pleasant little chat? One must improve the shining hour. After all, we won’t be seeing these four felons again for a long time. A long, long time,” he repeated somewhat gloatingly.

  “Your honor,” Steve said in a straightforward way, “I was attacked. I—”

  Judge Sturm lifted amazed eyebrows. “You? Incredible. Now if it had been either of these two charming young ladies, I might be willing to believe it. Do you mean one of them attacked you? Or both, perhaps?”

  “No, your honor,” Steve said, blinking at the astonishing judge. “He did. This man here.”

  Judge Sturm turned interested eyes upon Moore. “You were the attacker? As an attorney, Mr. Moore, you should know the results of such an act. It was only last week you were defending a client of yours for assault and battery.”

  “I had justification,” Moore said. “He . . . he picked me up—”

  “That’s a lie,” Steve snapped. “I picked up a duck.”

  Judge Sturm blinked. He carefully scrutinized his fingernails and then looked again at the four before the bench. “I beg your pardon,” he said gently. “My hearing may be somewhat impaired. No doubt from listening to a great many lying stories.” The judge paused meaningly. “Are you implying that you mistook Mr. Moore for a duck, or vice versa?”

  Susan suddenly decided to clarify matters. “He jumped out of a window,” she said helpfully.

  The judge started. He bent a probing gaze on Susan. “You are ambiguous,” he pointed out. “Your antecedent is doubtful. There are three persons involved in this mystery: Mr. Moore, the other gentleman who was assaulted, and the duck. Do you mean to state that one of them jumped out of a window? If so, which?”

  “Bertram,” said Susan. “My husband. Mr. Moore.”

  Judge Sturm pondered. “What window was this?” he finally asked.

  Susan spread her hands in a baffled manner. “I don’t know,” she said. “I didn’t see him. One minute he wasn’t there, and the next there he was.”

  The judge drew a deep breath and turned to Corinne. “Young lady,” he said, “as yet I have heard nothing from you. You may be the only sane member of this quartet. Would you mind giving me your version of this disreputable affair?”

  Corinne licked her lips. She was feeling none too well. She was longing for the peace and quiet of Times Square and the subway. But she pulled herself together and said rapidly:

  “Well, Mrs. Moore and I were walking, along Broadway when she stepped on a duck. She picked it up and it bit her. Then Mr. Watson came along-and picked up the duck. It had got away—”

  “Stop!” the judge said hastily. “That’s enough. More than enough. Morgan, was it really necessary to arrest these people?”

  “I know my duty,-your honor,” Morgan said stolidly.

  AT THIS POINT Moore decided matters had gone too far. He stepped forward and spoke quietly to Judge Sturm.

  “Let me explain this, your honor,” he said. “It’s quite simple, really. I’m at fault. I admit it. I lost my temper. None of the others is responsible.”

  “That’s better,” said the judge, with some satisfaction. “Apparently you’re still sane. Why, did you lose your temper? Do you still contend that this man picked you up?”

  “Well,” Moore explained, “that wasn’t really what started it. My wife started it when she picked me Judge Sturm strangled on an incipient cough. He seized his gavel, considered it thoughtfully, and murmured, “You may step back, Mr. Moore. Far back. I don’t want you near me. My reputation might suffer. Do you seriously mean to suggest that this young lady—your wife, I presume—actually—No, I don’t want to say it.”

  For the moment the judge’s gaze had been intent on Susan. Slowly his eyes swiveled to the left. There they remained fixed, a dim glaze creeping over them. The man suddenly looked haggard and old.

  “Horgan,” he said softly, “where is Mr. Moore?”

  “Mr. Moore, your honor? Why, right here.”

  “No, Horgan,” the judge whispered. “Mr. Moore is no longer with us. He has either substituted a goat in his place by some piece of legerdemain, or he has been transformed into a goat. In any event, there is now a goat in this courtroom.”

  “Your honor!” Moore said indignantly. “I protest! I refuse to be made the butt of practical jokes.”

  “Now it’s bleating at me,” Judge Sturm said very quietly. “Just listen to the thing.”

  “Goats don’t bleat, your honor,” Horgan put it. “Sheep bleat.”

  The judge looked long and fixedly at Horgan, who began to sweat. At length Judge Sturm rose and began to make preparations to depart.

  “Your honor!” Horgan said, shocked. “You’re not leaving?”

  “Yes. I’m leaving. Have you any objection?”
/>   “But the prisoners,” said Horgan, roused to desperation.

