Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  Across the door of the laboratory, a veil of wavering light flickered. Court seized the arm of an officer to prevent him from moving toward the hazy glow.

  “Wait! That’s dangerous.”

  “What do you mean? Who are you?”

  “Never mind that now. Shoot through that light, but don’t go near it. You may be electrocuted.”

  The leader of the group, a grayhaired, bulky man, stared.

  “I know you. You’re Stephen Court. I’ve seen your pictures in the paper. What is all this about, anyhow?”

  Court swiftly noted the insignia of rank on the man’s blue sleeve.

  “There’s no time now, Sergeant. There’s a killer beyond that light barrier. He’s got to be stopped!”

  “But we can’t shoot down a man on your word.”

  Court sucked in his breath, then his hand went out in a blurring motion.

  Grabbing a heavy revolver from one of the officers, he whirled and pumped bullets at the barrier of fire. Flame crackled and snarled. The bullets could not penetrate the barrier. Half-melted, they dropped to the floor.

  The revolver was wrested from his hand. The sergeant eyed him in amazement, holding the smoking gun.

  “I tell you—”

  Court made a gesture of despair as he heard a low whine, rising in pitch and intensity, throbbing through the ship. He knew that Thordred was busy in the laboratory. He tried a new tack.

  “This ship may be blown up at any minute. Get your men out. Keep the crowd back.” He hesitated, then pointed to the unconscious forms of the Chinese and the gargoyle-faced giant on their couches. “Get them out, too.”

  Jansaiya, the Atlantean girl, was nowhere in sight, and there was no time to search for her.

  The menace of explosion the sergeant could understand. He issued swift orders. His men swarmed out of the ship, carrying the cataleptic men.

  Court followed. He could not guess what Thordred would do now, but he suspected that the killer might loose his death rays on the mob. Orders ran from one officer to another. The crowd was pushed back, milling, asking questions, shuffling unwillingly.

  Standing at the sergeant’s side, Court bit his lip in indecision. What now? Thordred was impregnable behind his force screen. Without equipment, Court could do nothing. With the right apparatus, he knew, he could find the vibration-rate of the screen and neutralize it. But there was no equipment here.

  “This got anything to do with the Plague?” the sergeant said. “We’re evacuating New York, you know.”

  “What? Evacuating New York!”

  “Yeah. The Plague’s hit us. The city’s a death-trap, with eight million people here. Martial law’s been declared, though, and everything’s under control. The whole city’s moving out before the Plague spreads.”

  Court nodded, staring at the ship.

  “Well, clear the park and get some planes to bomb our friend there. I don’t know if explosive will harm him, but it’s worth trying while there’s still time. As for those two unconscious men you took out of the ship, get them to a hospital. We’ll—”

  There was a sudden interruption. From the golden hull, a ray of cold green brilliance probed. As it shot toward Court, he felt a wave of icy chill. All the strength was abruptly drained from his body. He felt himself falling. . . .

  The ray flamed brighter, turned to yellow, then to white. It splashed in pale radiance over the sergeant. His strong face seemed to melt, the flesh blackening in cindery horror over the bone-structure. The officer dropped without a sound. . . .

  Through filming eyes, Court saw the golden space ship rise from its resting place. It shot up and hovered. Fleeing abruptly into the western skies, it was gone!

  When the ray touched Court, it had not been strong enough to kill, only to paralyze. But the sergeant was horribly dead.

  Court felt himself slipping down into the black pit of unconsciousness. His last memory was that of some small bird wheeling above him against the blue. Then darkness took him.

  * * * * *

  HEARING returned to him first.

  The sound was confused and chaotic. Court lay motionless, striving to analyze it. As if from a vast distance, he seemed to hear a babble of voices faintly mumbling what sounded like gibberish. Piercing through this was a medley of shrill whistles and sirenlike noises that were utterly inexplicable.

  Then Court opened his eyes, looked straight up at a bare white ceiling. Sunlight made square patterns on it.

  He could move, he discovered. Without difficulty he sat up, found that he was in one of a row of cots that ran down the length of a long room. He was in a hospital!

