Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  “Yeah,” Pete nodded. “I know how she is. Or do I?”

  “I’ve done what I could. The Queen’s going to attend a performance two nights from now, at the Globe Theatre, in disguise. She said if Shakespeare is really as good as I said, she’ll forgive you. But if he’s a flop you’ll be beheaded. And I’ll be in trouble myself.”

  “Wow,” Manx groaned. “What a dame. I still don’t get it. Just what—”

  “In two nights, the Queen will be in the audience. Tell these scoundrelly players of yours to do their utmost. Everything depends on Elizabeth’s liking the play. If she does, you’ll get the job of Attorney-General instead of Coke.”

  A page rushed in and handed the visitor a paper. The short beard wiggled.

  “I must go. Good luck. I’ll be with Elizabeth at the performance.”

  He fled, but Pete detained the page. Apparently he was supposed to know the bearded man, who certainly knew him. He asked the boy.

  “The Earl of Essex,” said the page, bowing low as he departed. Pete staggered to a table and called for a boilermaker.

  “Essex! Elizabeth and—ouch! These things always happen to me! I still don’t know who I am—but I’m. a pal of Essex, if that means anything.”

  “A pal of Essex?” boomed Ben Jonson as he entered the tavern and lumbered forward. “Who? Never mind. I’ve news for you, Pete. Will’s troupe has been arrested.”

  “What?” Manx spilled his drink. “Arrested? But—”

  “Vagrancy’s the charge,” Ben said, smiling wryly. “The whole troupe’s in gaol. They’ll be released in a week, I hear. Some lawyer named Coke arranged it.”

  “Coke! Edward Coke? Wait a minute.” Pete sat silently considering. He was beginning to understand. The Queen would attend a performance of Romeo and Juliet in two nights. But there’d be nobody to act out the play. Coke’s stratagem would mean—”

  “Why, the double-crossing mouthpiece,” Manx exploded. “I’ll put the bee on him. Where’s Will? We gotta get hold of the understudies.”

  “They’re in gaol too,” Ben explained.

  “But we gotta put on the play in two nights! We—we—”

  “We can’t. Coke’s got guards at the Globe and threatens to arrest any players on the stage for vagrancy.”

  Shakespeare wandered in, shaking his head.

  “Hello, Pete. Hello, Ben. This business may give me time to write my novel, but I don’t know. I wax despondent.”

  “You wax—eh?” Pete’s jaw dropped. “Say! I’ve got an idea. You say Coke won’t let any actors on the stage, Ben? And the players are all in the calaboose?”

  “Right.”

  “Okay.” Mr. Manx nodded slowly. “If I can get in to see the boys, I may be able to fix it yet. But it’ll mean work. Listen!” He bent forward over the table and began to talk rapidly.

  HALF an hour later several skilled Jill artisans stood around Pete, watching him sketch on the table-top.

  “The diaphragm goes here. Maybe parchment will do for that, or vellum. The needle arm’s connected to the center of the diaphragm, and it sort of bends down—like that. There’s the needle. The wax rolls—you do have wax in this time, don’t you?”

  “Of course,” said one of the artisan?. “But I don’t understand—”

  “You don’t have to. Just do as I tell you. You talk into this horn and your voice hits the diaphragm and jiggles it. That jiggles the needle, which keeps sliding over the wax rolls. They’re turning, you see, and—”

  Kit Marlowe dashed in.

  “Here’s the pass from Essex,” he gasped. “It’ll get you into the gaol and out again.”

  “Swell. Now I want a rush job, boys, and I’ll check every step with you.” His eyes twinkled mischievously.

  IT was almost-curtain time. Manx peeped through the curtain at the audience.

  “She ain’t come yet,” he said, “I guess. Wait a minute. There’s Essex—and a frail with him. She’s got a mask on.”

  Ben Jonson looked.

  “That’s the Queen, all right. Shall we get started?”

  A burly man in uniform tapped Pete on the shoulder.

  “We have our orders. If any player sets foot on this stage—”

  “Yeah. We know. But Ben and Kit and Will and I ain’t players. Come on, Will. Make your speech.”

  Master Shakespeare, however, had stage-fright. He was hiding in the wings, and Manx hastily took his place. As he marched on, he was horridly conscious of hundreds of eyes focused at him. Essex looked worried. The Queen’s face was impassive.

