Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  “He’s thinking,” Sammy defended sturdily. “Got a lot on his mind these days, Stevie has. He gets about two hours’ sleep a night.”

  “But what’s he doin’ ?”

  “I don’t know,” admitted Sammy. “Inventing something, maybe.”

  “More than likely he’ll blow us all up one of these fine days,” grunted the storekeeper. The loungers around the stove nodded in agreement. “Here’s the train coming in. Hear it?”

  Sammy settled himself more comfortably. “There ought to be a package for Stevie, then.”

  There was. The old man took the parcel and left the station. He stood for a time, watching the train disappear into the distance. Its whistle sang a seductive song that aroused nostalgia in Sammy’s bosom. He sighed, remembering the old days when he had been a hungry, carefree bindle-stiff. Well, he was better off now—well fed and cared for, without any worries. But it was nice to hear a train whistle once in awhile. . . .

  He climbed into the roadster and zoomed off toward the mansion. Ten minutes later he let himself into the hall, to be met by an anxious-eyed girl in a white uniform.

  “Did it come?” she asked.

  “Sure, Marion. Here it is.”

  He gave her the parcel. Holding it tightly, she turned and hurried away.

  SINCE her arrival three years ago, Marion Barton had become a fixture in the house. She had been hired, at first, as a temporary laboratory assistant, during the absence of the regular one. But she had interested Court, who saw surprising capabilities in her.

  The fact that Marion was altogether lovely—slim, brown-eyed, dark-haired, with a peach complexion and remarkably kissable lips—meant nothing at all to Court. He merely catalogued her as a perfect physical specimen, thoroughly healthy, and concentrated on the more interesting occupation of investigating her mind. What he found there pleased him.

  “She’s intelligent,” he told Sammy, “and she is meticulously careful. I’ve never seen her make a mistake. She’s such a perfect assistant for me that we work in complete harmony. The girl seems to know exactly what I want, whether to hand me a scalpel or a lens, and she’s completely unemotional. I shall keep her on, Sammy, and train her.”

  “Uh-huh,” said the old man, nodding wisely. “She does all that, and she’s completely unemotional, eh? Well, maybe so. Sure she ain’t in love with you, Stevie?”

  “Rot!” Court snapped, but it made him think it was necessary to warn Marion. “I’ll pay you well,” he explained to her, “and give you an invaluable training. But I have no time for emotional unbalance. I cannot afford distractions. Do you understand me?”

  “Well,” Marion observed with desperate levity, “I’ll wear horn-rimmed glasses if you want, and hoop-skirts if my legs distract you.”

  “Not at all. I merely mean that there must be no question of any—well—infatuation.”

  Marion was silent for a moment, though her eyes sparkled dangerously.

  “All right,” she said quietly. “I won’t fall in love with you, Mr. Court. Is that satisfactory?”

  “Quite,” Court said.

  He turned away, obviously dismissing the subject, while Marion glared at his retreating back. . . .

  She was remembering this scene now as she went into Court’s laboratory. He was bent over a table, one eye to a microscope, his lips tensely pursed. Marion waited till he had finished his count. He straightened and saw her.

  “Got it?” he asked calmly. “Good.”

  Court ripped open the package and drew out a small, leather-bound notebook. Hastily he flipped through the pages. His strong, tanned face darkened.

  “Wait a minute, Marion,” he called as the girl moved to leave. “I want to talk to you.”

  “Yes?”

  “Er—this is New Year’s Eve, I know. Had you planned on doing anything tonight?”

  Marion’s brown eyes widened. She stared at Court in amazement. Was he trying to date her?

  “Why, I did plan on—”

  “I should appreciate it,” he said, without a trace of embarrassment, “if you would stay and help me with some research tonight. I regret having to say this, but it’s rather important. I want to verify certain tests.”

  “I’ll stay,” Marion assented briefly, but she flushed.

  “Good. Stain these slides, please.”