  “Horgan,” the judge observed in a kindly voice, “you heard Mr. Moore admit his culpability. He said that he alone was responsible. Now Mr. Moore has apparently been transformed into a goat. I fine him ten dollars and costs. You, Horgan, may collect it.”

  Wavering slightly, Judge Sturm retired to his chambers, where he drank long and thirstily from a brown bottle. He tried no more cases that day, which was probably lucky for the defendants.

  Meanwhile Moore, muttering curses, approached Horgan and tried to give him ten dollars. But the officer seemed reluctant to accept the money. He made pushing gestures with his hands.

  “Go away,” he said. “Shoo!”

  By the time Moore had decided to give up the vain effort, he saw that Susan, Corinne, and Steve had left the court. Dejectedly he followed them. Emerging from the city hall, he suddenly realized that only a block away lay the Union Depot.

  Some unexplainable impulse drew him there. Passers-by gave him a wide berth, and Moore felt strangely lonely. He kept a wary eye alert for policemen, but, luckily, encountered none.

  There was the Union Depot. Moore wandered toward the vacant Jot across the street. Had the domeshaped tavern ever really been here? But that, of course, was impossible.

  A BALL of tumbleweed rolling through the grass stopped at Moore’s feet. A pair of twinkling, malicious eyes surveyed the man. There was something extraordinarily familiar about the matted tangle of curly whiteness. And when a gnarled brown hand emerged, Moore felt certain of it.

  “You make a lousy-looking goat,” observed the midget. “Mangy, I’d say. What about illusion now?”

  Moore felt vaguely nauseated.

  The hot sunlight made him dizzy. This couldn’t be real.

  “Well?” the midget asked. “Was I right or not?”

  “Yes,” Moore said slowly. “You were right. Or else I’m quite mad.”

  “OH, you’re not mad. It’s just magic. The spell of illusion. The veil of Proteus. I’m a bit of a magician, in my way.”

  “Can . . . can you take away the curse?” Moore asked involuntarily.

  “Sure. I don’t want to be too hard on you. Just wanted to teach you a lesson. Here,” said the midget, extending a small crystal vial. “Just drink this. No, no, not yet. Wait till you’ve regained your rightful form. That’s elixir potentis. Just gulp that down and you’ll be O.K.”

  Moore took the flask. “Uh—thanks,” he said.

  “That’s all right. But.be careful, whatever you do. If you drank the elixir now, you’d remain in goat form for the rest of your life. The elixir doesn’t change you, it just fixes you in the particular form you’re wearing at-the moment. Be sure you look like a man to others before you uncork that bottle. You have to be careful when you play around with—illusion.”

  The last word sighed out like a whisper of the breeze. The midget was gone. Only a ball of tumbleweed rolled across the empty lot.

  Moore stood silently looking at the vial in his hand. Presently he pocketed it and turned, away. He’d have to wait, now, till he regained his own form. But when would that be?

  Somehow Moore reached his home. Banjo seemed terrified at sight of his master and fled howling. Quietly Moore went around to the back door and let himself into the kitchen.

  There Peters greeted him. The oldster’s withered face was impassive, but Moore knew the man would look with equal stoicism upon a human, a goat, or a whale. There was only one way to make sure.

  “Hello, Peters,” he said tentatively. “My wife home yet?”

  “Oh, yes,” Peters responded.

  “She’s mixing a drink for herself. Miss Corinne’s leaving. She’s going back to New York. Too bad she couldn’t stay longer.”

  Moore felt a wave of relief. He gripped Peters’ arm.

  “Do I look all right to you? I mean like myself?”

  Peters confirmed Moore’s resemblance to himself and took his departure. With a heartfelt sigh of relief Moore extracted the vial from his pocket and uncorked it.

  “Bertram!” came Susan’s voice from the front of the house. “Is that you?”

  Moore hesitated. Then he swiftly downed the contents of the flask, dropped it under the sink, and turned toward the door.

  It opened suddenly and Susan came in. She paused on the threshold. The glass in her hand; dropped to shatter on the floor.

  “It’s just me,” Moore said, smiling. “Did I frighten you?”

  But Susan wasn’t listening. She turned and ran away. From the hall her voice came echoing, back to Moore’s ears.

  “Peters, Corinne! Help!” the woman cried shrilly. “Call the police! There’s a horse in the kitchen!”

  BEAUTY AND THE BEAST

  Out of Rain-Swept Venus’ Gift to Sun-Drenched Earth Comes Life and Death!

  JARED Kirth saw the meteor as he lay under the pines, staring up at the stars. He was on the verge of slumber, and the sleeping bag that wrapped his lean body was warm and comfortable.