  Court’s voice cracked when he cried out. He tried again, but roused only an echo. Wonderingly he rubbed his chin and gasped in amazement. A beard? He must have been unconscious for two weeks, at least!

  He rose, shivering in his regulation hospital nightgown. Though the windows were closed, the room was icy cold. Rocking weakly on his feet, Court looked around.

  The man in the next bed looked familiar. It was the obese Oriental he had last seen in the golden space ship! The man lay silent, motionless, no breath lifting his huge paunch.

  In the cot beyond lay the scar-faced giant, the man who had resembled a gladiator. He, too, was apparently dead or cataleptic.

  Some of the other beds were occupied, Court saw. He made a quick investigation. Strangers, and dead, all of them. Some had plainly died of starvation and thirst. The blankets in most cases were tumbled and twisted, and some of the bodies lay on the floor, where they had apparently flung themselves. One grizzled oldster was huddled in a heap near the door, his skinny hand still outstretched for aid that could never come.

  The hospital must have been deserted. But what could have caused medical men to forsake their patients? Physicians do not break the Hippocratic Oath so easily. That meant—

  The Plague!

  His throat tight, Court stumbled to a table where a carafe of water stood. It was stagnant with long standing and half evaporated, but he gulped down a repulsive swallow.

  A folded newspaper on the table caught his gaze. Hastily he folded the paper to the first page. Flaring headlines greeted him.

  PLAGUE STRIKES NEW YORK!

  20 Carriers Reported in Manhattan;

  Mayor Orders City Evacuated!

  HASTILY linotyped columns gave the story. All over Greater New York, the Plague had suddenly appeared. In Queens, Brooklyn, the Bronx, from Harlem to the Battery—the shining men, harbingers of weird death, had come into being.

  Thinking the invasion had arrived by way of Jersey and the surrounding area, the mayor had directed the evacuation to take place northward. But in the box labeled “Latest News Bulletins,” it became apparent that the infection was spreading with fatal speed. Among eight millions of people, the Plague ran like wildfire.

  Well, judging by his beard and the date of the paper, that had been two weeks ago. What was the country like now?

  Court went to the window and stared out. The bleak, snow-covered expanse of Central Park was far below. Small, irregular dark blotches lay on the whiteness. Were they bodies?

  Court found a telephone and jiggled the receiver impatiently. Not even the dial-tone answered him. New York must be entirely deserted, save by the dead!

  Again he went to the window. This time he saw a shining oval of light, dwarfed by distance, gliding under the trees in the park. A Carrier. . . .

  Court knew he could not remain in New York. With a nod of decision, he glanced at the two motionless figures on the cots beside his own. Hastily he began to gather equipment. He saw a use for the Oriental and the giant. He could not leave them here, frozen in cataleptic sleep, even if he did not think that their knowledge might prove valuable.

  He used heat, stimulants and artificial respiration. The stimulants were easy to procure, after a trip down the corridor into adjoining wards. It was harder to find adrenalin. Court had to break down a door before locating the drug, but finally he was ready.


  Electricity, rather than gas, supplied the hospital. He knew there would be no current now. Court hesitated. Frowning, he stared out the window. He heard again the distant din that had awakened him—the faint hooting, and the low mumble of far voices.

  Radios, of course! Innumerable radios had been left turned on when the evacuation had taken place, and they were still broadcasting. That meant there was still electricity. Relieved, Court found heating pads and pressed them into place about his two patients.

  Little artificial respiration was necessary. Under the shock of the adrenalin, first the giant, and then the Oriental, stirred. They wakened almost together.

  Court gave a gasp of relief. Till then he had not realized just how much his fortnight of hypnotized slumber had weakened him. Despite slowed and retarded metabolism, he had not eaten nor drunk for weeks. Shivering, he sank down on a cot and watched his patients slowly and gradually awaken.