  FOR several hours the two worked in silence. Court engrossed with his microscope, the girl busy dying the samples. Finally Court exhausted a small tank and conducted experiments in the vacuum he had created.

  Time dragged on, till the huge old house was utterly still. The chill of a Wisconsin winter blanketed it, making frost patterns on the window panes. Inside the room it was warm enough, though snow lay thickly on the ground outside.

  Presently Marion slipped out of the room and returned bearing a tray of coffee and sandwiches. She set it on a table and glanced at Court. Standing by a window, he was idly smoking a cigarette.

  “Mr. Court—”

  “What is it?” he asked, without looking around. His face was upturned to the quiet night outside as he spoke again, not waiting for her answer. “Come here.”

  Marion obeyed. She was astonished to see that Court’s face was drawn and haggard, actually gray around the lips. But his eyes were feverishly bright.

  “Up there,” he said, pointing. “Do you see anything?”

  The cold stars glittered frostily in an abyss of empty black. Some icy breath of the unknown seemed to blow down from the frigid, airless seas between the planets. Marion shuddered.

  “I see nothing unusual,” she said.

  “Naturally. No one has. There’s nothing visible, and yet—” Wearily he rubbed his forehead. “It’s impossible that my experiments have lied.”

  “Drink some coffee,” Marion urged.

  Court followed her to the table and sat down. As she poured the steaming liquid, his somber eyes dwelt on her face.

  “Are you game for an airplane trip into Canada?” he asked abruptly.

  “Yes. When?”

  “As soon as I can arrange it. There’s a man I must see, a—a patient.”

  Court gulped down untasted coffee and blinked tiredly.

  “You should get at least a little sleep.”

  “Not yet. I don’t know—” He came to a sudden decision. “Marion, you don’t know anything about this experiment I’m working on. No one knows about it yet, except me. All this data I’ve been collecting lately has been for a purpose. You haven’t any idea what that purpose is, have you?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “Well,” Court declared, with curious calm, “it’s simply this—I have reason to believe that the Earth is going to be destroyed. Wait a minute!” he cried hastily. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have mentioned this till I was absolutely certain. But I want to talk to someone.”

  His unrealized loneliness showed naked for an unguarded second on his face. He caught himself, and was once more impassive.

  “The Earth is going to face a plague that will destroy civilization. Of that,

  at least, I am certain.”

  “A plague,” she breathed.

  “I call it that, for lack of a better term. Every being on this planet will be affected by it.”

  MARION looked at him sharply. Her lovely eyes narrowed. “Affected? Don’t you mean destroyed?”

  Court pushed back his chair and rose. “No,” he whispered. “I don’t.” His grave lips went hard. “Come here, Marion. Look at this.”

  He strode to a safe in the wall, opened it, and withdrew a small oblong box of lead. Set in one face was a round, transparent disc.

  “Look through the lens,” he commanded. “Don’t get too close to that thing, though.”

  Marion obeyed. Through the tiny pane, she could see within the box a shining lump of matter, no larger than the nail of her thumb.

  “It’s phosphorescent,” she said. “What is it—an ore?”

  “A specimen of flesh taken from the thigh of a man
named Pierre Locicault, a French-Canadian.”

  “Flesh?” The girl peered again at the object. “Was he exposed to radium?”

  Court replaced the box in the safe. “No, nothing like that. Locicault lived in a little settlement in a valley in the wilderness. A month ago he staggered into the nearest town, emaciated and nearly dead. His story was just about unbelievable. He claimed that one day a heavy fog—abnormally heavy—blanketed his valley, and affected the inhabitants peculiarly.

  “They became incredibly hungry, ate enormous meals. Their skin became hot to the point of high fever. And they grew so old that most of them died. Locicault went for help, but nobody recognized him when he arrived in town. He looked thirty years older. What does that suggest to you, Marion?”

  “Increased metabolism,” she said unhesitatingly.

