Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  “Yes. Thanks, Stevie.”

  Court drew up a chair and clumsily sat down in it. Through the lead-infiltrated goggles, his eyes probed. With gloved fingers he made adjustments on the apparatus, and carefully checked the readings on certain gauges.

  “The change is progressive,” he muttered under his breath.

  Drawing a microscope toward him, he took a sample of the patient’s skin cells and prepared a slide.

  “Yes, entropy . . . Incredible! I still can’t understand—”

  “What is it, Steve?” Sammy asked weakly.

  “Nothing new. But I’ll find a cure yet. You can depend on me, Sammy.”

  The hideous folds of wrinkles twitched in a ghastly semblance of amusement.

  “Your cure won’t help me. I’m hungry again.”

  Court gave the old man another rabbit. Then he took pencil and paper, set a stop-watch on the table, and began the usual word-association test. Though simple, it had proved surprisingly effective in checking on the patient’s mental metamorphosis.

  But now Court was due for a surprise. The test proceeded normally, Sammy responding without much hesitation, though over two words—“man” and “life”—he paused perceptibly. Then Court said, “Food,” and immediately Sammy responded, “Human.”

  Court made a great effort to control himself. He read the next word, and the next, but he did not even hear Sammy’s responses. He was battling down the gorge that rose in his throat, yet this should have been expected. Sammy was absorbing life-energy from living beings, and the human brain contained the highest form of such energy. But what would be the result?

  Sammy’s replies lagged as he seemed to grow weaker. Court left him at last, with a few encouraging words. But when he hurried out, he was feeling worried and depressed.

  It was past sunset, and he switched on the light in his lab. Removing the lead-armor, he sat down to think matters over. Sammy was no longer entirely human, for the change was progressing rapidly. His basal metabolism was tremendously increased. As Court had discovered, the very matter of his body was changed.

  “Entropy,” he whispered, nervously folding and unfolding his hands. “That’s the answer, of course. But what it means—”

  Entropy, the rate of the universe’s running down. A human body is composed of atoms and electrons, like a universe. If the entropic value of a life-organism is increased, what is the result?

  Court was angry with himself because he did not know. He should have been grateful for not being able to see the future. . . .

  “Sammy’s changing into another form of life, that’s certain. And he absorbs energy directly through contact. I must take more precautions. He may be dangerous later.”

  ABRUPTLY there was an interruption. The door flew open, and Marion burst in. Her brown hair was in disorder under her white cap.

  “Stephen!” she cried through pallid lips. “There are men coming up the road!”

  “What about it?” he asked, without interest.

  “From the village. With torches. I’m afraid—”

  “Those damned fools!” he snapped angrily. “Rouse out the men. Give them rifles. Tell them to spread through the house and keep its front covered from inside. When I give the word, they can fire.”

  Marion stared at him in horror. “You’d—murder those men?”

  Court’s eyes were icy as he returned her stricken gaze.

  “Why not? They’re afraid I have a contagious case here. But they’re afraid for their own precious skins. They’d be willing to burn down the house and kill Sammy. Well, it’s lucky I’ve taken precautions. Do what I say!”

  His tone sent Marion racing out. Growling an oath, Court went to the front door. He opened it and stepped out on the front porch. A bright moon revealed the scene. Before him the road sloped steeply down to the village, with a few trees that were blots of shadow on either side.

  Torches flamed along the road. Twenty-five or thirty men—possibly more—were advancing in ominous silence.

  Court put his back against the door and waited. The ignorant fools! He was trying to save their lives.

  Quickly the mob formed a crescent about the porch. They were mostly villagers and farmers. Under other circumstances, they would have dreamed and worked away their lives without ever embarking on such a hazardous venture as this. But now their work-worn faces were grim, and their sharp eyes narrowed with deadly purpose.

  Court unfolded his arms. Though he held no weapon, the mob drew back slightly. Then one man, a lean, grizzlehaired oldster in overalls, stepped forward.

  “What do you want?” Court asked quietly.

  The old man scowled.

  “We want some questions answered, Mr. Court. Are you harborin’ a case of the Plague?”

