Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  “Is Fered safe?” she asked.

  Dawson nodded. He could not bring himself to speak.

  “The Council? Where—”

  “Come on.” He led the way back down into the Capitol, past blundering figures of guards, who were ignored. They were harmless now, and could be disarmed later. Men scattered through the building to take over.

  But two score followed Dawson and Bethya. The man wondered whether the Council would be in their sleeping-chambers. They probably were. They would feel safe there, not knowing that he had two keys.

  “The Council must die,” Bethya said grimly. “It’s the only way.”

  And Dawson, knowing what he did, could not reply. He paused by the first of the doors, showed Bethya how to use the key, and stood aside, letting the men pour past him. He had a glimpse of one of the older Council members coming forward in startled anger, a lens-weapon in his hand. Then he was shot down mercilessly.

  DAWSON went to the last of the doors, knowing that Laurena was behind it. The others had not caught up with him yet as he opened the panel and slipped in, closing it behind him.

  He saw Laurena, standing in the center of the room, staring around blindly, a lens in her hand. Her face, surrounded by brown curls, was frightened.

  “It’s Stephen, Laurena,” he said softly. She gave a little sigh, let the lens fall and reached out into the darkness that surrounded her. The man came forward and took her in his arms. She touched his goggles.

  “Stephen, what—”

  Then she was silent, clinging to him, frightened at the sound of shots that came faintly to them.

  Dawson felt the warm softness of her, the fragrance of her hair in his nostrils. He looked down at that curling, dark head. His hand went up—touched a brown, silken lock—

  He jerked back, longing for death. He said abruptly. “No!” and Laurena looked up at him, blindness in the gray eyes that were now so dear to him.

  “The Council has fallen,” he said, as the door lifted, letting in the attackers. “Do just as I say. It’s the only way to save your life.”

  There was no time for more. He saw Bethya enter.

  “Stand away, Stephen!” she cried. Her gun lifted.

  Dawson swung Laurena behind him.

  “Wait! Listen—” His gaze probed into Bethya, making her pause.

  “Well?”

  “Listen to me, Bethya. Fered is safe—”

  “He’s unconscious. We found him.”

  “His brain has been removed from his body,” Dawson said succinctly. “It’s still alive, and can be replaced. This girl can do it. I do not know if any other person can.”

  “Fered—you say—”

  “It’s true. In exchange for her life, Laurena San will give you back Fered.”

  BETHYA looked at Laurena. “Is it true?

  Can you—and will you?” She lifted the gun significantly. “If you do not—” Laurena nodded.

  “I—I’ll do it. Yes.”

  And, somehow, Dawson found himself wishing that the girl would fail in the attempted operation, that she would not reveal the ultra-surgical skill that would prove her a member of an alien race.

  He did not watch. He went on an errand, and when he returned, there was a strange, greenish blood on his hand, and he was white and trembling. Yet, somehow, he felt triumph too. The knowledge—the scientific lore—in the Capitol would be given to Mankind now, and the race would live again, strong and vital and eager as of old. Beauty would no longer mean decadence.

  The darkness-ray had been shut off, and there was now no need for the goggles. Dawson entered the operating room and stood by the door, a gun dangling idly from his hand as he watched. Laurena, in sterile white garments, was motionless, looking at the still form on the table.

  Bethya bent over Fered’s body, her soul in her eyes. She gasped as the man stirred.

  Fered’s lashes trembled, lifted. He saw the girl.

  “Bethya—Bethya, darlya—” he whispered.

  That was enough. The gun whipped up in Dawson’s hand. With the other he reached out for Laurena and dragged her close. The others whirled, startled.

  “Laurena San has earned her life,” Dawson explained. “I’m taking her with me. Good-by, Bethya. I kept my promise to give Fered back to you.”

  The girl did not answer, and before she could move Dawson was in the corridor, taking Laurena with him. Through a long corridor they went, and up, pausing at last before a wall where Dawson used his “key.” The panel lifted, and then crossed the threshold to stand before the giant space ship.

  Dawson carried Laurena into it, closing the port behind her. He went into the control room, where he released the girl. He touched the white button on the instrument panel.

