Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  “You’re crazy,” Brockle Buhn said. “Such a thing’s never happened. It . . . it’s human.”

  “Kisses never happened underground, either,” said Crockett. “No, I don’t want one! And I don’t want to fight, either. Good heavens—let me get the set-up here. Most of the gnomes work to support the privileged classes.”

  “No. We just work.”

  “But why?”

  “We always have. And the emperor wants us to.”

  “Has the emperor ever worked?” Crockett demanded, with an air of triumph. “No! He just takes mud baths! Why shouldn’t every gnome have the same privilege? Why—”

  He talked on, at great length, as he worked. Brockle Buhn listened with increasing interest. And eventually she swallowed the bait, hook, line and sinker.

  An hour later she was nodding agreeably. “I’ll pass the word along. Tonight. In the Roaring Cave. Right after work.”

  “Wait a minute,” Crockett objected. “How many gnomes can you get?”

  “Well—not very many. Thirty?”

  “We’ll have to organize first. We’ll need a definite plan—”

  Brockle Buhn went off at a tangent. “Let’s fight.”

  “No! Will you listen? We need a . . . a council. Who’s the worst trouble-maker here?”

  “Mugza, I think,” she said. “The red-haired gnome you knocked out when he hit me.”

  Crockett frowned slightly. Would Mugza hold a grudge? Probably not, he decided. Or, rather, he’d be no more ill-tempered than other gnomes. Mugza might attempt to throttle Crockett on sight, but he’d no doubt do the same to any other gnome. Besides, as Brockle Buhn went on to explain, Mugza was the gnomic equivalent of a duke. His support would be valuable.

  “And Gru Magru,” she suggested. “He loves new things, especially if they make trouble.”

  “Yeah—” These were not the two Crockett would have chosen, but at least he could think of no other candidates. “If we could get somebody who’s close to the emperor . . . what about Drook? The guy who gives Podrang his mud baths?”

  “Why not? I’ll fix it.” Brockle Buhn lost interest and surreptitiously began to eat anthracite. Since the overseer was watching, this resulted in a violent quarrel, from which Crockett emerged with a black eye. Whispering profanity under his breath, he went back to digging.

  But he had time for a few more words with Brockle Buhn. She’d arrange it. That night there would be a secret meeting of the conspirators.

  CROCKETT had been looking forward to exhausted slumber, but this chance was too good to miss. He had no wish to continue his unpleasant job digging anthracite. His body ached fearfully. Besides, if he could induce the gnomes to strike, he might be able to put the squeeze on Podrang II. Gru Magru had said the emperor was a magician. Couldn’t he, then, transform Crockett back into a man?

  “He’s never done that,” Brockle Buhn said, and Crockett realized he had spoken his thought aloud. “Couldn’t he, though—if he wanted?”

  Brockle Buhn merely shuddered, but Crockett had a little gleam of hope. To be human again!

  Dig—dig—dig—with monotonous deadening regularity. Crockett sank into a stupor. Unless he got the gnomes to strike, he was faced with an eternity of arduous toil. He was scarcely conscious of knocking off, of feeling Brockle Buhn’s gnarled hand under his arm, of being led through passages to a tiny cubicle which was his new home. The gnome left him there, and he crawled into a stony bunk and went to sleep.

  Presently a casual kick roused him. Blinking, Crockett sat up, instinctively dodging the blow Gru Magru was aiming at his head. He had four guests—Gru, Brockle Buhn, Drook, and the red-haired Mugza.

  “Sorry I woke up too soon,” Crockett said bitterly. “If I hadn’t, you could have got in another kick.”

  “There’s lots of time,” Gru said. “Now what’s this all about? I wanted to sleep, but Brockle Buhn here said there was going to be a fight. A big one—huh?”

  “Eat first,” Brockle Buhn said firmly. “I’ll fix mud soup for everybody.” She, bustled away, and presently was busy in a corner, preparing refreshments. The other gnomes squatted on their haunches, and Crockett sat on the edge of his bunk, still dazed with sleep.

  But he managed to explain his idea of the union. It was received with interest:—chiefly, he felt, because it involved the possibility of a tremendous scrap.

