Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  The group of big-shots strolled toward Pete’s end of the field, stopping among the fallen warriors now and then to console wounded friends. A voice behind Pete said:

  “O, Sir Cumference. Here comes our liege, King Arthur, the fair Guinevere, and retinue. If you wish to remain in these parts, you must put yourself in favor with the king. Now is your only opportunity.”

  MANX looked at the speaker. It was not the man with the face, but another, the man to whom the serf had spoken a few minutes before. He was tall, dressed in a shabby robe. His face was long and sorrowful, with a sardonic gleam in his eye.

  “Thanks,” said Pete, a premonition that the advice wasn’t so hot. “Who’re you?”

  “An alchemist by choice,” the tall fellow replied. “But frequently a beggar by necessity.” The robed man bowed. “At your service, Sir Cumference. Just call me Al.”

  “Al, the alchemist, hey?” Pete snickered.

  Everyone was bending one knee in homage to His Majesty and Pete followed suit, glancing surreptitiously at Arthur as he did so.

  King Arthur, Pete decided at once, was the real McCoy. Tall, dark, and handsome, with the muscles of a Tarzan and the sex appeal of a Gable. He bought his clothes straight from some fifth century Bond Street, and wore them like Adolphe Menjou.

  “Arise, Sir Knight from afar,” Arthur said to Pete in a kindly voice. “Thy misfortune in combat precludes hope of winning a seat at the Round Table, but thy courage far outstrips thy skill. What is thy name and thy occupation?”

  Pete swelled under this flattery. His agile brain soon pieced the puzzle together. Evidently this fatso whose body he was inhabiting was some yokel come to enter the tournament in hopes of victory and a coveted seat at Arthur’s Round Table.

  “My name is Sir Cumference,” Pete declared, “and in my country I am a promoter.” Pete didn’t even blush at the exaggeration.

  “Promotor?” Arthur was puzzled.

  “Yeah. I run things. In Egypt—Well, let’s skip that. Anyhow, I’m a financial wizard.”

  King Arthur smiled, turned to the sinister-looking, grey-haired man beside him. “That will interest you, my friend . . . Sir Cumference, this is the greatest of all wizards, the mighty Merlin, the Magician. Though, indeed,” and Arthur smiled wryly, “even Merlin is not wizard enough to raise sufficient funds to equip our army to fight the invading Saxons.”

  Merlin glowered darkly at Pete, who wished that he’d never mentioned that word “wizard.” The alchemist coughed urgently, however, reminding Pete not to miss the chance to get in solid with Arthur. He felt uneasy about it, but his nature bade him barge brazenly ahead.

  “Give me the contract to handle these tournaments,” Pete insisted, “and I’ll have your treasury filled in two months. What’s more, I’ll fix it so you’ll have an army left after the jousting is over. No more foolish slaughter of your best fighters.”

  Merlin looked scornful, disbelieving; but Arthur was interested.

  “Is this a custom of your country that you wish to introduce?”

  “That’s right, Art,” Pete said. “We call it pro rassling. It’s a regular circus.”

  “Pro rassling?” The king shook his head, not understanding. “Yet, if thou canst fill our coffers and strengthen our armies—”

  Merlin was angry, vicious at Pete gaining the favor of his liege. He started to say something, but Arthur silenced him with a wave of his hand. The debate drew to a sudden close then, the arrangements made. Pete received carte blanche to run the next jousting tournament anyway he pleased.

  PETE bid everyone adieu, started jauntily for the castle at Camelot with a lesser noble, to be shown his rooms. He even had the audacity to give Guinevere the once-over.

  “Be seeing you, toots,” he said, and winked.

  Al, the alchemist, trotted along behind him and when they were out of ear-shot of the king’s party he drew Pete to one side.

  “Thy words be strange, oh Sir Cumference,” he warned, “but the king understands thy implications. And those who offend Arthur have not long to live!”