  There was so much to do! He must communicate with these two. But what language did they speak? Would they be able to understand Latin? After that, there would be so many things! Find out what had happened, leave New York safely—

  “But the first thing,” Court murmured, “is to stow some food under my belt. No,” he resolved, glancing down at his nightgown. “The first thing I need is a pair of pants!”

  CHAPTER XV

  Under the Plague

  IT was nearly an hour later when Court finally finished his story and learned from Li Yang and Scipio their own tale. Luckily both understood Latin. When Court’s knowledge of the language failed, he pieced it out in Greek, which Scipio knew well.

  “I am familiar with all the tongues spoken around the Middle Sea—the Mediterranean,” the huge Carthaginian stated. “This English of yours sounds like a hybrid language, a mixture of Latin, Greek, Goth, and Zeus knows what else. However, I will learn it. We had a saying that those in Helvetia had best do as the Helvetians do, though all they generally did was freeze.”

  Scipio chuckled deep in his barrel chest.

  “We have a saying that jackasses bray at inopportune moments,” said Li Yang blandly. “Therefore, hold your tongue, Scipio, while we make some plans.” He sighed ponderously. “So Ardath is dead, eh? Eheu, he was a wise man, and a good one. Also I have lost my lute, so I grieve.”

  “I scarcely knew Ardath,” Scipio confessed, “though he saved my life, of course. But the nymph-girl, Jansaiya—I needed only a glimpse of her to lose my heart and soul.” The gargoyle face twisted in pained memory. “What had we best do, Court?”

  “Get out of New York. After that, we can make our plans. I want to get back to my laboratory. But first—well, come along.”

  Court rose and led the others into the corridor. Li Yang shivered as the chill wind rustled under his scanty gown.

  “The world has grown colder,” he mourned. “Not even on the Northern steppes did I feel such a knifelike blast.”

  Court was unavailingly pressing the elevator buttons.

  “Guess they’re not working,” he said wryly. “That means we’ll have to walk all the way down. It’ll keep us warm, anyway. Watch out for any Carriers.”

  Scipio shook his head as the three hurried down the stairs.

  “I do not understand this Plague. Civilizations change, of course. New gods and new magics spring up. But what you tell me of this Plague smacks of the vrykrolokas, the vampire.”

  The others had no breath for talking. Scipio continued to muse aloud as they descended. When they reached the street, though, he was the only one who was not panting.

  “Zeus, Apollo, Kronos, and Neptune!” he roared, staring up at the skyscrapers. “Surely the gods must have reared these buildings!”

  “Did gods build the Nilotic pyramids?” Li Yang asked with breathless irony. “Men learn always, and always they build higher. But my poor toes will be frozen!” He danced about grotesquely in the slush. “You are a hardy race, Court, to walk about in these skimpy togas.”

  Court was glancing about swiftly.

  “Come in here,” he said.

  He hurried toward a nearby shop. He had seen that the window was broken, and a burglar alarm was clanging loudly from within. That explained the medley of noises he had heard from the hospital. Hundreds of burglar alarms, all over New York, were screaming. The mobs must have looted during their flight. This men’s clothing shop had certainly been looted, judging by its appearance. Court could understand why property rights didn’t mean much just now.

  HE guided Li Yang and Scipio to the various departments, and helped them outfit themselves with suitable clothing.

  “Breeches and boots will be best, I think,” he suggested. “We may have hard going. Pick out large-sized boots or you’ll blister your feet in an hour.”

  It was difficult to find clothing that fitted the gigantic Carthaginian, and even harder to equip Li Yang, but at last the task was finished. Completely clothed, even to fleece-lined gloves, the three returned to the street.

  Now they needed food and drink. Down the avenue a little way was an Automat. Court led them into it, pausing at the entrance to examine a motionless, shrunken body that lay there.

  It was the corpse of a man, emaciated and pallid, frozen rigid. It was oddly shriveled, which Court recognized as the stigmata of Plague victims. Though the man had certainly been dead since the evacuation of New York, there was no sign of decomposition.

  “Draining of vital energy means absolute sterility, no germs or microbes—that’s logical,” Court muttered.

  At least there would be no danger of a pestilence. He smiled crookedly. Pestilence?