  “Exactly. A rescue party was sent out. They found the corpses of a dozen old men and women in the valley, but no sign of what killed them. There was no sign of a fog, nor anything dangerous. Meanwhile, Locicault was luckily put into an isolation ward in the hospital. He ate tremendously. It was noticed that his skin emitted radiation. In the dark, his body actually shone.” Court lit a cigarette for a few abstracted puffs before continuing.

  “His nurse caught the contagion. She killed herself. Locicault is kept in utter isolation now, for there isn’t a doctor or a nurse who dares to get near him. When Doctor Granger wired me, I suggested lead insulation, so he could obtain this specimen for me to study. I want to see Locicault and make further experiments upon him.”

  Marion frowned. “You have other evidence, of course?”

  “Naturally. Similar cases have been reported to me. This isn’t anything new. Do you remember, about seven years ago, a newspaper story about a valley in France where the inhabitants were killed by a heavy fog? It was attributed to poison gas. Do you remember that West Indian island where life was wiped out overnight, without any explanation at all? People talked about volcanic gas.

  “My files are full of apparently meaningless items like that. Freaks and sports born to animals and humans. So-called ghost stories about apparitions that shone in the dark. There are dozens of other examples.”

  THE girl shuddered as she thought of the tag of flesh she had seen. “And do you think this is the beginning of a plague?”

  “My graphs and charts show an upward swing. These occurrences happen more frequently as time goes on. Whatever causes them is growing more powerful.”

  “But what could cause such a thing?” the girl asked. “No virus could—”

  “Not a virus. Filterable or not, they could not cause cellular radioactivity. This menace—this unknown X—is certainly not a virus. I don’t know its nature, nor where it comes from. Till I know those factors, I can do nothing.”

  “Could it be a weapon of war?” Marion suggested.

  “You mean—Well, scarcely! Once it’s started, it’s completely uncontrollable. X isn’t man-made, for its record goes back too far for chemistry. It’s a natural phenomenon, and our only clue is fog.”

  “A gas?”

  Court nodded, and his eyes grew distant with thought.

  “Where does it come from—under the Earth? That’s possible, of course, but hardly any of these cases have occurred in volcanic country. I think X comes from the interstellar void.”

  Marion’s eyes widened in horrified recollection.

  “That’s why you’ve been getting those observatory reports! Photographs and spectra.”

  Court grunted impatiently. “They showed nothing, and that’s what I can’t understand.”

  “Maybe the conditions aren’t right,” Marion suggested. “Phosphorescence isn’t visible in daylight. Perhaps X isn’t visible in space.”

  Court didn’t move, but his fingers broke his cigarette in two.

  “What was that?” he demanded, startled.

  Before the girl could reply, he whistled sharply and turned to the window.

  “Of course, a catalyst! Some element in our atmosphere makes X visible, and perhaps dangerous as well. In outer space it can’t be seen, but when it comes in contact with some element in the air—I think you’ve got it, Marion!”

  He stared grimly at the dark sky.

  “Up there, yet it’s invisible. Perhaps a cosmically huge cloud of it is drifting eternally through space. We’re probably on the outer fringes, so we’ve touched only a few tiny, scattered wisps. When Earth plunges into the main body—”

  Court lifted a clenched fist, furious because he was such a tiny, insignificant figure against the mighty concourse of the starry void.

  “An element so alien that we can scarcely conceive of it! We can realize it exists only by seeing its effects on Earth. What is it? What physical laws govern that frightful matter? Or is it matter, as we know it?”

  He turned suddenly, his eyes hard and determined.

  “We’re leaving for Canada. Charter a plane. I’ll pack the equipment I will need.”

  Marion paused at the door.

  “Mr. Court—” she began, and hesitated.

  “Well?”

  Somehow, though, she could find no words. In her mind was the picture of Court at the window, challenging the Universe. A champion of mankind, he had made a magnificent gesture.

  But then Marion saw his cold, grim eyes. Reading the expression in them, her face whitened as she realized suddenly that Court cared nothing at all for mankind. His motives were passionlessly selfish.