  “You mean every Dornsef gnome jumps the emperor?” Gru asked.

  “No, no? Peaceful arbitration. We just refuse to work. All of us.”

  “I can’t,” Drook said. “Podrang’s got to have his mud baths, the bloated old slug. He’d send me to. the fumaroles till I was toasted.”

  “Who’d take you there?” Crockett asked.

  “Oh—the guards, I suppose.”

  “But they’d be on strike, too. Nobody’d obey Podrang, till he gave in.”

  “Then he’d enchant me,” Drook said.

  “He can’t enchant us all,” Crockett countered.

  “But he could enchant me,” Drook said with great firmness. “Besides, he could put a spell on every gnome in Dornsef. Turn us into stalactites or something.”

  “Then what? He wouldn’t have any-gnomes at all. Half a loaf is better than none. We’ll just use logic on him. Wouldn’t he rather, have a little less work done than none at all?”

  “Not him,” Gru put in. “He’d rather enchant us. Oh, he’s a bad one, he is,” the gnome finished approvingly.

  BUT CROCKETT couldn’t quite believe this. It was too alien to his understanding of psychology—human psychology, of course. He turned to Mugza, who was glowering furiously.

  “What do you think about it?”

  “I want to fight,” the other said rancorously. “I want to kick somebody.”

  “Wouldn’t you rather have mud baths three times a day?”

  Mugza grunted. “Sure. But the emperor won’t let me.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I want ’em.”

  “You can’t be contented,” Crockett said desperately. “There’s more to life than . . . than digging.”

  “Sure. There’s fighting. Podrang lets us fight whenever we want.”

  Crockett had a sudden-inspiration. “But that’s just it. He’s going to stop all fighting! He’s going to pass a new law forbidding fighting except to himself.”

  It was an effective shot in the dark. Every gnome jumped.

  “Stop—fighting!” That was Gru, angry and disbelieving. “Why, we’ve always fought.”

  “Well, you’ll have to stop,” Crockett insisted.

  “Won’t!”

  “Exactly? Why should you? Every gnome’s entitled to life, liberty and the pursuit of . . . of pugilism.”

  “Let’s go and beat up Podrang,” Mugza offered, accepting a steaming bowl of mud soup from Brockle Buhn.

  “No, that’s not the way . . . no, thanks, Brockle Buhn . . . not the way at all. A strike’s the thing. We’ll peaceably force Podrang to give us what we want.”

  He turned to Drook. “Just what can Podrang do about it if we all sit down and refuse to work?”

  The little gnome considered. “He’d swear. And kick me.”

  “Yeah—and then what?”

  “Then he’d go off and enchant everybody, tunnel by tunnel.”

  “Uh-huh,” Crockett nodded. “A good point. Solidarity is what we need. If Podrang finds a few gnomes together, he can scare the hell out of them. But if we’re all together—that’s it? When the strike’s called, we’ll all meet in the biggest cave in the joint.”

  “That’s the Council Chamber,” Gru said. “Next do Podrang’s throne room.”

  “O.K. We’ll meet there. How many gnomes will join us?”

  “All of ’em,” Mugza grunted, throwing his soup bowl at Drook’s head. “The emperor can’t stop us fighting.” “And what weapons can Podrang use, Drook?”

  “He might use the Cockatrice. Eggs,” the other said doubtfully.

  “What are th
ose?”

  “They’re not really eggs,” Gru broke in. “They’re magic jewels for wholesale enchantments. Different spells in each one. The green ones, I think, are for turning people into earthworms. Podrang just breaks one, and the spell spreads out for twenty feet or so. The red ones are—let’s see. Transforming gnomes into humans—though that’s a bit too tough. No . . . yes. The blue ones—”

  “Into hum-ans!” Crockett’s eyes widened. “Where are the eggs kept?”

