Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  There was something innately cold about Stephen Haggard. Owner of a struggling advertising agency, he seemed quite unmoved by the trials that beset others and were apparently unable to affect him. Handsome, thirty-four, with rather thin lips and very level black gaze, he moved imperturbably through life. The man seemed incased in a gelid sheathe of some frigid stuff. He was ice and iron.

  And Stone was warmth and laughter, a husky, pleasant-faced fellow slightly younger than his host, with frankness not written but printed in block letters all over him. He said, “I had a hell of a time getting the book, even after I showed ’em the letter you gave me.”

  “That so?” Haggard asked. He was luxuriously inhaling a cigarette, lying back in his chair and seeming completely relaxed. “That book shop can got anything—but they kept me waiting for months on this item. Incidentally, thanks a million for picking it up for me.”

  “That’s all right,” Stone smiled, but his eyes were puzzled. “Rather a rush job, eh?”

  “I’ve been waiting for the book a long time. And I had to get”—Haggard hesitated and turned his head very slightly in the direction of the thermos bottle—“something else.” As though to forestall further questions, he rose. “I’ll see if Jean’s ready. She takes hours to put on her face.”

  “All women do,” Stone grinned. “I ought to thank you for letting me take Jean out tonight.”

  “I’ll be busy—” The rest of the sentence was lost as Haggard vanished through the door. When he came back Stone had unwrapped the oblong parcel and was examining a vellum-bound book.

  “CURIOSITY killed the cat,” Haggard remarked. “I’ll fix you another drink while you’re reading.”

  Looking slightly sheepish, Stone put down the book. “Sorry. My curiosity. You said it was an essay on magic—”

  “It is, but you can’t read Latin, Russ. Jean says she’ll be ready soon, so there’s time for a couple of highballs,’ any way. There!” The glass foamed and subsided. Haggard took the volume and sat down opposite his guest, idly thumbing the pages. “I’ll read you a bit, if you like. There’s a warning on the flyleaf. ‘Let none but the pure in heart and the . . . fortis—strong in will—read this book; and let no man dangerously attempt to—’ Well, it goes on. If you perform black magic, you’re in danger of being whisked off to bell by Baal and Beelzebub.”

  “Going to try the stuff?” Stone asked.

  Haggard didn’t answer. He held his hand out before him and regarded it intently. No tremor shook it.

  “What’s up? Been seeing little green men? That stuff about magic makes people potty sometimes—Stone hesitated. flushing, and then grinned. “My usual tact.”

  The two men laughed together. Stone went on:

  “I didn’t mean you. of course. But I remember a fellow I was working with went nuts after shooting all his dough on fortunetellers and quacks. He kept screaming about the fires of hell and the devils that were coming for him.”

  Haggard was suddenly interested. “What sort of chap was he? I mean—intelligent?”

  “Yeah, up to then. Nervous as a cat, though—”

  “Nervous! Nerves lead to emotion, emotion to . . . to—”

  “What?”

  “Oh. nothing. Afraid of devils, was he?” Haggard’s lips curled in a contemptuous smile.

  Stone finished his drink. Liquor always made him argumentative. “Well, he was batty. But it wasn’t very long ago that we had witch trials not too far from New York. People have always been afraid of devils.”

  Haggard started to laugh. “Sure. The stupid and the neurotic.”

  Stone stood up, crossed the room, and took the book of magic. He thumped through it rapidly. “Here’s a picture I noticed—that’s enough to scare anybody who believed in it, even if it doesn’t exist.”

  The sketch was that of a crowned, malefic head supported by ten multi-jointed and clawed legs. The title beneath it said “Asmodee.”

  Haggard was smiling again as he closed the book. “You’re wrong, Russ. Even if Asmodeus existed, an intelligent man needn’t be afraid of him—or it. Figure it out. What’s a demon’s resources?”

  Stone poured a hasty shot. “Well—all sorts of magic. It could just wave a claw and you’d drop down to hell, eh?”

  “Power,” Haggard nodded. “If you stopped using your arm, what’d happen?”

  “It would atrophy.”