  “Uh—ladies and gentlemen,” Pete gulped. “You’re going to witness something entirely new and different. You got a habit of putting on plays here without scenery. Well, we’re going one step further. We’re putting on Romeo and Juliet tonight with plenty of scenery—but without actors!”

  There was a dead silence as Manx fled. He rushed off the stage, ducked behind a screen set in the center, and gestured wildly at Kit Marlowe, who obediently lifted the curtain. The audience saw a back-drop painted to represent a street—supposedly in Verona, but, since Pete had sketched the scene, it was a bit puzzling to see an elevated railway near a palace that bore a suspicious resemblance to the Empire State Building. A voice said:

  “Two households, both alike in dignity—”

  The guards stood in the wings, staring. Neither Pete nor the others was talking. The voice, seemingly, emerged from a horn connected to a box over which Manx hovered, vigorously turning a crank. Manx had made the waxen records for his simple phonograph in the gaol.

  The Prologue ended. Sampson and Gregory, of the house of Gapulet, appeared invisibly on the stage.

  “Gregory, o’ my word, we’ll not carry coals.”

  “No, for then we should be colliers.”

  Will Shakespeare had quietly fainted against a back-drop. Kit Marlowe was staring out at the audience and shaking his head despairingly. Only Ben was happy. He was slightly tipsy.

  “What a time we had last night,” he gurgled. “After you went to bed, Pete. We played your—what is it?—phonograph in the tavern, and even made a recording. What fun!”

  “Sh-h!” Manx hissed. “The next record, quick!”

  The guards were worried. Obviously they couldn’t arrest players if there weren’t any, but the performance was going on regardless. Yet the audience was cold.

  Shakespeare woke up and passed out again. Kit was dripping with perspiration. Pete felt sick. This wasn’t going over. Maybe it was too novel. And if the Queen didn’t like it—what had Essex said? Beheading? Or maybe burning at the stake. Pete shut his eyes and shuddered. It was just a toss-up between a stake and a chop.

  THE silence grew deadly. People began to leave. Kit had his hands over his eyes. Will awoke, listened a moment, gasped, “That damned balcony scene!” and passed out once more.

  It was act two, scene two—Capulet’s orchard. The famous balcony scene. Romeo entered invisibly.

  His deep voice came out of the phonograph horn.

  “He jests at scars that never felt a wound. But soft! What light through yonder window breaks . . .” The record ended. Pete automatically reached for the next, which should have been extended ready in Ben’s hand. But Jonson was having trouble. He was fumbling desperately amid the cylinders.

  “They’re mixed up,” he gurgled. “Quick! Adlib!”

  With a groan of horror Pete snatched the script from his pocket and searched for the place. Already hisses were coming from the audience on the other side of the screen. A moment more—

  Pete found the place, but the letters blurred before his eyes. The old English script was difficult for him to read. He tried to imitate Romeo’s voice, bending low over the phonograph so the guards would not notice that he was speaking.

  “It—it is the east, and Juliet is the sun. Arise—f-f-fair sun, and—what the hell is this!—and—and blackout the moon, who is—who’s got the pip . . . that thou art—art—art a honey more fair than she . . .”


  “Oh, my God!” Will Shakespeare gurgled, and collapsed once more. “What a profession! I’m going out and dig ditches for a living!”

  The audience was in an uproar. Kit Marlowe was running around in circles. Ben Jonson was hopelessly fumbling with the wax records. Pete plunged on frantically.

  “Two of the fairest stars . . . what if her lamps were there . . . her glims in heaven . . . oh, that I were a glove upon her hand, that I might—might—what is this, anyhow? that I might get a handout!”

  “Ay me!” Ben Jonson squeaked in Juliet’s voice.

  “She speaks!” Pete babbled hysterically. “Oh, speak again—”

  “Got it!” Ben said jubilantly, slipping a record on the phonograph. “Oh, speak, bright angel—”

  BEN was busy, and the needle scratched across the wax. The phonograph’s horn blared out sound. The bright angel spoke again:

  “It was down in Chinatown—the cokeys lay around—some were high and some were mighty loooow!”

  “Mighty low!” boomed the chorus of the Mermaid Tavern.

  “There were millions on the floor—”

  “Oh-oh,” Ben said. “Wrong record. That’s the one we made last night in the tavern.”