  There was nobody to be harmed by it, anyway.

  A radio in the Automat was humming noisily. Court hesitated, still inhibited by a lifetime of conditioning. But he went to the change desk, and appropriated a handful of nickels.

  Supplying the others with trays, he carefully selected foods that appeared still edible. The coffee spigot ran a tar-colored, icy fluid. But it was somewhat better than the sour milk and stale water.

  Court went to the radio and adjusted it. Then he joined the others at one of the round little tables.

  “News,” he said, nodding at the box that was strange to them. “I’ll translate.”

  “Static is becoming increasingly troublesome as the Plague grows,” the radio blared. “The electrical energy emitted by the Carriers interferes with broadcasting. European short-wave transmission is impossible. The transoceanic cables have failed. From Washington, D. C., comes the latest European news, brought by Clipper across the Atlantic.

  “The Plague seems to have concentrated its force so far in the Western Hemisphere, though its strength is increasing gradually in Europe. Ports are crowded as mobs try to storm their way on to ships outward bound. There is a feeling that on the high seas is safety. This is untrue.”

  “The Hozima Maru, a passenger ship, was today washed upon the coast at Point Reyes, above San Francisco. Spectators reported that the only living beings aboard were several Carriers.”

  In grim undertones Court translated.

  “The Eastern Seaboard is still being evacuated,” the voice went on. “The United States is under martial law. As yet the Plague remains a mystery, though all over the world, scientists are working night and day to check it. A scientific congress has been called at The Hague, to convene tomorrow at noon. . . .

  “We are still receiving reports about the mysterious golden airship which first appeared in Central Park, New York, two weeks ago. Since then it has landed eight times, always in a sparsely populated area. Unconfirmed reports state that men and women have been forced to enter the ship. Two hours ago, according to San Francisco’s station KFRC, the ship landed on the Berkeley hills.”

  COURT’S voice rose excitedly as he translated. Scipio sat back with a grunt, and the Oriental pursed his red lips.

  “So Thordred’s still on Earth.” Li Yang rubbed his fat hands together. “Good! Court, there are marvels of science in the golden
ship, all the wonders of Ardath’s great civilization. If you can get your hands on them—” Court frowned. “As soon as Thordred finishes recruiting the people he needs to start a new life on a different planet, he’ll vanish forever. The worst of it is, he’s drained my mind, taken all my knowledge. Everything I know, I share with him now. But I’ve got to get back to my Wisconsin lab. I have apparatus there that will enable me to construct a weapon or two that might give me a chance against Thordred. But till I get to the lab, I can’t even locate the golden ship.”

  “Then why do we wait here?” Scipio thrust back his chair and stood up, towering incongruously in the gleaming shininess of the Automat. “Let us hurry!”

  They went out. Behind them the radio blared:

  “Shall keep broadcasting as long as we are able. The city is entirely evacuated. We are barricaded in this station, and shall remain here until our power fails, or until . . . This is WOR, Newark, New Jersey. All listeners are warned to leave their homes immediately and—”

  Fifth Avenue lay silent under a white mantle. Snow had fallen within the past twenty-four hours. The sky, however, was blue and cloudless. Singularly eerie was the silence that lay over New York, made more horrible by the mutter of radios and the distant jarring of alarms. These, too, would die when the power failed.

  There were bodies in the streets, most of them white-mounded hummocks under the snow. Hundreds of automobiles had been wrecked. A huge bus lay on its side beside an overturned garbage truck.

  Twice they saw Carriers—shining, pallid ovals of glowing radiance—floating toward them. Each time Court led his companions into buildings and through a roundabout course of passages and stairways that led them to safety.

  “The subway might be safer,” he mused, “but there may be Carriers down there. And the power’s still on, of course.”

  Court did not mention his fear of the carnage he might discover underground. Yet curiously the Plague had left little horror in its wake. It was far too fantastically unreal. The bombs and shrapnel of war would have left blood and ruin. But this. . . . There was only white silence, and bodies that were less like corpses than cold statues of marble.