  “Check. Devils had power—according to legend. But nobody ever admitted they were very smart. Why should they need to develop their brains? They could accomplish every desire by waving a claw, as you say. Wishing,” said Haggard, grinning, “will make it so.”

  “A gorilla isn’t very smart, but you wouldn’t last long in a wrestling match with one.”

  “I’d use a gun,” Haggard said logically. “Devils have only power. We’ve our brains. Science, psychology—hell, if Faust had gone to Harvard he could have tied Mephisto’s tail into knots.”

  “I’m a Yale man myself,” Stone murmured and got up as Jean Haggard floated into the room.

  She was slim and cool and lovely, in a fragile, blond manner. In her evening gown and wrap she looked devastating;

  Oddly enough, for a brief, unguarded second, a deadly viciousness showed in Haggard’s eyes as he glanced at his wife. Instantly it was gone.

  Jean’s smile flashed. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Russ. And I’m sorry to inflict myself on you tonight at this short notice.”

  “My fault,” Haggard grunted. “Got to work. No use Jean sticking around to listen to my moans. Enjoy yourselves, comrades.”

  THEY SAID they would and departed. Haggard put the safety lock on the door. Then he came back, stared at the book, opened it, and hurriedly found a page. He read it with a tight smile.

  The formula was there.

  He went to the phone and dialed a number.

  “Phyllis? This is Steve . . . I know; I couldn’t phone before. Sorry . . . Tonight? I’m tied up . . . I told you—

  There was clicking silence.

  “I’m sorry, darling. I can’t. Jean will be back any minute. Tomorrow night, eh? I . . . I may have a surprise for you.”

  Evidently the answer was satisfactory, for Haggard whistled as he hung up and went into the kitchen. He returned with a good-sized mixing bowl.

  This he placed in the center of the carpet. Then he uncapped the thermos and carefully poured its sluggish contents into the bowl. A thin steam arose. The blood had maintained its heat. Fresh blood, of course, was necessary, though the Jersey farmer had asked annoying questions when Haggard paid him. “But don’t you want the pig, mister? Jest the blood? What—”

  Why did freshly spilled blood play such an important part in these ceremonies, since mythology’s beginning, Haggard wondered. He turned to the book and began reading. Latin phrases rattled crisply from his lips. Pie was conscious of a slight nervous tension, and purposefully made himself relax. No emotions. No neuroses. No hysteria. Just—logic.

  Logic against demons.

  The level of the blood was being lowered. A rim of it showed now around the inside of the basin. Where was it going? Oddly enough, Haggard wasn’t surprised, though all along he had felt himself to be skeptical of this fantastic business.

  The bowl was empty of blood. And the incantation was finished.

  Haggard blinked. The lights—had they flickered? It wasn’t imagination. They were dimming—

  “Rot,” he said very softly. “Imagination, glamour, autosuggestion. Electricity depends on current; ghosts can’t affect a dynamo.”

  The lights were bright again. But again they faded. Haggard stood in a pallid darkness, looking down at the vague shadow of the bowl at his feet. It seemed to move—

  It pulsed and did not hold its shape. It grew larger. It was a blot of black shadow, a sloping funnel at the bottom of which Haggard saw something green. It was like looking into the wrong end of a telescope. Quite tiny and far away, yet vividly distinct, a room with green walls and floor became vis
ible below. It was empty.

  The funnel grew larger. Haggard felt the floor unsteady beneath the soles of his shoes. Vertigo gripped him as he swayed.

  If he fell—

  “I am,” he said quietly, “looking down into a green room. There may be a hole in the carpet and in the floor. Mr. Touhey downstairs may have redecorated. All this is scarcely probable. Therefore what I see isn’t real. It’s an illusion.”

  But it was shockingly real. Haggard had difficulty in maintaining his balance. He didn’t close his eyes to shut out the sight, though. Instead, he went on: “In this floor is wood and steel, perhaps concrete. They are solids. They cannot be made to vanish except by physical means. Therefore what I see is an illusion.”

  THE VERTIGO was gone now. Haggard looked down without alarm. He looked suddenly into a face that was all teeth and bristling hair. Clawed talons reached up at him. Saliva slavered from the gaping mouth.