  “And theeeah was Minnie—Minnie the Moocher!—kicking the gong around!”

  “Take it off!” Pete babbled. “Oh, we’re sunk now! We—”

  “Hold!” Kit Marlowe called from the wings. “Pete, they like it! They’re going wild.”

  A chorus of shouts rose from the audience. The contagion of the jive swept out. Some of the onlookers had visited the Mermaid Tavern lately, and they began to jitterbug in the aisles. In a moment the Globe Theatre swung into action!

  “If you don’t know Minnie—”

  “If you don’t know Minnie!” roared the audience.

  “Yahooo!” That was Ben Jonson, capering into view on the stage and setting the pace. “Swing it, boys! Give!”

  “There was Minnie!”

  Even the guards joined in, unable to resist. And Queen Elizabeth rose daintily to her feet, assisted by Essex, and—swung!

  “There was Minnie—”

  “MINNIE THE MOOCHER!”

  “Kicking the gong around!”

  By the time the record ended, the audience had collapsed in their seats. But Pete’s quick brain had already made a plan. He continued Romeo—with certain additions. Between each act he played Minnie the Moocher. Essex found him after the show. “It’s wonderful,” the Earl babbled. “You’ll be the next Attorney-General! The Queen’s delighted. It’s—”

  “Aw, it’s nothing,” Pete said modestly. “Just a little idea of mine, that’s all. Hey, Ben?”

  “I hear you talking,” remarked Ben Jonson. “Hi-de—”

  Woosh!

  DOCTOR MAYHEM had at last repaired his time machine.

  Pete opened his eyes in the laboratory. He beamed happily at Professor Aker and the Doc.

  “Hi,” he greeted. “Had a swell time. Wish you’d been along.”

  “What happened?” Aker demanded. “Shakespeare wrote the plays, didn’t he?”

  “Bacon!” Mayhem snapped. “Tell us just what happened, Pete.”

  “Okay,” said Manx, gratefully lighting a cigarette. “Bacon had nothing to do with the set-up. Shakespeare wrote his own stuff. Listen . . .” He launched into his tale, ignoring Mayhem’s look of disappointment.

  “So that’s the whole thing,” he finished. “Sorry, Doc, but you lose.” Aker was grinning.

  “Next time don’t argue with a psychologist,” he said maliciously. “If—”

  “Just a minute.” Mayhem had an eyebrow cocked up. “You gave Will Shakespeare a lot of ideas didn’t you, Pete?”

  “Oh, sure. He liked most of ’em. Wrote ’em up—”

  “Never mind that. You gave Shakespeare ideas!” Mayhem turned to Aker.

  “Professor,” he told him, “I think you missed a few points. The man whose body Pete inhabited in the sixteenth century was a close friend of Essex. He was a cousin to Robert Cecil and a nephew of Lord Burghley. And his deadliest enemy was Edward Coke, the lawyer.”

  “So what?” Pete asked. “I never did find out who I was.”

  Mayhem was chuckling. “Ask Aker. He knows. That’s right, Pete—you were a pal of Essex and an enemy of Coke. Your uncle was Lord Burghley. And—ha!—d’you know who Lord Burghley’s nephew was?”

  “No,” Manx said blankly; “Who was he?”

  “Sir Francis Bacon!” Mayhem howled, and bent double with laughter. “So Shakespeare wrote the plays! Wow! But Pete Manx gave Shakespeare the ideas—and it was Bacon’s body you were inhabiting in Elizabethan times! Yaaah!” the Doctor observed, with a lamentable lack of dignity, to the departing back of Professor Aker. “Wise guy, huh? Come on, Pete. I’m going to buy you a drink.”

  “Okay, Doc,” Manx smiled, rising. “I guess I earned it. That’s what I call bringing home the Bacon!”

  THE UNCANNY POWER OF EDWIN COBALT

  Panic struck into Edwin Cobalt’s soul as the doubting power grew beyond his ability to control it

  I’M naturally hard to convince. I doubt everything. In short, I’m the original “man from Missouri.” And one of the things that I’ve always felt came home to me as I lay back in my easy chair and stared at the surrealistic oil Susan had bought that day during some temporary aberration. If you can call that art—

  It was a mess of coiling green and purple serpentine shapes. I was tired after a hard day’s work, and my eyes were a bit out of focus. The picture wavered on the wall like a nightmare.

