Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  The girl said swiftly, “Mr. Blake! Have you heard from Doctor Keith? Is he—”

  “Sorry. No news for release yet. Get going, Andy.”

  Carruthers depressed the clutch. The car began to move. Abruptly, into the girl’s brown eyes sprang a light of anger. “Wait!” she said, still clinging to the car’s door. “You’ve got to—”

  “Get off!” Blake snapped. Then he paused. A small, curiously-shaped gun had leaped into the girl’s hand, and she held it steadily aimed at Blake’s head. It was, he saw, merely an ammonia-pistol—but it meant delay, if nothing worse. And now every moment counted.

  Carruthers slowed down. Blake moved swiftly. With one hand he knocked up the pistol-barrel and with the other pushed at the girl’s face. He had no time to be gentle. His open palm smacked against her soft mouth and tumbled the girl from the running-board of the slowly moving car.

  “Get going!” Blake snapped at Carruthers. The car sprang forward.

  “Hurt her?”

  “No.” Blake looked over his shoulder. “She’s all right. Getting up now. Sorry I had to push her so ungentlemanly, but—” He shrugged. “These damn reporters!”

  He pulled his hat low over his eyes. “Keep to the back roads, Andy. Someone might see us and trail us. I don’t know how long we can keep this business hushed up, but the longer the better.”

  CARRUTHERS drove like a demon, squinting through his monocle, his round face quite expressionless. It was not long before they swung in through an open gate and halted within a short distance of Keith’s farmhouse. The barn was not far away, and a roped-off area surrounded the gaping hole left by the Borer’s descent. The farm seemed deserted. Blake frowned as he got out of the car.

  “There should be a guard here. Wonder what happened to him? And the barn door’s open, too. Funny . . .”

  They entered. In the huge, gloomy structure the shell of the duplicate Borer gleamed dully, towering to the cobwebby, shadowed rafters. Blake opened the port and peered inside.

  “Well, this is it. I don’t think I’ll have much trouble in finding Keith. I’ll head toward the center of gravity, and, besides, the first Borer’s automatically sending out a radio guide-beam.”

  He clambered into the ship and switched on the light.

  The control-room leaped into bright visibility. Grid-screens on the walls showed the presence of air-renewers. The controls were built into a thick column that was set into the metallic floor. Blake’s eyes drifted past that column, and then abruptly swung back. He saw movement—

  “Raise your hands,” a cold voice said crisply.

  A man rose from where he had been hiding behind the controls. He was a thick-set, swarthy fellow with sneering mouth and small eyes almost obscured by shaggy brows. And in his hand was a heavy Luger.

  “Don’t move,” said the ambusher. “I don’t wish to kill you, Mr. Blake. Because you’re the only man now who knows how to operate a Borer.”

  Blake said nothing. His face was expressionless, his arms were lifted rigidly. Beside him Carruthers stirred, then froze again as an angry light leaped into the killer’s eyes.

  “Careful!” he said, and was silent, listening. Then he resumed, after a quick glance at the open port. “I thought I could operate a Borer, but luckily I need not take the risk now. Your arrival was well-timed—for me. But it was not entirely unexpected. After my—my assistants broke the code S.O.S. Doctor Keith sent out, I thought you might come here.”

  “Who are you?” Blake asked.

  “You may call me—Smith.”

  Blake’s lips thinned. “Not one of the European Smiths?” he asked meaningly.

  The other’s eyes were suddenly hooded. “You are clever. Yes, my friend, we are going on a long trip, to a certain European country—and the Borer will travel underground, beneath the Atlantic. You see, this is a tremendous war weapon. A weapon my country needs.”

  Before Blake could reply, there was a sudden interruption. A girl’s voice said, not quite steadily, “Drop that gun! Quick!”

  Snarling, Smith whirled. In the open port stood the blond girl Blake had knocked from the running-board of the car. She held the ammonia-pistol leveled at Smith, a futile weapon against the murderous, heavy Luger.

  But, for a second, the foreign agent’s attention was distracted. His gun barked viciously as Blake hurled himself forward. The bullet sang out through the door, missing the girl by inches.