  The smooth, dark walls were suddenly darker, and flecked with stars. The moon, larger now, hung silvery and mottled like a lantern. The great cloud-hung globe of the Earth was visible on the floor vision-screen.

  They were in space.

  Dawson went toward Laurena. His hands gripped her arms.

  “I do not know,” he said, oddly. “You may not be like—like the others. But I couldn’t be sure without . . .” He stopped, his eyes searching the heart-shaped, tender face. “You wouldn’t be safe on Earth now, and Earth might not be safe from you, if you’re like—the others.”

  She did not answer. The gray eyes met Dawson’s without evasion.

  THE girl gently captured one of Dawson’s hands and lifted it to her head. He resisted at first, and then felt a sudden, impossible hope at the touch of the soft ringlets. She guided his fingers . . .

  No chill of metal made him draw back now. For Laurena San was—human!

  “Yes,” she said quietly. “I did not know you really thought—”

  “Laurena!” Dawson’s voice was unsteady. “But how—”

  She smiled at him.

  “Always, since the beginning, one member of the Council has been human. The—the others were afraid they would lose touch with the race. They needed a ‘bridge,’ someone who was en rapport with humanity. It counteracted their own inhumanity, to some extent. They took me when I was a child, and raised me in the Capitol, teaching me their own knowledge. In time I became a member of the Council—but Stephen, Stephen! I have always been human!”

  The man shivered a little, and glanced to where the image of the Earth hung small in the visiplate.

  “You cannot go back,” he said slowly, with meaning.

  Laurena did not answer. And Dawson went on:

  “The human race would hate and fear you, because you were a member of the Council. It would not matter to them that you were not like the—others. You would not be safe. And you learned much from the Council. Knowledge that no human other than you possesses. Knowledge that makes the Earth unsafe, if you ever decided to use it. We must be exiles—always. We can never go back . . .”

  The girl waited, her eyes very bright. Dawson’s arms went around her. He drew her close.

  “But you’re human, Laurena San! A girl I can love whole-heartedly, without any doubts or fears!”

  “I love you, Stephen,” she said. “Exile will not matter, as long as we’re together. We’ll find some other planet, some new world—”

  Together they turned to watch the distant, receding sphere of the Earth. The star-bright darkness of space walled them, the limitless unknown. But they were no longer afraid.

  They would find a new world out there among the stars.

  HERCULES MUSCLES IN

  When the Strong Man of Peloponnesos Finds Himself in a Labor Daze, Year-Leaper Pete Proves That a Brain and Brawn Trust Is Mightier Than Zeus!

  CHAPTER I

  Back to 700 B.C.

  PETE MANX rubbed his bullet head reflectively, put the derby back upon it, and glanced at his companion in the taxicab.

  “You just don’t understand, Biggie,” he said wearily. “Lots of guys have the same trouble.”

  Mr. Bigpig Callahan, one-time bronco-wrangler and cu
rrently a wrestler both owned and managed by Pete, looked glum. Or, at least, one supposed he did. It is difficult to detect emotion in a face like a slab of beef, slashed by a lipless gap, dotted by two tiny, glittering eyes, and fringed with bristling red hair and a couple of scalloped objects that were probably ears.

  Bigpig’s face had not always been thus. Raised in New York’s East Side, he had brawled his way from jersey to Montana, remaining in the latter place for six years learning how to punch cattle. Pete had a well-founded idea that a cow had once stepped on Bigpig’s uncomely face, a process scarcely calculated to improve on nature. At any rate, it was neither a thing of beauty nor a joy forever.

  “Flora,” said Mr. Callahan. “Dey git me.”

  Pete translated mentally. Roses, petunias, or tulips to Bigpig came under the classification of flors. But it was only goldenrod that was poison.

  “You’re allergic to the things,” Pete pointed out. “See? It’s like having hayfever.”

  “Alloigic, huh? Izzat good or bad?”

  “It’s bad. And we get out here. The Doc’ll fix you up. He’s a smart fella. He found out I was alloi—allergic to time traveling.”

  But this was utterly beyond Bigpig’s comprehension. He could never have understood the principles of Mayhem’s device that had more than once projected Pete Manx back into historical eras and long-past centuries. Once Pete’s consciousness had been sent back to Rome to inhabit the body of a citizen of that interesting city; once he had visited Egypt.