  Kirth was feeling well satisfied with himself, his stomach bulged with crisp, freshly-caught trout, and there was still a week left of the fortnight’s vacation he had allowed himself. So he lay quietly, watching the night sky, and the meteor shrieked its death agony in that last incandescent plunge through the atmosphere.

  But, before it went out of sight, the luminous body seemed to turn and arc in midair. That was queer enough. And even stranger was the shape of the thing, an elongated ovoid. Vaguely recalling that meteors sometimes contained precious ores, Kirth marked the spot where the flaming thunderbolt fell beyond a high ridge. And the next morning he shouldered his fishing tackle and hiked in that direction.

  So, he found the wrecked spaceship. It lay among the pines, a broken giant, its hull fused in many places by the heat of friction.

  Kirth’s pinched, rather mean mouth tightened as he looked down at the vessel. He was remembering that two months before a man named Jay Arden had left the Earth on the first interplanetary voyage.

  Arden had been lost in space—so the papers had said. But now, apparently, his ship had returned, and Kirth’s gaunt, gray-stubbled face was eager as he hastened down the slope.

  He walked around the ship, slipping on sharp rocks and cursing once or twice before he found the port. But the metal surrounding it had fused and melted, so that entry was impossible at this point. The gray, pitted, rough metal of the craft defied the tentative ax-blows Kirth gave it. Curiosity mounted within him.

  He examined the ship more closely. The sun, rising above the eastern ridge, showed a factor he had previously overlooked. There were windows, circular deadlights, so fused and burned that they were as opaque as the metallic hull. Yet they were unmistakably of glass, or some similar substance.

  It was not ordinary glass. It did not shatter under the ax. But a small chip flew, and Kirth battered away diligently until he had made a small hole. Vapor gushed out of this, foul, stale and mephitic, and Kirth fell back and waited.

  Then he returned to his labors. The glass was easier to shatter now, for some reason, and it was not long before Kirth had chopped away a hole large enough to permit the entry of his lean body. First, however, he took a small flashlight from his belt and held it at arm’s length within the ship.

  There was but one room, and this was a shambles. It was a mass of wreckage. Yet the air had cleared, and there seemed to be no danger. Cautiously Kirth squirmed through the deadlight.

  So this was a spaceship! Kirth recognized the chamber from newspaper pictures he had seen months before.

  In 1942 the ship had been new, shining, and perfect. Now, only a few months later, it was a ruin. The controls were hopelessly wrecked. Metal kits and canisters were scattered about the floor, broken straps on the walls showing whence they had fallen. And on the floor, too, lay the body of Jay Arden.

  KIRTH made a useless examination. The man was dead. His skin was blue and cyanosed, and his neck was obviously broken.
Scattered about his corpse were a few cellulose-wrapped parcels that had spilled from a broken canister near by. Through the transparent envelopes Kirth detected small black objects, smaller than peas, which resembled seeds.

  Protruding from one of Arden’s pockets was a notebook. As Kirth drew it forth, a wrapped parcel fell to the floor. Kirth hesitated, put the notebook aside, and opened the package.

  Something fell from it into his palm. The man gasped in sheer wonder.

  It was a jewel. Oval, large as an egg, the gem flamed gloriously in the light of the electric torch. It had no color, and yet seemed to partake of all the hues of the spectrum. It seemed to draw into itself a thousand myriad hues—men would have died for such a jewel. Lovely it was, beyond imagination, and it was—unearthly.

  Finally Kirth tore his gaze from the thing, and opened the notebook. The light was too dim, so he carried it to the broken deadlight. Arden, seemingly, had net kept a diary, and his notes were broken and disconnected. But from the book, several photographs fluttered, and Kirth caught them as they fell.

  The snapshots were blurred and discolored, but certain details showed with fair clarity. One showed a thick bar, with rounded ends, white against blackness. This was a! picture of the planet Venus, taken from outer space, though Kirth did not realize it. He examined the others.

  Ruins. Cyclopean, strange, and alien in contour, half-destroyed shapes of stone were blurred against a dim background. One thing, however, was clear. The spaceship was visible in the picture—and Kirth gasped.

  For the great ship was dwarfed by the gigantic ruins. Taller than the vast Temple of Karnak, monstrously large were the stones that had once been cities and buildings. Vague and murky as the pictures were, Kirth managed to form some conception of the gargantuan size of the structures shown in them. Too, he noticed that the geometry seemed oddly wrong. There were no stairs visible, only inclined planes. And a certain primeval crudeness, a lack of the delicacy noticeable even in the earlier Egyptian artifacts, was significant.