  Haggard didn’t move. The talons hesitated an inch from his face. They twitched menacingly.

  “You see,” said the man, “I’m not at all frightened. Come—” He stopped short. He had almost said, “Come up,” and that would mean the oral admission of the illusion.

  “Come where we can talk comfortably.”

  The gaping hollow in the floor and the green room at its bottom were gone. The apartment was quite normal again. The bowl stood empty on the carpet. A short, squat man stood before Haggard, shifting uneasily from one foot to the other.

  His naked body was hairy and muscular, and his brutal face seemed normal enough, save for a curiously lateral compression of the skull. Forehead and chin slanted back. The lips were compressed tightly over buck teeth.

  “Well, sit down,” Haggard said, and set the example.

  Sullenly the other obeyed, glowering under black brows. There was a silence.

  “Are you dumb?” Haggard asked finally, with blatant disrespect. Almost he regretted the question, for when the demon spoke, his teeth were visible. They were the sharp, terrible fangs of a carnivore.

  “Are you not afraid of me?” The voice was deep and resonant, and Haggard thought that in the past many men had trembled before it. He chuckled.

  “No use to waste time. I’m not afraid, no. What’s your, name, first of all?”

  The demon didn’t quite know how to take this. He started to get mad, but thought it over instead. At last he grunted, “You couldn’t pronounce it. Call me ‘Baal.’ Among the Assyrians that meant ‘Lord.’ ”

  “Good as any. All right. Have you ever met a man before who wasn’t afraid of you?”

  Baal’s eyes were veiled, and they were amber cat’s-eyes. “Why should I answer that?”

  Haggard realized that he was getting tense again, and relaxed. “You needn’t, then. First I want you to realize that you’re not dealing with a stupid lout you can frighten with a roar. I want something from you. I’m willing to pay for it.” Haggard waited for the demon’s reaction.

  He almost grinned at sight of the triumph on Baal’s brutal face. “A bargain—a pact! Well, I have done that before, mortal. I have powers; they can serve you, at a price.”

  “What price? My . . . my soul?” Haggard knew himself to be ridiculous as he asked.

  “Your what?” Baal inquired. “Oh, I remember. Mortals always wanted to buy my gifts with what they called ‘souls.’ I remember what I told the Prophet Alikaam: ‘Gift horses may not be sound in gait and limb. Show me this valuable soul of yours and we’ll bargain.’ Naturally he couldn’t show it to me, though he said it was inside his body.” The demon laughed hoarsely. “You can’t catch me with an old trick like that. I don’t want this precious soul of yours. I want you!”

  “Why?”

  “To eat,” Baal explained. “Human flesh is . . . well, it has an indescribable taste. To a being like me, your meat would provide hours of ecstasy.”

  Haggard nodded. “Very material—but I got the point. If I agree, what powers have you to give?”

  The demon’s eyes evaded the man’s. “Oh—money. Enough for you to live on in comfort, perhaps. Don’t overestimate me—”

  “And don’t underestimate me. Evolution gave you the specialization of power. I want money, yes, but a great deal of it.”

  Baal frowned. “Well—I can arrange that. But you must understand that while I have power, it’s limited. I can bestow on you only two gifts. The law of compensation makes more impossible. I don’t know why, but that’s the way it works.”

  Haggard scrutinized his guest. The statement was apparently true, he decided.

  “If I receive a gift from you, how do I know something unpleasant won’t come of it? If I ask for a pudding, I don’t want it on the end of my nose.”

  THE DEMON shifted uncomfortably in the chair. “It doesn’t work that way. I don’t understand it, but you won’t have any trouble. The gifts will come naturally. My intervention won’t be suspected.”

  Haggard glanced at his wrist watch and took a deep breath. “All right. I want one million dollars.”

  “Done.”

  “Second, I want my wife eliminated without scandal to myself—but I want her to suffer.”

  “Done.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then I eat you.”

  Haggard stood up. “Sorry. It doesn’t appeal to me. The deal’s off.” Baal’s jaw dropped. He put out a long-nailed hand.