  “Yes.”

  The word was flatly emotionless, yet a mutter went up from the crowd.

  “I s’pose you know that’s contagious. There can’t nothin’ stop it.”

  “There is no danger of contagion,” Court replied. “I have taken care of that.” He gestured at the flickering flames of the torches. “What do you wish to do—kill my patient?”

  “Nope,” the spokesman stated.” We want you to send him away from here, to a hospital. The papers say there ain’t no way of stopping the Plague. I got two kids myself, Mr. Court. The rest of us, we’re family men. How’d you like it if—”

  “I tell you, there’s no danger,” Court snapped. His nerves, already tense with overwork and sleeplessness, were frayed beyond endurance. “Get out, all of you, or you’ll regret it!”

  An ominous low roar went up from the mob. They surged forward, paused only when Court lifted his hand.

  “Wait! I have a dozen men in the house, stationed at the windows, with guns aimed at you right now. Submachine-guns, some of them, and rifles. We can protect ourselves from lynch law.”

  THE crowd wavered uncertainly. The oldster yelled a shrill protest. “We ain’t lynchers, Mr. Court. We’re just aimin’ to protect our folks. We got a car down the road a bit, and we aim to take your Plague victim to a hospital.”

  Court laughed ironically.

  “You poor idiot! You just said the Plague is contagious.”

  “Sure it is. But we got rubber gloves, and cotton pads soaked in antiseptic to tie over our mouths, and we’ll wash in carbolic afterward. We just don’t want our folks to run any risks.”

  “Rubber gloves!” Court snorted. “Only thick lead can protect you from the Plague. If you won’t leave instantly, we’ll use guns to convince you. And I warn you, I won’t hesitate to do that if it’s necessary.”

  “He ain’t bluffing,” one of the mob said nervously. “I saw a muzzle up there in that winder.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” the spokesman said. “We’re comin’ in, Mr. Court, unless you bring the man out to us.”

  As the crowd surged forward, Court raised his pistol and took steady aim at the leader.

  “You set foot on the first step,” he gritted, “and I’ll put a bullet through your head.”

  The old man walked slowly, quietly, up the steps. Behind him came the others. Court’s finger tightened on the trigger, yet he did not fire.

  His face grew terrible at the conflict that raged within him. Stephen Court—man of ice and iron—tom by puerile emotion? Shoot! That was the logical thing to do. Shoot, to save Sammy, to save the experiment from these ignorant fools.

  But the mob did not want to kill. Court knew that they were honest, hard-working men, who loved their families and wanted to protect them from danger.

  The nearest was only a few steps from him. But Court did not fire, nor give the word that would have brought a searing blast from the upper windows. His lips twisted in agonized indecision.

  From within the house came a scream. The door flung open and Marion Barton fled out, her face chalk-white.

  “Stephen! Quick!”

  Court whirled, ignoring the besiegers.

  “What is it?”

&nbs
p; “Sammy came into the lab! He was—”

  A startled gasp came from the old man. He drew back, staring. A rippling wave of fear shook the crowd that had shuffled to the porch. With one arm around Marion, Court dragged her back. Just then, something came out of the door.

  He knew it was Sammy. But the metamorphosis had been incredibly accelerated. Sammy was not even as human as he had been half an hour before.

  His body could not be seen. A white shadow, with flickering nimbus edges, paused on the threshold. The pallid glow emanating from Sammy’s flesh had become so brilliant that its lambent light entirely hid the frightful body.

  Staring at him was like looking into the heart of an electric-light bulb, though the illumination was not strong enough to be blinding.

  A shining, roughly man-shaped shadow, it stood on the threshold. And it whispered! A vague, wordless susurrus murmured out. Like the hum emitted by some electric contrivance, it was enigmatic and unhuman.

  THE shadow lurched forward. Its shimmering arms went around the old man in overalls. The spokesman shrieked as though the soul had been wrenched from his body. Then he fell, his body oddly shrunken, pale and lifeless.

