Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  Next to this chamber was still another, and beyond that we came to a long passage, with walls that were as smooth as stone when a river has run over it. The passage was narrow and close, and at the end of it there was a small black door.

  “Shield your eyes,” said Mira, when we came to it. “And summon your strength.”

  I swung the door open. The light was pure white, brighter a thousand times than that which had come from the wands. Slowly I moved my hands away from my eyes. From the ceiling, high overhead, piercing eyes shone down, to concentrate on a small row of tall boxes. At the bottom of one of the boxes was a round vessel that glowed with heat.

  I walked toward the boxes. Mira held me tightly. In one of them I saw my brother North. I knew him though there was not much left of him. The skin was shrunken against his skull. His eyes were like those of a bird, bright and hard and staring into space. He was straight and tall, and every bone stood out. In the vessel underneath the box were countless bits of shining substance, like grains of sand which glowed like white embers.

  In the box beside this one there was a strange haziness in the air. It seemed to form an image, like the figures that our drawers made on slate, and which lingered long after they had been rubbed out. Looking on, I knew that here my brother Eli had been.

  Somehow he had escaped, but not until the life had been sacked from him.

  I wept unashamed as I stood there. This was what the immortals had done, the great people of the city that floated on the sea. No, this was truly a Haunted Land, and the Shining Death was its badge! They were lower than the Prytls, lower than the crudest animal of the forest, for they were human in semblance and monsters in their minds. A whole people had been kept chained in slavery, to live under the ground, to serve them. They preyed on everything that lived, for they were dying.

  I prayed then to the god whom we mortals believed in, the god of the trees and rivers and children, prayed that he might show me the way to overcome the enemies of those to whom life had meaning.

  MIRA led me farther into the chamber where a little room was. When we entered, a door closed us in and again I felt the motion of a whole room as it shot upward. But when the room had stopped moving, and I knew we had come to the surface again, I stopped Mira from opening the door. I remembered the words of the great crystal stone. The immortals had gone to get new weapons. They were waiting.

  I opened the door a little. Immediately many hands grasped it, and before I could move it back, it had been swung open. Outside it was daylight again, and before us were a great throng of the immortals, singing and jabbering. Their shouts echoed through the land and answers returned. I knew then that they had been watching every way out of the under-the-ground, and they were ready for us.

  All at once cheers rang out, and I saw a throng of Prytls coming. They were pushing something mounted on a platform on wheels. It was a long, hollow piece of metal, as if a log had been hollowed out, and it rested on a square base. One of the Prytls was pushing balls of iron into the hollow end of the iron, and another had made fire which he held on a torch.

  And directing everything was—Aiyana.

  Standing as we were, like animals in a cage open at one side, there could be little safety. I did not understand what was happening, but I feared for Mira. I was safe in my magic suit, and the wand—

  Suddenly I pointed it at one of the immortals. Its light, so feeble under the sun, only made the little man laugh, and now all were laughing louder and louder. It was a useless magic against immortals.

  Above their voices, Aiyana was making herself heard. “Away!” she cried. “When the cannonade of the forefathers of the Ancients is heated, all in its path are destroyed.” There were groups of ornately dressed little folk around her, but she seemed to have a great authority, for she had been the one who had taken me through the Veil. She stood there, a beautiful creature, her lips curled in scorn, and her whole being one of sheer malice.

  Malice. The thought was like a blow. I remembered old Simon’s words again, and the white box in my sack, the box that contained the “essence of malice.” Quickly I found it and held it aloft.

  “Listen to me!” I cried. “I have a great and dangerous magic in my hand, a powerful jinee. If you do not allow us to go free—”

  It was impossible to continue in the uproar. Aiyana herself turned away and took the torch from the Prytl who held it. Even as she brought it down to the hollow iron, I jumped in front of Mira and opened the little box in my hand. There was nothing in it but a black powder!