  Pete, unlike the well-digger, threw himself whole-heartedly into his work. The first thing was to build a stadium on the meadow site. With all the king’s horses and all the king’s men at his disposal, Pete quickly had a tall fence erected completely around the field. Inside, along the east and west sidelines, he installed portable bleachers. Those on the west side had soft seats of cloth stuffed with feathers. Two crude turnstiles stood at the entrance, with arrows above each pointing in opposite directions. The legend read:

  THREE SHYLLINGES . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

  . . . . . . . . . .YE LORDES AND LYDYES

  ONE SHILLINGE . . . . . . . . . . .YE RABBLE

  Al, the alchemist, was a most persistent hanger-on. He refused to be rebuffed, so Pete after a cautious check-up of the fellow’s character, gave him a job handling the publicity. After a brief training course under the old master, himself, Al became astonishingly adept.

  Pete then went to line up his talent. A quiet chat with an armorer and a lance-maker proved satisfactory, and the problem of equipment was solved. Then Pete circulated among the knights themselves. With characteristic shrewdness he avoided the high-minded and slightly prissy top-notchers of the Round Table. Their ideals of knighthood might not coincide exactly with the money-making plans of the interloper, Sir Cumference, and his strange new game, “pro rasslin.” Instead, Pete canvassed the hardy, ale-drinking crowd of knights, selecting those fellows who spent easily, grinned readily, liked a good joke, and whose scruples were on Pete’s own lamentable plane. He made no mis-judgments. In a week he had a complete troupe of performers, well-rehearsed and rarin’ to go.

  “Who,” he asked finally, “is the most hated knight hereabouts?”

  “Mordred,” was the answer. “He is a distant relative of the king, but a ratte, ne’ertheless.”

  So Mordred was approached and signed for a consideration of ten percent of the gate.

  The great day approached, and the countryside was in a turmoil. Scattered all about for miles in every direction were the fruits of Al’s labor—hand-printed posters nailed on trees at every crossroads, on the town hall bulletin boards of all nearby villages, in every tavern and public meeting-place. They read:

  YE TOURNAMENT ROYALE!

  Monday, first daye of Aprille

  At one by the clock in the afternoon

  Tournament Park, below Castle Camelot

  Serfs and freedmen alike may attend this

  colossus of entertainment, if they have but

  one shyllinge, pryce of admission!

  MAIN EVENT

  Sir Nayme and His Noble Knyghtes

  vs.

  Murderous Mordred and His Mangling Minions

  PRELIMINARY BOUTS

  Sir Gregory vs. Sir Boris

  Sir Pluss vs. Sir Loin

  NEVER before had the lower classes been permitted to view the spectacle of a jousting tournament, with a personal appearance of King Arthur and his Court tossed in for good measure. The result was as Pete anticipated: the joint was packed. S.R.O. on the east side of the field, while the west bleachers, for the nobility, were well filled. Pete grinned, explaining to Al:

  “Okay for the first show. But wait’ll Mordred and Nayme put on their act. It’ll wow ’em! And there won’t be an empty seat for the next show. You’ll see. I know human nature.”

  Al acquiesced, with a sardonic glance. Pete started for Camelot to count the gate receipts, then paused.

  “Y’know,” he frowned, “you remind me of a guy I used to know fifteen hundred years from now. If it wasn’t for the fact that you were here when I arrived—”

  “Aye, Sir Cumference? What is it that makes you so uneasy?”

  “Because you seem to catch on awful quick to twentieth century ways of doing things. And you hung around me from the first, as if you knowed who I really am.”

  “Aye, indeed,” Al said. “You are Sir Cumference, the
financial wizard!” Pete scowled again. “Oh, well. Skip it. I got more important business to attend to right now.”

  Pete proceeded to Camelot, counted the take, and cached it in a safe place after deducting the matchmaker’s rightful—and generous—percentage. When he returned to the stadium the preliminaries had just been concluded. The crowd had not been exactly panicked as yet.

  Al the alchemist sidled up and said as much. “The audience is restless, Sir Cumference. They don’t think they’ve received their money’s worth.”

  Pete gestured confidently. “Them prelims were on the level. No fancy stuff. But wait’ll they get a load of what’s comin’ up!”

  And Pete Manx was right. A cymbal rang, announcing the main event. And presently eight fully-accoutered knights rode onto the field, four against four, facing each other. Mordred’s mob had huge black crosses painted on the front and back of their armor.