  Panic struck the mob. In all directions they fled back. The thing that had been Sammy seemed to glide down the steps in pursuit.

  “Oh, my God!” Court whispered. His face was drawn with pain as he slowly took aim with his pistol. “Sammy—” He did not finish. The shot snarled out in the night.

  The glowing bulk was unharmed. With his breath catching in his throat, Court pumped bullet after bullet at it. It stumbled down the lawn, while the mob vanished along the slope.

  “No use!” Court gritted between his teeth. “It absorbs every kind of energy, including kinetic.”

  He let out a shout. Glancing up, he pointed. From the windows above him came a burst of sound. Submachine-guns and rifles rattled lethally, concentrating their fire on the shining horror that moved into the night.

  It vanished behind a tree and was gone. Marion gripped Court’s arm.

  “Poor Sammy! Can’t we go after him?”

  “That isn’t Sammy,” Court said grimly. “Not now. It—it’s a horror, an alien thing out of another universe, perhaps. Yes, I’m going after it, Marion, but not till I’ve put on my lead suit. I’m not sure I can capture it, even then.” He blew across the smoking muzzle of his gun. “A creature whose touch means instant death is loose in the countryside. And I don’t even know if it can be killed!”

  CHAPTER XI

  The Man from Carthage

  SCIPIO AGRICOLA AFRICANUS sat in a dungeon beneath the Circus arena. Through a barred grating, he watched one gladiator disembowel another. The stroke, he thought, was clean and good for the men from Gaul were like wolves, dark, feral and quick. Scipio rather hoped he would be matched against them, rather than against lions or an elephant. There was something about the feel of steel matched against your own sword that put heart into a man.

  An armored guard, coming along the corridor, pushed open the door of Scipio’s cell. His hawk face peered in.

  “Your turn soon,” he said.

  “Good,” replied Scipio, with a pleasant oath. “I grow tired of battling fleas.”

  The soldier chuckled as he bent to adjust a greave.

  “By my Lares, you have courage! Too bad your dream failed. I would not have objected to serving under such a man as you.”

  “I failed because none of my men had the courage of a rabbit,” Scipio spat in disgust. “Faith, we could have taken Carthage almost without bloodshed.”

  “Had your army not fled, leaving you to face the Imperial Guard alone!” The soldier shook his head, grinning wryly. “Nothing but trouble since you came to Africa, Scipio. It was bad enough with those damned Romans yelling that Carthage must be destroyed, but at least they had not tried to destroy it. And what did you do?”

  Scipio’s eyes lighted. He was a huge, swarthy man, with the scarred face of a gargoyle. His nose had been broken so often that it sprawled shapelessly awry. Atop that monstrous face, the ringlets of short, curly black hair were incongruous.

  “What did I do?” the adventurer asked. “Faith, I tried to serve your king, but he would not let me.”

  The guard choked and spluttered his outrage.

  “Jupiter! You got drunk and dragged the king off to some low gambling hell. No wonder you had to flee to the mountains after that! Then you got some insane idea about creating an independent city of your own. That might have worked, if you had gone far enough into the Nubian country with your followers. But you decided to take Carthage. Carthage!”

  The soldier made an infuriating roar of merriment.

  “Come within the reach of my manacled hands,” Scipio invited pleasantly, “and I’ll tear off your head with considerable joy.”

  “Save that for the arena,” said the soldier, moving back slightly. “Tonight the cries will announce that the Carthaginian Scipio is no more. Only, you are not a man of Carthage, come to think of it. Are you?”

  “Why not?” The giant captive shrugged. “Rome is a melting pot. The blood of a dozen races mix in my veins. I am a citizen of Carthage now, at least for awhile. By the way, how do I die?”

  “Elephant. They have a huge tusker whom they’ve driven musth with rage and hunger. You are to face him on equal terms, both of you unarmed. He glanced cautiously over his shoulder. “I am to accompany you to the arena gate. And if you happen to seize my sword and take it with you—Well, such things have happened.”

  SCIPIO nodded. “Too bad you’re not carrying a lance. However a sword must do. I can spill the behemoth’s blood before it tramples me. Thanks, soldier. If you let me escape now, I’ll make you a prince of the nation I intend to establish.”