  The next instant my ears were shattered by a noise that was like knives in my brain. A great red flame leaped up and the world seemed to be filled with bits of flying metal. Overhead the wind whistled as if with a thousand birds. The ground was torn up and trees fell. And then I felt the hot pain that seared my arm through my leaden suit, and saw the blood run out. Mira had not been touched; I was thankful for that!

  “You’re hurt!” Mira cried, taking my arm.

  “It is nothing,” I said. “Wolves have often wounded me more deeply. The hollow iron was strange magic to them—they pointed it awry . . .”

  But I was watching the little boy that had fallen from my hand. The black powder had spilled and now it rose up in an ever-growing cloud and moved quicker than the eye could follow.

  And as the cloud moved away, wherever it had been—the little folk dropped to the ground and were still. It was as if in that black cloud dwelt Death itself . . .

  I ran forward to the nearest of the fallen people. Strangely, the Prytls were unharmed. They stood about stupidly, looking on at what ha4 happened, babbling quietly to each other. They knew too well the strange mortal in the leaden suit, the mortal they could not overcome. As if in fear of an infinitely greater danger, they seemed unafraid of me, but moved aside as I came close.

  The little man I looked at was the one at whom I had pointed the wand, and who had laughed so much. Now he was still. His face and hands, and all the exposed parts of his body, were covered with a black growth that seemed alive, that was growing and moving even as I looked on. It was a ghastly, repugnant sight.

  I walked to the others, with Mira silent beside me. They were all dead. Near the hollow iron Aiyana lay where she had fallen. Her eyes were still open, and they were looking at me. As if in a dream I heard her speak. “Your . . . magic . . . was . . . great,” she breathed and her face was lit with an unholy light, as if with her death all the dormant wickedness had risen to the surface.

  “She was stronger than the others,” said Mira, quietly. “She used to go outside the Veil, and that had given her a strength and a power to fight that most of her people did not have.”

  “What do you know of this?” I turned to Mira.

  “Simon the Elder told me,” she said. “You did not wholly believe the things he told you, but I did. He told me of this great magic, told me how the Ancient Scientists had conquered an age-old enemy. The little box held something he called a Jirm, which had been captured from a conquered Jinee known as a Black Plague. He said that the rigorous life of mortals had made them immune to it, but—”

  “Yes,” I said to her. “We mortals were stronger. The little folk had lived here away from the world, shut off by this great bowl, to live a sealed life. The first touch of life that called for a struggle to survive, found them unable to meet it, unfit to live . . .”

  I had not taken my eyes from Aiyana’s lovely face. Her eyes were closing now, and she had stopped breathing.

  The bright flowers were jewels on the slopes, but the song of the fountains was a mockery now. The little folk had gone to their last and eternal slumber, and perhaps Death had come quickly and mercifully for them, as a friend. Under the ground the iron monsters would still be roaring for awhile, until the last of the gray men had left them untended. I wondered whether we mortals would ever learn their secret—and suddenly I knew we would . . .

  In the distance I could see the black cloud, but it was coming closer together as
it swirled about the silver buildings. In the unbroken stillness, I saw the frightened little bands of Prytls moving away, hurrying to the world outside.

  “Let us not lose sight of them,” said Mira. “They will guide us to the place where the Veil can be parted.”

  GO it was that Mira and I left the city of the immortals, the city that floated on the sea. Truly now it was a Haunted Land, and the end of the people who had fought as a whole world. But I held the magic wand of the little folk, and I remembered the great luminous stone crystal, and I said to Mira, “Simon, and men like Simon, will come here and they will speak to the stone. There are things here for mortals to learn . . .” And as I spoke, I remembered the brothers I had lost, North the gentle, and Eli, who had been the Shining Man, but I thought also of the mother who waited for me, and of the others who lived, and who would come after me. I held Mira’s hand tightly.

  “There is a heritage waiting for us,” I said, “waiting for the mortals who live, and are happy, and die. It was left for us by our forefathers, and we will claim it.”

