Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  “Jump, Bill, jump!”

  Hastily, Stockton slipped over the edge, hung by his hands, and dropped. The floor rushed up to meet him. He landed heavily, but sprang up and fled before Thorkel could see the movement.

  The scientist said, a curious tremor in his voice,

  “So you’ve come back. So you are here, eh?”

  There was no answer. Thorkel stumbled to the back door, closed it, and put his back against it.

  And, for the first time, Thorkel knew fear.

  Thorkel tugged at his mustache. His voice shook when he spoke.

  “You would dare attack me? Well, that is a mistake. You are shut up in this room. And I will find you—” He whirled at a fancied movement or sound, glaring blindly, swinging his bald head from side to side with a slow, jerky motion.

  “I will find you!”

  Stockton pulled Mary back farther into their place of concealment behind a crate. “He’s crazy with fear. Keep quiet!”

  Thorkel began to stumble around the room, kicking aside apparatus, boxes, clothing.

  He fell, and when he rose there was blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.

  His hand closed on the shotgun. He snatched it up, and stood silent, waiting.

  Without warning Thorkel flung up the gun and fired. The crashing echoes filled the room. Stockton peered out, saw that there was a gaping, splintered hole in the bottom of the back door.

  Thorkel waited. Then a grim smile twisted his lips. He felt his way to the table and sought for the tray of extra glasses. His hand encountered nothing. The room was utterly still.

  “Then—this is war?” Thorkel asked slowly. With a sudden furious motion he broke down the shotgun and gripped the barrel, holding it like a club.

  He dropped to hands and knees and felt beneath the table. Slowly he advanced. In a moment, Stockton realized, he would find the glasses where they lay.

  STOCKTON’S sandaled feet made no sound as he raced forward. Before Thorkel could react, the geologist had sprung beneath his nose, snatched up the glasses, and smashed them against the table-leg.

  Thorkel swung viciously with the gun-barrel.

  Stockton, perforce, dropped the glasses and fled. The huge metal club missed him by inches. He vanished into the shadows.

  Crouching in their hiding-places, the three little people stared, frozen, as the titan form of Thorkel rose above the table edge. He was donning his glasses. One lens was splintered and useless.

  Blood-stained, dirt-smeared, and terrible, the giant towered there. His voice rose in a shout of laughter.

  “Now!” he roared. “Now you can call me Cyclops!”

  Swiftly he strode forward. With methodical haste he began to search the room, overturning boxes, flinging the cot aside to examine some cases beneath it. Stockton made a peremptory signal. Mary and Baker dashed out from their hiding-place between Thorkel’s discarded boots. They followed Stockton swiftly toward the back door.

  “Outside, quick!” he whispered. “He can’t see us. The cot’s in the way.”

  They clambered through the gaping hole the shotgun charge had made. It was not easy, and Mary’s clothing caught on a sharp splinter.

  The cloth ripped as Stockton jerked at it.

  Footsteps thudded across the floor. The door was flung open. Thorkel switched on the floodlight.

  His shadow momentarily hid the three as they raced forward. The mouth of the mine-shaft loomed up before them, a plank stretched across the pit.

  “Down there!” Stockton gasped. “It’s our only chance.”

  It was the only possible place of concealment. But Thorkel’s one good eye did not miss the little people’s movements as they scrambled over the brink and down the steep rock of the shaft-walls. Skirting the windlass, he fell to his hands and knees and crawled out upon the plank, steadying himself with one hand on the rope that ran down into black depths.

  Stockton, clinging to a rock, realized that he still held his scissor-blade sword.

  He lifted it in futile threat.

  There was a splintering crack as Thorkel struck at his quarry. The gun-barrel clashed on rock. And, abruptly, the plank caved in and dropped.

  Thorkel still gripped the windlass-rope with one hand, and that saved him. For a second he swung wildly, while the echoing crash of the falling wood and the gun-barrel echoed up from the depths. Then his grip became surer. Panting, he hung there briefly, his bald head gleaming with sweat.

  He began to climb up the rope.

  Stockton glanced around quickly. Mary was clinging to a sloping rock, her white face turned toward the giant.