  Blake crashed into Smith, and the two men went down together. They were a tangled, writhing knot on the ship’s floor. Abruptly Smith’s mouth gaped open; he shouted peremptory words in an unfamiliar tongue. His fingers stabbed up at Blake’s eyes.

  The latter jerked his head aside. The two men were jammed into a narrow space behind the control column, where Carruthers could not approach close enough to aid his friend. With an unexpected motion Smith buried his face in Blake’s shoulder, and the newsreel man felt the agent’s hot breath on his skin. Sharp teeth just missed their mark—the jugular vein—as Blake got the heel of his hand under Smith’s jaw and drove the killer’s head back. He tried futilely to writhe free.

  Vicious fingers tightened about his throat. The snarling face of Smith loomed up like the mask of a devil. An agonizing pain constricted Blake’s neck under that crushing grip. He felt the strength draining from him.

  Faintly he heard the trample of running feet and the shouting of voices. The girl cried, “Somebody’s coming!” He heard her scramble into the ship.

  Smith’s “assistants!” The agent must have summoned them from nearby—the farmhouse, perhaps—when he had cried out for aid. A light of baleful triumph sprang into Smith’s jet eyes; his fingers dug deeper into Blake’s throat. Carruthers aimed a blow that fell futile, inches short of its mark.

  Writhing painfully, Blake again got the heel of his hand under Smith’s chin. He put all his strength into one jolting blow. The agent’s head jerked back; there was a dull thump as it smashed against the metal wall. He made a curious coughing sound deep in his throat—and went limp.

  Blake scrambled up and whirled toward the doorway. He caught a glimpse of a dozen men running into the barn—men armed with guns, swarthy, foreign-looking thugs who resembled Smith. A bullet whipped past Blake to flatten against the inside of the ship. Hastily the newsreel man slammed the port shut and slid a bolt into place. He looked at it doubtfully, and then glanced at Carruthers and the girl, who were standing tensely beside him.

  “That wasn’t built to hold,” he muttered—and then whirled toward the instrument column as a heavy thud came against the door. He pressed buttons and pushed a lever. “Sorry,” he said between his teeth. “It’s the only thing I can do.”

  THE floor dropped out from under them. The Borer lurched sickeningly. Smith’s body rolled over; the girl was flung into Carruthers’ arms. Blake clung desperately to the controls.

  No more blows thudded against the port. Already the attackers were fifty feet away. And still the Borer plunged down silently into the unknown abyss of the inner earth!

  Blake looked at the girl. “Sorry I had to hit you a while ago,” he said. “And thanks for—helping out.” He indicated the unconscious Smith with a meaning gesture.

  “That’s all right. I guess you thought I was a reporter.” She smiled wanly at Blake’s startled expression. “I’m Susan Morley. Dr. Keith’s niece.”

  “Good Lord! You’re the little kid in pigtails I used to see running around the farm here?”

  Susan nodded, patting her hair into place. “I’ve been away at school. Vassar. When I heard the televisor reports, I got worried about my uncle, and—well, here I am.”

  “I’m sorry,” Blake said, a queer note in his voice. “It makes it—rather hard. The way the Borer is built, it’ll take two days to reverse it again for a descent. By that time your uncle’s air supply will be gone. So you’ve got to go along.”

  Susan’s face went a little pale, but her eyes met Blake’s steadily. “We’re on our way down now, aren
’t we?” she asked.

  “Yes, but—”

  “Then keep going.” At the look in Blake’s eyes she came forward, gripping his arms with soft, urgent fingers. Involuntarily the man tensed at Susan’s nearness.

  “You’ve got to! It’s the only thing to do—don’t you see? If you turn back now, you’re murdering my uncle. You’re his only chance! You haven’t the right to take that chance away from him!”

  Blake rubbed his forehead. “But . . . what about you?”

  The look in Susan’s eyes was sufficient answer. Blake turned toward Carruthers, and the latter nodded slightly.

  “All right,” the newsreel man said. “You win, Susan. And . . . I only hope we’ll be in time.”

  The hours dragged on slowly. Only the instruments, and the changes in the vibration of the ship, told the travelers that they were moving at all. There were no windows, for nothing but the toughest reinforced metal could withstand the frightful pressure. Once the Borer encountered a sandy stratum, and the giddy plunge was vertiginous. Then came granite, and the vehicle dropped more slowly.