  50 MILES DOWN

  Dr. Horace Keith didn’t know the horror that existed 50 miles below the surface of the earth, or perhaps he might not have made the trip in his iron mole

  “MR. BLAKE!” the amplifiers were shouting.

  “Important! Urgent! Call for Mr. Blake!”

  Bob Blake hesitated before entering the reception room of Transplanet Newsreels. His strong, tanned face twisted into a worried scowl. He whispered a curse under his breath as he saw, through the partly open door, a mob of reporters swarming about the frantic receptionist.

  “There isn’t any news yet,” she was saying shrilly, nervous tension edging her voice. “No one’s heard—”

  “Where’s Blake?” a reporter demanded. “He can’t keep this hushed up forever, if that’s what he’s trying to do. The public wants to know what’s happened to Keith’s Borer. Why did the signals stop last night? Is the man still alive down there, fifty miles underground? We want—”

  Biting his lip, Blake drew back. It wouldn’t do to let the reporters see him. Not until he had some definite news. But—there was news, there must be, or the boss wouldn’t have televised Blake to return immediately from Keith’s farm ten miles away.

  Blake raced along the corridor to his office. He slipped in, closed the door behind him, and locked it. “What’s up, Andy?” he asked. “Did we get a signal or a message from Keith?”

  A plump little man was perched on the edge of Blake’s big desk, shuffling through stacks of clippings and film-stills. He glanced up, peering through a monocle that he wore in one eye—not through affectation, but to compensate for weak vision.

  “Lord, I’m glad you’re here,” Andy Carruthers said nervously. “Those damn reporters are like vultures. They’ve been trying to make me admit the Borer’s cracked up.”

  “Has it?” Blake asked. The smaller man pushed a button on the desk.

  “I don’t know, Bob. The boss told me to buzz him when you got here. I think there’s a message from Keith, on our own code narrow-beam, but the boss wouldn’t even trust me with it.”

  An annunciator buzzed sharply. A distant voice said, “Mr. Blake, please remain in your office. A communication is being sent you immediately.”

  “All right,” Blake acknowledged, and sat down behind the desk, lighting a cigarette. Frowning, he looked around.

  Everywhere were reminders of the Borer—“Keith’s Folly,” as the newspapers had dubbed it. On the wall, just developed, was a huge picture taken not forty-eight hours ago, showing the Borer just before it had made the test trip into the depths of the earth. In the background of the picture could be seen a farmhouse and barn, but these were dwarfed by the great Borer, a thick cylinder of gleaming metal that stood upright on one end. In its hull a circular door was ajar, and two men were shown entering the port—Dr. Horace Keith, the inventor, and his nephew Joseph Denton, who had accompanied Keith on the experimental trip. Newsreel-men and photographers crowded toward a roped-off area surrounding the ship.

  Blake thumbed through the innumerable clippings and pictures on his desk. All dealt with the Borer. “Keith’s Folly . . . Oil and coal trusts interested in inventor’s dive . . .”

  Blake glanced out the window. “They’re locking the gate, I see. But that won’t keep the reporters out. They’re just waiting for a chance to splash a big headline on their rags—Keith Trapped Fifty Miles Underground, or something like that.”

  Carruthers nodded. “I know. But maybe he is trapped—”

  “The Borer is fool-proof,” Blake frowned. His face was set in grim lines—a huge blond Viking of a man, with cold blue eyes and taffy-colored hair that fell in a tangled mass over his bronzed forehead. “No, Andy—if Keith’s in trouble, it isn’t the Borer’s fault. I’d stake my reputation on that.”

  “You’ve done that already,” Carruthers said quietly, eying Blake through his monocle. “How much publicity would Keith have got if you hadn’t argued the boss into playing up the Borer in our newsreels? Every other news-agency treated Keith like a lunatic. And they’re just waiting for a chance to jump on us and say I told you so.”