  But those days were gone forever for Pete. Every time he had visited an ancient time-sector, he had got into trouble. Right now he was sitting pretty, or had been till lately. He’d given up his job as concessionaire at Coney Island, and instead was managing Bigpig Callahan, Mammoth of the Mat. And Bigpig was good there was no doubt about that.

  Built like an ox to begin with, his years of wrangling on the range had developed lightning-quick reactions in what Pete hopefully called his brain. The mauler had only two serious faults. He had fallen arches. On another man that might be unimportant, but Bigpig’s arches reminded Pete vaguely of the Brooklyn Bridge. His other really dangerous weakness was his allergy.

  Doctor Horatio Mayhem’s scrawny figure appeared in the door in response to a ring. The scientist’s mild eyes blinked at the callers.

  “Ah. Hello, Pete,” he greeted. “Come in.”

  THEY were ushered into Mayhem’s laboratory, where wires, rheostats, converters, generators, and tubes made a baffling jigsaw puzzle. Two metal chairs, looking rather deadly, stood in the corner. Pete averted his gaze. He had sat in those chairs more than once, and each time he had been flung back into past centuries. They were part of Mayhem’s time machine, that released the ego of the individual and sent it out to possess the body of some inhabitant of an ancient time-sector.

  “This,” said Pete, “is Bigpig Callahan.” Swiftly he explained the situation, while Bigpig shifted unhappily from one foot to another.

  “So we had a scrap scheduled for last night, Doc. And it was all fixed, only Biggie ran into some goldenrod in a florist’s shop. He swelled up fit to bust and we forfeited the purse. He couldn’t fight. He couldn’t even talk.”

  “Allergy, eh?” Mayhem asked. “Yeah. The Purple Python was a set-up for Biggie—but he lost the purse. It was winner take all.”

  “I’da moidered da bum,” Mr. Callahan remarked at random. “I’da thrown him outa da ring.”

  “Sure,” Pete soothed his fighter. “Just relax, Biggie. Don’t bother us.” Bigpig wandered away in a vague manner, while Mayhem and Manx went on talking.

  “Some people are allergic to golden-rod pollen, of course,” the doctor nodded. “But—”

  “It hits Bigpig bad. His throat swells up so he can hardly breathe. Now look, Doc, you’re smart. Can you cure Biggie so he won’t be allergic any more?”

  Instead of answering, Mayhem yelped sharply. He sprang forward, making frantic gestures.

  “Stop! Don’t do that! The current’s turned on—”

  “My feet hoit,” explained Bigpig, and sank down in one of the metal chairs.

  ELECTRICTY crackled. Mr. Callahan looked surprised, and then an expression of utter calm flooded his face. He ceased to breathe, and relaxed, to all appearances a large, uncomely, and repugnant corpse.

  “Biggie!” Pete cried desperately. “Look out!”

  Mayhem shut off the current, but he was too late. Bigpig Callahan was no longer among those present. Pete Manx clawed at the wrestler’s shoulder.

  “Wake up, you bird-brained dope! You can’t do this to me! It ain’t legal—”

  The scientist drew Pete back.

  “He isn’t dead. He’s just been sent into a past era.”

  “Oh . . . oh, yeah. That’s right. Well, what are we waiting for? Bring him back, Doc, will you?”

  Mayhem hesitated.

  “I’m afraid I can’t, just yet. I was making some adjustments on my machine, and I’d dismantled part of the apparatus. The device only works one way now. Never mind, though,” the doctor consoled, “I’ll be able to wake your friend up in a week or so, maybe,” Pete writhed in anguish. “Where is he now?”

  “Um—let’s see.” Mayhem referred to various gauges. “Beyond 700 B.C. Maybe 800 B.C.”

  “Hull,” said Pete unhappily. “Back to the dinosaurs, huh?”

  “Oh, no. Ancient Greece—Peloponnesos—is where he’s gone, I think. There was a culture there, you know.” Pete went off on a tangent.