  Baker was looking at the mineralogist, and his gaunt gray features were twisted with hopeless fury.

  Stockton made a quick gesture, pointed to his sword, and began to swarm back up to the surface.

  Instantly Baker caught his meaning. If the rope to which Thorkel clung could be cut—

  But it was thick, terribly thick, for a tiny man and a scissor-blade!

  THORKEL pulled himself slowly upward. In a moment Baker saw, he would reach safety. The trader’s lips drew back from his teeth in a mirthless grin; he abruptly rose and edged forward a few paces.

  Then he sprang.

  Out and down he went, and his clutching hands found Thorkel’s collar. Before the scientist could understand what had happened, Baker was clawing and snarling like a terrier at his throat. Thorkel almost lost his grip.

  Gasping with fear and rage, he shook his head violently, trying to knock his assailant free.

  “You dirty killer!” Baker snarled. He was tossed about madly, once almost crushed between Thorkel’s chin and chest. And then, suddenly, Thorkel was falling . . .

  With a whine and a whir the windlass ran out as the rope was severed. A long, quavering cry burst from Thorkel’s throat as he dropped away into the darkness. Higher and higher it rose—and ended.

  Stockton ran to the brink and peered over. Mary was clambering weakly up toward him. And, behind her, was Baker.

  Bill was standing beside an upright book, a curious expression on his face. He looked around vaguely.

  “The machine—” he told Mary. “Can you work it?”

  Mary was poring over Thorkel’s notebooks. She said despondently, “It’s no good, Bill. The device is only a condensor. It can’t bring people back to normal size. We’ll have to remain this size the rest of our lives. And now, we’ve got to get back to civilization, somehow—”

  “As we are?” Baker’s face fell. “That’s impossible.”

  “Wait a minute,” Stockton interrupted. “I’ve a hunch—do you remember when we first saw Thorkel, after he reduced us?”

  “Yeah. So what?”

  “He wasn’t trying to kill us then. He just wanted to weigh and measure us. But after he examined Dr. Bulfinch, he turned into a vicious killer. Why do you suppose that happened?”

  “He probably intended to kill us all along. For trying to steal his secrets,” Baker suggested. “He was probably afraid that we would warn the Allies of his plans.”

  “Maybe. But he wasn’t in any hurry at first. He knew he could dispose of us any time he wanted. Only after he examined Dr. Bulfinch he—found out something that made it necessary to get rid of us in a hurry.”

  MARY caught her breath.

  “What?”

  “I saw a white mule in the jungle a while ago. A colt. Paco was playing with it. At first I figured it might be Pinto’s colt, but mules are sterile, of course. That meant two albino mules here—which isn’t very probable—or else it was Pinto. Remember, Pedro said the dog used to play with the mule.”

  “How big was the mule?” Baker asked abruptly.

  “The size of a half-grown colt. Listen, Steve, when we first came out of the cellar I measured myself against that book—‘Human Physiology.’ It was just higher than my head. But now it only comes up to my chest!”

  “We’re growing!” Mary whispered. “That’s it.”

  “Sure. That’s what
Thorkel found out when he examined Dr. Bulfinch, and why he tried to kill us before we grew back to normal size. I think it’s a progressively accelerative process. In two weeks, or perhaps ten days, we’ll be back to normal.”

  “It’s logical,” the girl commented. “Once the compressive force of radium power is removed, we expand—slowly but elastically. The electrons swing back to their normal orbits. The energy we absorbed under the ray will be liberated in quanta—”

  “Ten days,” Baker murmured. “And then we can go back down the river again!”

  BUT it was a month before the three, once more normal in size, reached the Andean village that was their first destination. The sight of human beings, no longer gigantic, was warmly reassuring. Indians leaned against the huts, scratching lazily for fleas.

  Peering down the archway along the street, a ragged Bill Stockton turned to grin at Mary.

  “Looks good, eh?”

  Baker was absorbed in thought. “We’ve got to decide,” he said, scratching his stubbled cheek. “One way, we get our pictures in the paper and tanks of free pulque. But it’s just as likely we’ll end up in a padded cell if we tell the truth. If we don’t tell the truth—”

  He paused, stiffening. A mangy cat had appeared from beyond the arch. Baker’s muscles tensed; his breath burst out in an explosive “Scat!” as he sprang forward.