  “The Borer is practical,” Blake reiterated. “I’ve known Keith for a long time, and the man’s a genius. He used to have money, but he’s sunk it all in the Borer. He believes in it. And it’s worth a fortune to oil and coal interests. That’s the whole thing, Andy. Some of the biggest underground fuel and mining trusts in the world are waiting to see if Keith makes the test trip successfully. If he does, he can name his own price for the Borer. But if anything goes wrong—” Blake shook his head worriedly. “Andy, go out and stall the reporters again. Tell them anything—but convince them that everything’s all right.”

  Carruthers unlocked the door and went out. “I’ll try,” he said over his shoulder. “But we’ve got to give them some real news in a hurry, or they’ll just use their imaginations and print anything.”

  THAT was the worst of it, Blake thought, puffing at his cigarette. What could have happened to Keith? Why had the signals stopped coming? . . . Anyway, public confidence in the Borer, already wavering, must not be shaken further. That would mean financial ruin for Keith—and, for Blake, it would mean the loss of his reputation and perhaps his job with Transplanet Newsreels. He, too, had staked a good deal on “Keith’s Folly.”

  Someone knocked on the door. In response to Blake’s “Come in,” a messenger entered and deposited an envelope, sealed with red wax, on the desk. Blake waited till the boy had left and then opened the missive.

  His face whitened as he read the brief communication. He scarcely heard Carruthers enter. The little man waited till Blake looked up. His eyes asked a question.

  “It’s a crack-up,” Blake said through thinned lips. “Or worse. We got an S.O.S. from the Borer an hour ago. No details. Just a call for help.”

  Carruthers let out a shrill whistle. “A crack-up! That means—” He left the sentence unfinished.

  Blake’s eyes were like chips of blue ice. “Fifty miles underground . . . Good God, what a place to die.”

  “It—it’s tough, Bob,” Carruthers said awkwardly. “You’re—” Blake swung round angrily to face the other.

  “Tough? What are you trying to say? That it’s tough because I’m washed up—out of a job because I backed the wrong man? Listen, Andy. Doc Keith and his nephew are trapped down there, facing darkness and suffocation and death. And you say it’s tough . . . well, no man should have to die like that, and Keith’s one of my oldest friends. I’m going after him, Andy.”

  Carruthers’ jaw sagged. “What?”

  Blake pointed to the picture on the wall. “See that barn beyond the Borer? Near the farmhouse?

  There’s another Borer in there, a duplicate. Keith didn’t take any chances. He built the two machines at the same time—afraid of sabotage, maybe, or perhaps he guessed that something like this might happen. Before Keith left, I told him that I’d come after
him if anything went wrong. I know how to handle a Borer; he showed me. And—”

  “It’s suicide,” Carruthers said quietly. “If the first Borer cracked up, the chances are a hundred to one that the same thing will happen to the second ship. Do you realize that?”

  “The Borer is mechanically perfect. I don’t know what’s happened to Keith, but I’m going to find out.” Blake patted the smaller man’s shoulder. “Go out and stall the reporters again. Maybe there’s still a chance. If I can bring Keith and Denton back to the surface, and prove the Borer’s practical, publicity won’t hurt anybody. In the meantime, stall as hard as you can.”

  Blake picked up a compact camera from the desk and slid a reel of thin-wire film into place. “Oh, and get a fast car around to Gate 3. Make sure nobody sees you. Want to drive me out to Keith’s farm?”

  “Right,” Carruthers said tersely, and went out. Blake took several rings of dull black metal, about six inches in diameter, from a drawer. These he placed in his pocket, together with the camera. They were extra reels of wire-film, protected by a special—and extremely expensive—case of metal tubing.

  Blake let himself out into the corridor. Some distance away he caught sight of a small blond girl who was staring at him sharply. Hastily he dodged around a corner, and made his way to Gate 3. There Carruthers was waiting, in a small, speedy runabout.

  “All set,” the latter called. “Hop in.”

  Blake obeyed. But before he had settled himself in the seat he felt urgent fingers digging into his arm, and turned swiftly. A girl was standing on the running-board, the same one he had glimpsed in the passage. She was very pretty, but that meant nothing to Blake now.