  The signal was given, and the two teams stormed at each other with lances readied, as in a regular tournament. But when they met—what a difference! Eight seemingly stout lances smashed into a thousand splinters, with a great crackling. Not a single knight was unhorsed. The crowd yelled in astonished delight.

  One of Mordred’s men whirled his horse on a shilling and seized an opponent from behind. Taking the poor fellow with a reverse headlock, he squeezed and twisted, lurching heavily as the helmet came off in his hands. The two men fell apart with the violence of the momentary tug-of-war. Mordred himself, seeing his opportunity, dashed in and dealt the helmetless man a terrific clout with his mailed fist. The latter went down as if struck by a thunderbolt.

  The crowd sat stunned by this unprecedented behavior, so contrary to the usual courtesies observed in these contests. By all the rules of jousting, Mordred was disqualified. The spectators muttered angrily at the unsportsmanlike behavior.

  Pete grinned, nudging Al. “Breakaway lances,” he explained, “and fall-apart armor. Hollywood stuff. All rehearsed. That guy ain’t hurt; he’s just playing his part.”

  THE joust broke into three isolated, individual battles. From the sidelines a fully-armored referee came out on a prancing white steed. He rode up to Mordred, tapped his breastplate, and motioned him to the bench. Obviously Mordred was getting the bounce for unfair tactics. The audience applauded.

  But Mordred refused to leave. Deliberately he rode into the referee’s horse, grappling with him. Metal screeched against metal, then the two went down amidst the terrific din of crashing hardware. Mordred landed on top. Instantly he got to his feet, backed off a few paces, then executed a lumbering broad jump which ended squarely upon the prostrate man’s stomach.

  Berserk, Mordred proceeded to strip the referee’s armor apart with his bare hands. He waved his arms about in apparent frenzy, throwing great hunks of tin all over the joint. So wrathful was his fury that he raised his visor and mangled the “armor-plate” hungrily with his teeth. When he had completely undressed the seemingly unconscious referee, he beat with resounding clangs upon his breastplate and emitted weird yells.

  “Tarzan stuff,” Pete explained to Al.

  The crowd sat absolutely dumbfounded. Then Pete gave them their cue, a famous three-letter word.

  “Boo!” came Pete’s booming voice. “Down with Mordred! Boo-oo-oo!”

  In an instant the east bleachers’ rabble took up the cry and Mordred received a tremendous booing. He stalked about the field shaking his fist at the razzers, daring them to come down and fight.

  For a minute the more refined nobility on the west side fought against impulse, then suddenly their breeding gave way. They, too, joined the razzberry chorus, booing as heartily as any gallery-god in Madison Square Garden. Pete grinned widely.

  At the crowd’s exhortation, Sir Nayme rallied his remaining men and charged down upon Mordred. Amid shrieks of sheer ecstasy, the villain went down in a furious melee, apparently getting his just desserts. But Mordred’s mounties came thundering to the rescue, and Mordred himself finally turned the tide with a dastardly trick.

  From within his iron bosom he drew a strip of parchment, covered on one side by the sticky pitch which oozes from the bark of certain trees. Sneaking up behind the unsuspecting Sir Nayme, he slapped the parchment over the noble knight’s visor. Sir Nayme’s steel-shod fingers could not get purchase enough to pry it off. Thus blinded, arms waving like a tin windmill, Sir Nayme staggered about the battlefield aimlessly, easy prey for his enemies.

  With the odds so reduced, Mordred and his men quickly drove through to ultimate victory. The spectators were absolutely frothing at the mouth as injustice piled upon injustice. Even King Arthur, Pete noted happly, was purple in the face and threatening to get a horse and square things with that Mordred himself.

  Guinevere was hanging onto his arm, and Arthur was yelling:

  “No ratte of a nephew of mine can get away with that! I’ll split him from crown to toe! Boy! Get me my sword, Excalibur!”

  BUT Pete, with the perfect timing of long-practiced showmanship, quickly took command. Through a crude loudspeaker system he cried: “Ladeez and gentlemen! Your attention, pleez—”

  Then smoothly he slipped into a familiar patter, announcing another joust next week at the same time, same place, and promising that Mordred had already been signed to defend his championship against a worthy set of opponents. Deftly he started the aroused crowd toward the exits without further disturbance.

  “A cinch sell-out next week,” Pete bragged to Al.