  “Let’s fight,” Mugza offered, and-hurled himself bodily on Drook, who squeaked frantically and beat his attacker over the head with his stone soup bowl, which broke. Brockle Buhn added to the excitement by kicking both battlers impartially, till felled by Gru Magru. Within a few moments the room resounded with the excited screams of gnomic battle. Inevitably Crockett was sucked in—

  OF ALL the perverted, incredible-forms of life that had ever existed, gnomes were about the oddest. It was impossible to understand their philosophy. Their minds worked along different paths from human intelligences. Self-preservation and survival of the race—these two vital human instincts were lacking in gnomes. They neither died nor propagated. They just worked and fought. Bad-tempered little monsters, Crockett thought irritably. Yet they had existed for—ages. Since the beginning, maybe. Their social organism was the result of evolution far older than man’s. It might be well suited to gnomes. Crockett might be throwing an unnecessary monkey wrench in the machinery.

  So what? He wasn’t going to spend eternity digging anthracite, even though, in retrospect, he remembered feeling a curious thrill of obscure pleasure as he worked. Digging might be fun for gnomes. Certainly it was their raison d’etre. In time Crockett himself might lose his human affiliations, and be metamorphosed completely into a gnome. What had happened to other humans who had undergone such an—alteration—as he had done? All gnomes looked alike. But maybe Gru Magru had once been human—or Drook—or Brockle Buhn.

  They were gnomes now, at any rate, thinking and existing completely as gnomes. And in time he himself would be exactly like them. Already he had acquired the strange tropism that attracted him to metals and repelled him from daylight. But he didn’t like to dig!

  He tried to recall the little he knew about gnomes—miners, metalsmiths, living underground. There was something about the Piets—dwarfish men who hid underground when invaders came to England, centuries ago. That seemed to tie in vaguely with the gnomes’ dread of human beings. But the gnomes themselves were certainly not descended from Piets. Very likely the two separate races and species had become identified through occupying the same habitat.

  Well, that was no help. What about the emperor? He wasn’t, apparently, a gnome with a high I.Q., but he was a magician. Those jewels—Cockatrice Eggs—were significant. If he could get hold of the ones that transformed gnomes into men—

  But obviously he couldn’t, at present. Better wait. Till the strike had been called. The—strike—

  Crockett went to sleep.

  He was roused—painfully—by Brockle Buhn, who seemed to have adopted him. Very likely it was her curiosity about the matter of a kiss. From time to time she offered to give Crockett one, but he steadfastly refused. In lieu of it, she supplied him with breakfast. At least, he thought grimly, he’d get plenty of iron in his system, even though the rusty chips rather resembled corn flakes. As a special inducement Brockle Buhn sprinkled coal dust over the mess.

  Well, no doubt his digestive system had also altered. Crockett wished he could get an X-ray picture of his insides. Then he decided it would be much too disturbing. Better not to know. But he could not help wondering. Gears in his stomach? Small millstones? What would happen if he inadvertently swallowed some emery dust? Maybe he could sabotage the emperor that way.

  Perceiving that his thoughts were beginning to veer wildly, Crockett gulped the last of his meal and followed Brockle Buhn to the anthracite tunnel.

  “How about the strike? How’s it coming?”

  “Fine, Crockett,” she smiled, and Crockett winced at the sight. “Tonight all the gnomes will meet in the Roaring Cave. Just after work.”

  THERE WAS no time for more conversation. The overseer appeared, and the gnomes snatched up their picks. Dig—dig—dig. It kept up at the same pace. Crockett-sweated and toiled. It wouldn’t be for long. His mind slipped a cog, so that he relapsed into a waking slumber, his muscles responding automatically to the need. Dig, dig, dig. Sometimes a fight. Once a rest period. Then dig again.

  Five centuries later the day ended. It was time to sleep.

  But there was something much more important. The union meeting in the Roaring Cave. Brockle Buhn conducted Crockett there, a huge cavern hung with glittering green stalactites. Gnomes came pouring into it. Gnomes and more gnomes. The turnip heads were everywhere. A dozen fights started. Gru Magru, Mugza, and Drook found places near Crockett. During a lull Brockle Buhn urged him to a platform of rock jutting from the floor.

  “Now,” she whispered. “They all know about it. Tell them what you want.”

  Crockett was looking out over the bobbing heads, the red and blue garments, all lit by that eerie silver glow. “Fellow gnomes,” he began weakly.

  “Fellow gnomes!” The words roared out, magnified by the acoustics of the cavern. That bull bellow gave Crockett courage. He plunged on.