  Blake watched a thick, hollow glass tube set in the wall. A stream of pulverized rock fled up constantly through this, brought in through a tiny aperture in the hull. The granite-gray specks gave place to a trickle of dull red.

  Carruthers rose from the bound body of Smith, who was still unconscious. “He’s safe for a while, Bob. Lucky that rope was in the locker.”

  The Borer slid sidewise as Blake fought with the controls. “Got to keep her in plumb,” he grunted. “This is ticklish work.”

  Susan came to stand beside him. “How does the ship operate, anyway?”

  Blake’s face lit up. “Your uncle’s a genius. He used a new form of radioactive energy to expand matter. In the nose of the Borer, right under us, are thousands of tiny projectors. And the bow works on a pivot—a universal joint—so I can turn the ship any way I want.”

  “I—I don’t quite understand.”

  “Well, let’s put it this way. Matter is composed of atoms, you know—electrons spinning around their nuclei, like tiny solar systems. In a heavy metal like neutronium the electrons are packed closely together. In a gas, they’re further apart. That’s why we can walk through gas, and not through neutronium.”

  “You mean the projectors turn rock into gas?”

  Blake was finding relief from the nervous tension in explaining Keith’s theories to the girl. “Something like that. Atomic structure is expanded, and the electrons are spread out further from their nuclei. Your uncle’s projectors expand matter into something like an intangible sieve, and the Borer just drops right through.”

  “But how can you make it go up?” Susan asked.

  “By pressure. There’s a lot of that all around us, except at the nose, where the projectors are expanding matter. Ever squeeze a cake of soap in your hands?”

  “O—I see. Yes, the soap pops right out.”

  “So does the Borer. The only danger is that the hull may collapse under the pressure. But I don’t think it will. Your uncle made the trip all right.” Blake paused abruptly. There was a little silence. Everyone was thinking the same thought. If Keith had made the trip successfully, he would not have sent out that frantic S.O.S.

  An instrument on the controls went crimson. Blake deftly adjusted the guide lever. “We’re getting close,” he said between his teeth. “This may be dangerous—”

  There was a sudden jolt. Without warning the Borer plummeted down. Carruthers cried, “It’s a cave! We’ve broken through the roof!” Then he went sprawling.

  If the Borer’s nose had smashed into solid rock, the concussion would have killed its passengers. But the projectors were working full blast, and as the ship hit the cavern’s floor, the hard stone was instantly metamorphosed into yielding atomic structure. Thus the shock was cushioned. Blake hastily snapped off the projectors, breathing fast.

  “We’re here,” he said, pointing to the instruments. “And it looks like the air’s breathable outside, though Lord knows why this far underground.”

  Carruthers was opening the port. A dim, hazy light drifted in. Blake pushed his assistant aside and stepped out, staring around.

  THEY were in a cave. A hundred feet above them the jagged roof could be glimpsed dimly. It was hazed and veiled by silvery fog, luminous clouds that sent a vague glow through the cavern as they drifted. In the distance the cave seemed to broaden into a gigantic hollow expanse, but the fog was too thick to show anything clearly. The rock wall near by, however, caught Blake’s attention. It looked like durium ore, something that had been discovered only recently in the deepest mines—a metal with tremendous tensile strength. Blake’s film-containers were made of durium, but the metal was not in common use, due to the difficulty and expense of reducing the mineral and separating it from other ores. Blake knew that he might be staring at a treasure trove, but he turned away to look for Keith’s Borer.

  Forty feet away it lay, its nose crushed into the rock floor. Its bent and twisted port moved outward.

  The distant port swung open. A man scrambled out, carrying a lean figure across his shoulders. Brandishing a gun, he fled toward Blake.

  “Keep back!” he shouted. “Stay in your ship!” There was a confused melee. Blake was flung back, off balance, and fell inside the Borer, under writhing bodies. The newcomer wriggled free, sprang up, and slammed the door, breathing hard. He bolted it and leaned weakly against the door.