  “That dumb ox! All my dough tied up in him, and he goes visiting Greeks. He’ll get in trouble. He’s too dopey to keep out of it.” A great inward struggle seemed to be taking place within Mr. Manx’s soul, but at last virtue triumphed. “Doc!” Pete said suddenly. “I gotta look after that monkey. I know how this time racket works. Can you send me back to Greece too?” Mayhem nodded.

  “Yes. But I can’t return you to our present time-sector for some time, until I’ve finished my repairs—”

  “I’ll get along. I can take care of myself—but Biggie can’t. Okay. Shoot the works, Doc.” And Pete seated himself in the second of the two chairs.

  Mayhem went to the instrument board and pulled a lever. Pete was surprised to discover that it was the Fourth of July. His head had become a Roman candle.

  Sssss—swish!

  Pete Manx stopped breathing and relaxed. He was on his way to 700 B.C.!

  CHAPTER II

  Strong Man Fills Strong-Box

  PETE opened his eyes to sunlight and a face. The face was unprepossessing, decorated with a bristling black beard and an assortment of scars. The man was wearing armor, and a plume waved from his bronze helmet.

  He leaned over Pete and jabbed the prostrate man in the stomach with a spear.

  “Hey!” said Mr. Manx. “Don’t do that. It ain’t friendly.”

  “No runaway slave can make a fool out of one of the King’s Guard,” the soldier growled, and used the spear again. Pete scrambled hurriedly to his feet, staring around.

  He was in the midst of a fairly big city. This was seemingly the main stem, for a number of chariots were rolling past, filled with people heading for a masquerade. They wore an assortment of tunics, togas, pillow-slips, and armor, or so it seemed to Pete. He yelped and dodged the spear.

  “Slave?” Pete said aggrievedly. “Where in Hellene am I?”

  “In the city of Tiryns, of course, in the Peloponnesos, as if you didn’t know,” said the soldier. “And I was taking you to the king for judgment when you pretended sunstroke and fell down. Come along!”

  Pete obeyed. There was nothing else he could do. He was, he decided, talking Greek, for his memory-center connected with speech had automatically hitched itself to the brain of the body he was inhabiting. Mayhem had once explained all this very carefully. The miserable luck that pursued Manx whenever he took a time tour had struck again. So he was a runaway slave this time. Pete swore softly at his ill fate. Glancing down, he suppressed a shout, a short, sharp
cry of dismay. He seemed to be clad only in an inadequate pillow-slip.

  “Oh-oh,” Pete murmured. “First thing I gotta find myself a pair of pants—”

  Haled through Tiryns at the point of a spear, he found himself wondering about Bigpig Callahan. He had not the slightest idea what Biggie would look like in his Hellenic incarnation.

  They reached the palace. It was a dump, compared to the White House, Pete thought. They entered, presently finding themselves in the throne room, a big, chilly place with a raised dais at one end. It was filled with a motley throng, but Pete’s eyes were riveted to the throne and the man who sat upon it.

  The king was a husky old man with a long gray beard and a vicious gleam in his eye. Beside him stood a dapper, handsome officer in gilded armor, who occasionally leaned forward to whisper in the ruler’s ear.

  Before the dais stood a very giant of a man—a brawny figure clad in a dilapidated lion skin and nothing else. Mild blue eyes searched the room in a dazed manner.

  Pete’s captor dragged him into a corner, “Well have to wait,” he muttered. “Hercules is in trouble again, and I’ll wager Nessus is responsible.”

  “Huh?” The guard turned away, scowling, but a friendlier soldier nearby answered Pete. “Nessus is the officer standing beside the throne. He used to be the city’s chief hero, till Hercules came. But nobody looks at him now.”

  The name of the man in the lion-skin was vaguely familiar.

  “Hercules, eh?” Pete said. “What’s his racket?”

  ANIMATION showed in the other’s –face.

  “You must be a stranger, not to know of Hercules. He’s under bond to the throne, and King Eurystheus makes him do dirty jobs like cleaning the stables, but Hercules is a hero indeed. He killed Geryon—a human monster with three bodies—and brought his herd of red cattle to the king. And he slew the lion of Nemea—that’s the skin he’s wearing.”

  “A Frank Buck, huh?”