  Suddenly, with no more warning than that, I started to wonder if the picture was real. That travesty should never have been painted. I felt myself doubting its existence.

  Then all at once it wasn’t there, and there wasn’t even a lighter patch on the wall to mark where it had been.

  I got up from the couch and went over to look. I had fallen asleep and Susan had removed the thing, probably. Odd.

  Susan came in from the kitchen, flushed and charming in a mild way. She is blonde and slim and fluttery.

  “Soup’s on,” she said.

  “Where’s the picture?” I asked. “Did you take it?”

  She just looked at me.

  “What picture?”

  “The surrealistic one.” I pointed to the wall. Susan laughed dutifully and came over to me, expecting to be kissed.

  “What on earth are you talking about, Ed? You know we haven’t any surrealistic pictures.”

  “If you’ve thrown it out,” I told her, kissing her at last, “that’s swell. Okay by me.”

  “You’re crazy,” the lady said and went back into the kitchen.

  I looked at the wall, but there was no mark of a nail to indicate where the picture had hung. Nor could I find it around the apartment.

  Susan had cooked a steak. I could smell it, but when I went to lift the cover on the broiler my wife slapped my hands and chased me away. I retreated to the bathroom, tidied myself up, and began to think about illusions.

  Like the picture. Sometimes you imagine things are there when they’re not. Magicians’ tricks. Like I might imagine there was a steak in the broiler when there really wasn’t. The appetizing aroma—auto-suggestion.

  Some times I think too damn much.

  Imperceptibly I did it. I got around to wondering if there was a steak in the kitchen, and then I reached the point of doubting it.

  Susan called, “Come on, Ed. Ready yet?”

  I found her in the bedroom, tugging on an absurd hat.

  “Aren’t you ready?” she asked.

  “I’m ready,” I said. “Why the hat?”

  “Well! After all, if we’re going out to dinner . . . unless you want to eat in a hamburger joint—”

  “Going out to dinner!” I must have sounded surprised. “I’m ready to tear into that steak.”

  “What steak?”

  I took her by the hand and led her out to the kitchen and point
ed to the broiler.

  “That steak,” I said, lifting up the lid.

  There wasn’t anything under it. Not even a speck of grease. The broiler grid was spotless.

  But french fries and spinach were cooked and ready. I showed them to Susan and she looked flabbergasted.

  “Lordy,” she said, “I’m veering. Why on earth did I cook those when I knew we were eating out?”

  “Look,” I almost yelled, “do you remember buying and cooking a steak?”

  “Not since last week,” she said, with the utmost certainty.

  We ate out. Doutbting Thomas, indeed! I felt more certain about the picture now. But I felt very uncertain about other things. In the mirror opposite our table booth I scrutinized myself. Short, chunky, light-haired, ordinary looking. I wasn’t a magician. Anyway—

  Anyway, I looked at the salt-shaker and whispered, “I doubt if you exist.”

  “I don’t get it,” said Susan, reaching for the shaker. “What’s the point?”

  “There isn’t any,” I said. Either I had imagined things, or the power was uncontrollable. I couldn’t turn it on and off like a faucet. I ordered a drink and then another.

  WE WENT to a night club. When we emerged, I was woozy. I wanted to call a cab but Susan insisted on the sub. She likes to ride in the subways when she’s tight. I said, “Okay, the 69th Street station’s only a few blocks away.”

  As the crow flies. We didn’t fly. We staggered. We got into Central Park somehow, indulged in an acrimonious argument with an elm, and finally emerged on 69th Street. We walked toward Broadway, but couldn’t find it.

  So that was why I finally said, with some bitterness, “I doubt if there is a 69th Street station.”

  Well, when we got to 69th and Broadway there wasn’t any subway station. The cop we asked said we were tight and there never had been a station there. If you know New York, you’ll agree with him. I’m the only man in the world who remembers the 69th Street subway station.

  The cop called a cab and we went home.

  I WOKE up the next morning with a ghastly hangover and did hasty things with Worcestershire sauce and an egg-yolk. Susan was still pounding her ear when I left. Trip-hammers were roaring in my skull and I couldn’t focus my thoughts. But I tried. Magic? Miracles? Will-power? Something in me was changed; but how or why I couldn’t say. It seemed that if I doubted the existence of anything, that thing ceased to exist. And the power was retroactive. The thing never had existed.