  “My God!” he whispered. “That was close! But they couldn’t have got in—”

  Blake rose, to face Joe Denton, Keith’s nephew. “What are you talking about?” he asked slowly.

  The other nodded. He was a small, wiry man with curly black hair and boyish features. “Wait a minute. Till I get a grip on myself. I’ve been through hell—”

  A cry burst from Susan’s white lips. She was staring, wide-eyed, at the prostrate body on the floor, the man Denton had carried into the Borer. Blake followed her gaze. He recognized Doctor Keith.

  And Keith was dead. The frail, white-haired man lay pitifully limp on the metallic floor. The back of his skull was smashed into bloody fragments.

  Denton moistened his lips. “They—they got him. I couldn’t leave his body down here. They may be cannibals, for all I know.”

  Blake fought down the sick grief that momentarily weakened him. He gripped Denton’s shoulders hard.

  “Calm down! Now—what is it?”

  “Give me a drink first. I—I need it. Thanks . . . We broke into this cavern last night. The air was breathable, so we started to explore. And we found life here—invisible life.”

  “Invisible—what are you talking about?”

  Denton licked dry lips. “I couldn’t believe it either, at first. Not till I’d—felt them. Creatures who live down here, with feathery bodies and claw-like feet. They’re intelligent, after a fashion.” Denton swallowed with difficulty. “Too intelligent. One of them got hold of a gun, and it went off and killed him. After that there was no holding them. They killed my uncle before I could move to help him. I just managed to get into the ship in time.”

  Blake was trying to marshal his confused thoughts into some semblance of order. “Invisible life-forms? Yes . . . yes, I suppose it’s possible . . . underground.” He was trying to convince himself of an apparent impossibility. “A different sort of radiation might make cellular tissue completely transparent. There’s a lot of durium ore here, and that stuff’s got queer properties . . . but intelligent beings? Here?” Denton shuddered. There was a look of sick horror in his dark eyes. “We made friends with their chief, Vardu. But he’s the worst Erdtmann of them all—that’s what we called them, Erdtmann. I barricaded the port, after they killed my uncle, but they kept trying to break into the ship. If I’d known how to operate the Borer—I tried to, but only jammed the controls. Then I sent out an S.O.S.”

  Blake said slowly, “I think I’ll visit the other ship. I’m armed—and Keith had a camera with him. Tho
se pix may be valuable.”

  “We took some pictures,” Denton said, “but Vardu got hold of the camera. He tore it apart. Anyway, you can’t go out there. I tell you those devils are invisible!”

  Blake scratched his chin thoughtfully. Then, coming to a decision, he went to the port, unbolted it, and gently drew it back a crack. Instantly the door was smashed toward him. The weight of unseen bodies was jammed against it.

  Frantically Blake strove to shut the panel again. He felt something soft and feathery and unseen touch his face, and then Denton and Carruthers flung their bodies against the door. Slowly it closed, but even after the bolt was slit into its socket there was an ominous thudding from outside on the heavy metal.

  With a decisive grunt Blake went to the instrument panel and started the Borer. The ship dropped down. Then, as the nose turned on its universal joint, the vehicle slowly arced in a long curve.

  The control room was swung freely inside the hull, and it gently pivoted as the Borer turned. Finally the ship’s nose was above the passengers’ heads, instead of beneath their feet as heretofore.

  “We’re on the way up,” Blake said, relaxing somewhat. “But I’m going to pay a call on your friend Vardu again, Denton. A sub-machine gun ought to be damn good insurance even against invisible beings.”

  “THEY’RE not human,” Denton whispered. “Even their digestive system is—different. They eat rock, Blake.”

  “Rock? That’s impossible.”

  “Well—they eat ore, I know. My uncle found out . . .” Denton glanced at the still corpse on the floor. “Their bodies secrete some glandular fluid that breaks down ore until it’s in a form they can assimilate. They live on that stuff in the walls of the cavern—what’d you say it was?”

  “Durium ore,” Blake said thoughtfully. “Even the termite does something rather like that. A very powerful enzyme might break down ore so that an Erdtmann might digest it—after all, they’re utterly inhuman.” A thought came to him, which he filed for future reference. It was pushed to the back of his mind by another.