  Pete was right again. The crowd fought to get in, hoping to see the villainous Mordred get slaughtered. Excitement ran to unprecedented heights as Mordred apparently used all sorts of foul strategy to maintain his championship against all comers.

  All the traditional hokum of professional wrestling was thrown in, from faking terrible agony to carrying the fight right up into the stands where the frantic spectators could get in a few licks for their favorites. Pete had to organize a mounted police escort to get the leering Mordred to and from the field, protecting him from the hands of the infuriated mob.

  The park was enlarged, bleacher space nearly doubled. And still it was jammed to capacity by howling, cushion-throwing Britons begging someone to tear the head off Mordred.

  Money poured in. The royal treasury bulged. Pete, Sir Nayme, Mordred and the entire troupe were rolling in money. And, miraculously, no one was ever hurt.

  Merlin was supplanted as the King’s favorite. And, alas for Pete’s vaunted knowledge of human nature, he erred badly there. For weeks Merlin slunk about Camelot muttering as Pete’s status increased, favoring the latter with dirty looks whenever they chanced to meet. Then Merlin disappeared for a few days. That should have been the tip-off, but Pete, looking through rose-colored glasses, saw nothing but triumph piling upon triumph.

  Then came the crash. Al burst excitedly into Pete’s room early one afternoon.

  “Sir Cumference!” he exclaimed. “King Arthur demands your presence within the hour for judgment! Merlin has been prying around and has unearthed the truth about the weekly joust, that Mordred and his opponents enact a previously rehearsed routine.”

  “Okay,” Pete said. “So now he knows. So what? That’s no crime.”

  “Yes, it is. Under King Arthur the high ideals of knighthood are the most important things in life. Honesty, courtesy, gallantry, all the other attributes of the perfect knight—Why, it is in direct contrast with the fundamental concept of your phony tournaments!”

  Pete frowned in bewilderment. “But I haven’t hurt anybody, and I’ve crammed Art’s treasury with good coin. Everyone’s enjoyed theirselves; it’s been a good show. D’you mean after all that the king’d give me the bounce?”

  “You’ll be fortunate if the bounce is all you get! Merlin is out to get rid of you and has presented a strong case to the king. He was the favorite before you came along. And you know human nature.”

  Pete ignored the sarcasm. “Don’t seem like Mordred an’ th’ boys woulda spilled anything, if
they realized what was at stake. They been making heavy dough, too.” Pete rose. “I’ve handled things like this before. I’ll go down and call Merlin a liar. Meantime, you get the witnesses out of reach. Pay ’em to take a little trip till the heat’s off. Then it’ll just be Merlin’s word against mine.”

  IN an hour Pete had audience with King Arthur in the judgment chamber. Arthur’s advisers sat about with serious faces, while the king himself was impassive.

  Merlin, looking like the cat beside the empty bird-cage, stated his case at great length, dwelling with boring emphasis upon the falseness of the new weekly tournaments, the opposite of all the principles which Arthur, the Round Table, and knighthood itself held dear.

  As Merlin concluded, Arthur looked pityingly at Pete, as if genuinely reluctant to pronounce judgment on such a fine fellow.

  “Have thou rebuttal, Sir Cumference, against these grave charges?” he asked.

  Pete was awakened from his slumber.

  “All I gotta say is—Merlin lies. D’you take his unsupported word against mine? Where’s the proof? Has he got any witnesses to back up this trumped-up charge? Politics, that’s what it is!” Pete grinned confidently at Merlin, but the magician’s nose lifted disdainfully, as if there was a bad odor in the room.

  “Witnesses will be unnecessary,” Merlin growled. “I exercise my privilege and challenge this interloper to trial by battle. And I choose for my proxy—Sir Lancelot of the Lake!”

  A murmur of excitement rippled over the room. Save for King Arthur himself, Lancelot was the mightiest of all the knights.

  Pete stuttered in confusion, then demanded:

  “I want to talk to my mouthpiece. With an adviser, I mean.”

  Permission was granted, and Pete hurriedly conferred with the alchemist. “An old medieval custom,” Al explained. “He can challenge you, and both can have a proxy do the actual fighting. If you or your proxy lose the fight, then you are drawn and quartered.”