  “Listen to the lunatic.” the guard said, with rapt admiration. “In chains, penniless, and offering to make me a prince! A prince of dreams, mayhap. Anyway, my vows are to Caesar, and not the Roman Imperator, either. So you must remain a captive.”

  The filthy straw rustled under Scipio as he shrugged. A death-cry drifted in from the arena, then the triumphant roar of some ferocious beast.

  “Well,” said the soldier, “your time has come.”

  “I wonder.” There was a curious look in Scipio’s deep-set eyes. “Lately I have had a queer feeling, as though the gods were watching me. Perhaps. . . .”

  He did not finish. More guards came, and the Carthaginian was unfettered and escorted along an underground corridor. Almost naked, his brawny body gleamed like mahogany in the sharp contrasts of light and shadow that filtered in through bars. Then the arena opened before them. Scipio was thrust forward. He saw at his side the friendly soldier, turned so that his sword-hilt was exposed.

  With a grin and quick movement, Scipio clutched the weapon and whipped it out. Before the startled guards could move, he ran forward into the hot sands of the arena. The soles of his feet burned, then cooled as he halted in a patch of reddened sand.

  The blazing African sun flooded down in blinding whiteness. Scipio had only a vague impression of the crowd that filled the circus. He could pick out no individuals. He felt as though one vast entity, surging, whispering, watching, surrounded him, and the head of the entity was the canopied box of the Lord of Carthage.

  Scipio shifted his grip on the sword. He brushed the curly hair from his eyes with one hand, and stood warily on the balls of his feet. A musth elephant, eh? Well, no man, could resist such an enemy, yet a man could die fighting.

  “Alas for my dreams of empire,” the Carthaginian murmured, with a crookedly sardonic smile. “Faith, I might have ruled the world, given time. And now I must water the sand with my blood.”

  He turned to the Imperial box, lifting his hand in salute. The emperor nodded, expecting to hear the usual, “We who are about to die—” of the gladiators.

  Scipio disappointed his host. At the top of his voice he howled the words that would most enrage the onlookers.

  “Carthage must be des
troyed!”

  A wave of fury, a gasp of astonishment and rage, rippled around the arena. The emperor make a quick, angry gesture. Grinning, Scipio turned to see a barred gate far across the sanded arena rise slowly.

  FOR a few heartbeats there was silence throughout the Circus. The blinding white heat was oppressive. Steam curled up from the blood-stains on the sands.

  Then the musth elephant pounded to the gate. Huge monstrous, a gray, walking vastness of animated dull savagery, he lurched through the gate and stood motionless, only his bloodshot little eyes alive with hatred. The trunk did not move, save for the tip, which swayed back and forth slightly.

  A shadow darkened the arena as a cloud crossed the sun, and then was gone.

  Scipio hefted the sword he held, It was a short-bladed weapon, useless unless he could hurl it like a javelin. It was even too broad to pierce an elephant’s eye, the most vulnerable spot of the monster. Briefly Scipio thought of slicing off the elephant’s trunk as far up as he could reach. But that would still leave the tusks and mighty tree-trunk limbs that could squash a man into red pulp.

  “Well,” Scipio said with grim amusement, “at least they had to use their biggest elephant to kill me.”

  His gargoyle face twisted into a fearless grin. In the glaring light, he resembled a teakwood statue, thewed like a colossus.

  The elephant came forward slowly, its red eyes questing viciously until it saw Scipio. It paused, and the trunk lifted, waving snakelike in the air. It snorted angrily.

  Again the shadow darkened the Sun, and this time it did not pass.

  The Carthaginian had no time to look up. He bent slightly from the knees, holding the sword high like a javelin.

  The elephant broke into a lumbering trot. Its speed increased. Like the Juggernaut, it bore down on him. . . .

  Scipio had a flashing glimpse of the monster—flapping ears, murderously upheld trunk, gleaming tusks. The thunder of its approach was growing louder, booming in his ears. It loomed above him—