  “Now wait. I didn’t mean I’d eat you immediately. Some little time, of course, for you to enjoy yourself—” Inwardly Haggard exulted. But he did not show it. Psychology was working. “The question arises,” he said gently, “why you didn’t eat me when you first appeared. For some reason this was impossible. Don’t interrupt me! I’m trying to remember—”

  “We’ll come to some arrangement,” Baal said hastily.

  “—just what happened. You wanted to eat me. You wanted to get me into a position where that would be possible to you. You . . . of course! You tried to get me to fall into that imaginary pit. That green room. Sure!” Haggard went on, hurriedly making up a convincing lie. “That’s just what de Galois wrote—that you couldn’t eat a human unless he first entered your green room.”

  “He wrote that about me?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did you know he referred to me?” the demon asked, with unexpected shrewdness. “Baal isn’t my real name.”

  “He described you,” Haggard said blandly. “So I’m not in any danger unless I enter your green room.”

  “If you make a pact, you must keep it,” Baal rapped out. “Besides, you couldn’t hope to escape the might of my powers.”

  But Haggard knew how to press a bargain. “I want more concessions. I weigh over two hundred pounds on the hoof, so I should be a tasty morsel.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Well—a fair chance.”

  “Doors,” said Baal, after a pause. “A jinni I knew once . . . well, how do you like this? I’ll put three doors in your path. Doors each of a different color. The first one will be blue, and beyond it is one wish. When you pass the second door, which will be yellow, your second wish will come true. And beyond the third door—”

  “Yes?”

  “I shall be waiting to eat you.”

  “What color—”

  But Baal grinned. “I am not stupid. If you knew that, you’d never go through a door of that color. It’s neither blue nor yellow.”

  Haggard said suddenly, “It’s a deal.”

  “Not quite,” the demon disagreed. “After you have passed the first two doors, I shall put my seal on you.” He smiled. “Don’t touch your head; I don’t mean horns. It’s like a witch mark. That’s one of the rules, too, though I don’t know why.”

  “What sort of seal?”

  “I’ll take some power away from you—some minor physical power, perhaps—but it won’t cause you trouble or pain or even embarrassment. Maybe I’ll give you a wart on your back. Or put a gray streak in your hair. I just can’t help it,”
he shrugged as Haggard started to protest. “That’s one thing I can’t alter. My powers won’t work unless I meet certain requirements.” Haggard pulled at his lower lip. “I suppose it’s no use asking who issues those requirements?”

  “How should I know? Is it a deal?”

  “It’s a deal.”

  The two shook hands. Baal looked around thoughtfully. “Well. I’ll be leaving.” His gaze lingered on the Yenetial blinds.

  Haggard said, “Can you visit me again? You can? Then why not do so? I’d like to talk to you—after all, I don’t see a demon every day.”

  Baal said doubtfully, “I don’t—”

  “You don’t drink whiskey, I’m sure, but I’ll have fresh blood for you every time.”

  “Fine,” the demon agreed, baring his fangs—and vanished.

  HAGGARD STOOD perfectly motionless for three minutes. Then he held out his hand and looked at it. Quite steady.

  He took the bowl to the kitchen and carefully cleansed it of blood. He locked the book of magic in his desk. Finally, he poured a drink.

  No need to be on guard just now. Psychology had triumphed over mere demoniac power. Two doors to triumph.

  Three doors to doom.

  The first door—blue. The second—yellow. Beyond them, Haggard’s wishes. But the. color of the third door?

  The third primary color, red? Scarcely. That would be too obvious, even to a person of Baal’s apparent mentality. Haggard did not make the mistake of underrating the demon. Baal was cunning. Green, then—the color of the creature’s lair? That, too, was undesirably obvious.

  Perhaps the color might be duplicated. The third door might be also blue or yellow. Well, there was time enough to think of that, and already Haggard’s brain had worked out a soundly logical method of discovering the truth. First, though, he’d have to make friends with Baal. Provide him with blood and interest him in modern life. Disarm him—

  The room was stuffy. Haggard threw open the windows, but the air itself was sultry with early summer. Below, the park was a blotch of shadow beyond the bright ribbon of the street. Jean and Russ Stone would not be in till late. There was time for a walk.