  He was not a champion. He was a scientist, cold, calculating, egocentric, challenging an opponent that threatened his existence.

  Whatever she had meant to say died in her throat, just as something died in her heart. She went out of the room and closed the door quietly behind her.

  CHAPTER V

  Jansaiya

  IT was dark in the forest, though sunlight filtered down wanly through the branches. Truly the Earth had changed since Ardath had first set foot upon it.

  He was not entirely pleased as he strode along, matching step with the gigantic Thordred. It did not seem to him that this world would be a suitable dwelling place. Thousands of years had passed since Ardath had taken Thordred from his home. Weary centuries had passed in ageless slumber, and a new civilization had risen. But somehow Ardath did not feel at home in this time. He sensed a subtle strangeness in the very air about him.

  He sighed a little wearily. His plans had gone amiss. The death of Zana, the Amazon queen, had taken him by surprise. He had hoped to retain her as a mate for Thordred, but without apparent cause, the woman’s sleep had changed to death.

  A fleeting suspicion of Thordred had passed through Ardath’s mind, but he dismissed it. Though he had several poisons which might have caused such symptoms, Thordred could not possibly know of their existence nor how to use them. Not by a word or a thought had Thordred revealed that his brain held all the knowledge that had been Ardath’s alone.

  The two of them had set out to examine this new civilization, leaving the space ship safely hidden in the forest. They had captured two natives, learned their language by means of the thought-transference machine, and taken their clothing. With all memory of the encounter wiped from their minds by means of Ardath’s strange science, the natives were released.

  “They are puny folk today,” Thordred said, his savage face twisting into a grin as he shifted the toga about his broad shoulders. “These garments scarcely cover me.”

  “Our own garments might have caused comment,” Ardath explained. “Let us hope that your size won’t mark you for an alien.”

  Thordred spat in vicious contempt.

  “I don’t fear these weaklings. Why can I not carry a weapon, Lord?”

  “I am armed,” Ardath said quietly.

  The huge Earthling did not answer. He had not wished to accompany Ardath on this expedition. If Thordred could have remained in the ship, he would have had free access to the laboratory. After that, there would be no need to fear Ardath or anyone else. But he had
not dared to object when his captor ordered him to follow.

  The forest thinned and the two men came out into blinding sunlight. Starting at their feet, the ground sloped down to a broad, shallow basin, a valley where a city lay. To the north was the serrated horizon of mountain peaks. Apparently they were volcanoes, for smoke plumed up lazily from one and spread in a dark blot against the blue sky.

  “This is their chief city,” Ardath stated. “Remember, if anyone asks, we are farmers from the outer provinces.” Thordred nodded, grinning more broadly than before. A farmer! His mighty hands were accustomed to sword-hilts, not the handles of plows. But he had good reason not to argue.

  THE metropolis was unwalled. Several unpaved but well trodden roads led into it, along which wains and wagons were creaking in and out. Most of the houses were of wood, some of stone, and a few of marble. Those built of marble were mostly temples.

  Crowds filled the streets. There seemed to be two types of beings here. The roughly clad, bronzed peasant class, walked or drove their wagons. The aristocracy were carried in palanquins. There were soldiers, too, armed horsemen who nevertheless seemed slight compared with Thordred’s giant frame.

  “Here,” Ardath said, nodding toward a low doorway. “Taverns are good places to hear gossip.”

  They entered the inn, found themselves in a large room, broad and long, but low-raftered. The stench of wine and beer was choking. Lamps illuminated the darker corners. Crude tables were set here and there, at which men lounged, drinking, cursing and laughing. Two bearded seamen were throwing dice on the floor.

  “We are thirsty,” Ardath said to the waiter who appeared.

  He did not drink from the wine-cup that was set before him. Thordred, however, drained his at a gulp, and shouted for more.

  “You are strangers here?” the innkeeper asked.

  He took the coins Ardath gave him—curious bronze disks engraved with a cross within a circle. They had come from the pockets of the two natives Ardath had captured.