  The cat vanished, shocked to the core.

  Baker’s chest inflated several inches. “Well,” he said, with the quiet pride of achievement, “did either of you see that?”

  “No,” murmured Stockton, who was seizing the opportunity to kiss Mary. “Go away. Quietly. And quickly.”

  Baker shrugged and followed the cat, a predatory gleam in his eye.

  KNIGHT MUST FALL

  Pete Manx Mixes Ye Modern Magic with Merlin’s Miracles In Ye Grand Olde Days!

  THE whole tragedy started when Pete Manx went to a burlesque show on 42nd Street. Women, he had always contended rather pointedly, were poison. And his experience in the Bijou Theatre—and its unexpected result—tended to corroborate Pete’s theory. The dames themselves weren’t bad, and that redhead in the center could have made her fortune in Hollywood, which was Mr. Manx’s own territory.

  As per usual, during the intermission, barkers began vending candy-boxes which they claimed contained prizes.

  “Solid platinum wrist-watches,” the m. c. coaxed persuasively from the stage. “Electric razors . . . Cigarette cases . . . Cigarette lighters . . . and other surprises!”

  Pete, although a barker and shill of some years’ standing, was a sucker. But when the candy-box he purchased for a quarter actually contained an electric razor he was mortified. It was slightly shop-worn, and a piece was missing from the back. But it was certainly worth more than a quarter, he thought.

  Smiling inwardly, Pete rose and left the theatre, unaware of his approaching doom . . .

  Two days later he was hammering frantically on the door of Dr. Horatio Mayhem’s domicile. Short, imploring cries burst from his pallid lips, and when Mayhem opened the door, Pete almost fell into his arms.

  The doctor blinked curiously at his visitor. “It’s you, Pete!” he choked out. “I thought you were running a concession out West.”

  “Lemme in,” Pete pleaded, “and gimme a drink.”

  The doctor bade him come in, gave him five fingers of strong rye.

  “Doc, I’m in trouble,” Pete said, after downing his drink in a swallow.

  “Oh.” Mayhem led the way into his laboratory. “Again? What is it this time? Loaded dice?”

  Pete sank into a chair, mopped his perspiring head with a silk handkerchief.

  “Worse’n that,” he groaned. “And it’s all your fault!”

  Mayhem’s lean face was puzzled. “I don’t quite understand. What’s wrong?”

  “My razor,” Pete said, and gulped. Then he went on, “It happened last night while I was shaving. There’s a piece missing from my razor, and accidentally I stuck my finger in the crack and got a shock.”

  “Is that all?” Mayhem snapped. “No,” said Pete, bitterly. “Everything went haywire. The room went black, and all of a sudden I was running across a field with a lot of shavetails in gray uniforms. Some mugs in blue uniforms were trying to mow us down. For a split-second it felt just like when you sent me back into time in that gadget of yours. What’s the answer?”

  MAYHEM’S face lit up expectantly. “This is a complication,” he observed. “A civil war time-sector—”

  “You mean I really went back in time?” Pete interrupted. “But—it ain’t legal! You don’t mean I’m allergic to time traveling, or something like that?”

  “Something very similar,” the doctor agreed, looking pleased. “Last night it was only a tiny shock, so you didn’t really break loose from your contemporary time-sense. I must talk to Professor Aker about this. He’s staying with me—”

  “That lug,” Pete said contemptuously.

  “Ah—quite so. Let me see.” Mayhem seized a pencil and made hen-scratches on the table. “Time, you understand, is purely an artificial self-imposed limitation devised by Man, for the sake of logic and order. But this is not based on a fundamental truth, for, as we have proved, all Time is co-existent in the form of a closed circle revolving about the Central Time Consciousness. Understand?”

  “No,” Pete said simply.

  “And Man constantly strives against this limitation,” Mayhem went on. “In your case, repeated breaking down of these barriers have so weakened them that any electrical shock, even apart from my high voltage Time Machinery may be sufficient to release your mind into the Central Consciousness, and thence to another time-sector. So—”

  “So I’m in the soup again.” Pete clutched the scientist’s arm. “Doc, will you please, help me out?” he pleaded. “I don’t want to dodge bullets every time I shave. Can’t you do something?”

  “Very likely,” Mayhem said laconically. “My, but it’s dark. Switch on the lights while I adjust this condenser, Pete.”

  The sky was growing darker as Pete fumbled for the light switch. He found it—just as lightning flashed! Unfortunately for Pete Manx, he was standing in a puddle of rain water that had dripped from his garments . . .

  Bang!

  Pete was, indeed, allergic to time traveling . . .

  * * * * *

  “. . . Put the body here.”

  Pete groaned and opened his eyes. He was fully conscious, but his vision was impaired by vertical black bars. He stared through these wonderingly, then decided that with his usual luck he was inhabiting the mind and body of someone in jail. He tried to rise, but found himself weighted down by tons of metal. Probably in chains, too, reflected Pete, and swore bitterly.

  The oath brought action. There was a squeak, and the black bars shot upward to disappear. Then a face peered into his own, a wizened face topped by a cheap buckskin cap and long uncut hair.

  “Ay!” said the face. “Indeed now, dost thou still live, Sir Knight?”

  Pete was sorely puzzled. He managed to raise his head and look down the length of his body. He was entirely encased in a suit of armor! The remnants of a shattered lance lay nearby. With the assistance of the stranger, Pete eventually sat himself upright.

  “ ‘Twas a mighty unhorsing thou hast suffered, Sir Knight,” the stranger observed. “Art a mighty man, indeed, to survive.”

  Pete took mental stock. No bones were broken, nor did he feel hurt.

  “Yeah,” he finally ventured. “I’m tough, all right.” He fumbled with his helmet, and learned that it was the grille on his visor that made him think he was behind bars.

  “And what is thy name, Sir Knight?” queried the man with the face, a serf, judging from his appearance.

  Pete had difficulty in removing the helmet. And when he looked himself over, he discovered that he was tremendous about the waist and his armor bulged like a bell-buoy around his middle. He would never, Pete reflected gloomily, see his feet as long
as he remained in this particular state. Then his sense of humor came to the rescue.

  “From what I see,” he replied, “my name must be Sir Cumference!”

  THE thunder of horses’ hoofs, the clash of steel, and the cries of excitement commanded his attention. He looked around curiously. And stretching before him lay a meadow about the size of a football field. Standing along one edge was a compact crowd of spectators.

  The upper middle class, yeomen and burghers, mingled at the far end. Directly on what might have been the fifty-yard line was a cluster of richly dressed nobility seated in a rude sort of shelter.

  But on the field was the piece de resistance. About twenty knights, equipped with lance, sword, and shining armor, mounted on gayly ornamented horses, were engaged in a savage battle. Time and again the two opposing lines charged down furiously upon one another, lances poised, crashing full tilt into the enemy.

  Pete watched amazedly, realizing he had been out in that onslaught a few minutes before. He turned to the serf beside him.

  “Say! What’s the war all about, pal?”

  The serf’s eyes widened and he glanced significantly over his shoulder to someone beyond Pete’s range of vision.

  “He hath received almost a mortal clout on the pate,” he murmured. “Memory hath not yet returned to him.” Then he turned to Pete and said, “Why, ’tis not war, Sir Cumference, but a jousting tournament.”

  Recollection stirred faintly in Pete’s befuddled mind from his childhood readings. “Oh, yeah. I remember. They ain’t mad; they’re just killing each other for fun. That it?”

  The face beamed. “Of course, Sir Cumference.”

  Pete watched the astounding slaughter draw to a rapid close as the weary knights, one after the other, were eliminated.

  “It ain’t human,” he breathed. “Fifth century football! Boy, are these guys dumb! Now with an organizing genius—” He checked himself. Best not to get himself involved with these monkeys. They played too rough.

  The brutality came to a sudden end. The battered champion, looking somewhat like a Model T after jousting with a Greyhound bus, staggered through the victory ceremony. He received a jewel and the plaudits of the multitude. Then the party broke up.