  “Why should you work twenty hours a day? Why should you be forbidden to eat the anthracite you dig? While Podrang squats in his bath and laughs at you! Fellow gnomes, the emperor is only one—you are many! He can’t make you work. How would you like mud soup three times a day? The emperor can’t fight you all. If you refuse to work—all of you—he’ll have to give in! He’ll have to!”

  “Tell ’em about the nonfighting edict,” Gru Magru called.

  Crockett obeyed. That got ’em. Fighting was dear to every gnomic heart. And Crockett kept on talking.

  “Podrang will try to back down, you know. He’ll pretend he never intended to forbid, fighting. That’ll show he’s afraid of you! We hold the whip hand! We’ll strike—and the emperor can’t do a damn thing about it. When he runs out of mud for his baths, he’ll capitulate soon enough.”

  “He’ll enchant us all,” Drook muttered sadly.

  “He won’t dare! What good would that do? He knows which side his . . . uh . . . which side his mud is buttered on. Podrang is unfair to gnomes! That’s our watchword!”

  It ended, of course, in a brawl. But Crockett was satisfied. The gnomes would not go to work tomorrow. They would, instead, meet in the Council Chamber, adjoining Podrang’s throne room—and sit down.

  That night he slept well . . .

  IN THE MORNING Crockett went, with Brockle Buhn, to the Council Chamber, a cavern gigantic enough to hold the thousands of gnomes who thronged it. In the silver light their red and blue garments had a curiously elfin quality. Or, perhaps, naturally enough, Crockett thought. Were gnomes, strictly speaking, elves?

  Drook came up. “I didn’t draw Podrang’s mud bath,” he confided hoarsely. “Oh, but he’ll be furious. Listen to him.”

  And, indeed, a distant crackling of profanity was coming through an archway in one wall of the cavern.

  Mugza and Gru Magru joined them, “He’ll be along directly,” the latter said. “What a fight there’ll be!”

  “Let’s fight now,” Mugza suggested. “I want to kick somebody. Hard.”

  “There’s a gnome who’s asleep,” Crockett said. “If you sneak up on him, you can land a good one right in his face.”

  Mugza, drooling slightly, departed on his errand, and simultaneously Podrang II, Emperor of the Dornsef Gnomes, stumped into the cavern. It was the first time Crockett had seen the ruler without a coating of mud, and he could not help gulping at the sight. Podrang was wry ugly. He combined in-himself the most repulsive qualities, of every gnome Crockett had previously seen. The result was perfectly indescribable.

  “Ah,” said Podrang, halting and swaying on his short bow legs. “I h
ave guests. Drook! Where in the name of the nine steaming hells is my bath?” But Drook had ducked from sight.

  The emperor nodded. “I see. Well, I won’t lose my temper. I won’t lose my temper! I WON’T—”

  He paused as a stalactite, was dislodged from the roof and crashed down. In the momentary silence, Crockett stepped forward, cringing slightly.

  “W-we’re on strike,” he announced. “It’s a sit-down strike. We won’t work till—”

  “Yaaah!” screamed the infuriated emperor. “You won’t work, eh? Why, you boggle-eyed, flap-tongued, drag-bellied offspring of unmentionable algae! You seething little leprous blotch of bat-nibbled fungus! You cringing parasite on the underside of a dwarfish and ignoble worm! Yaaah!”

  “Fight!” the irrepressible Mugza yelled, and flung himself on Podrang, only to be felled by a well-placed foul blow.

  Crockett’s throat felt dry. He raised his voice,-trying to keep it steady.

  “Your majesty! If you’ll just wait a minute—”

  “You mushroom-nosed spawn of degenerate black bats,” the enraged emperor shrieked at the top of his voice. “I’ll enchant you all! I’ll turn you into naiads! Strike, will you! Stop me from having my mud bath, will you? By Kronos, Nid, Ymir, and Loki, you’ll have cause to regret this!”

  “Yaaah!” he finished, inarticulate with fury.

  “Quick!” Crockett whispered to Gru and Brockle Buhn. “Get between him and the door, so he can’t get hold of the Cockatrice Eggs.”

  “They’re not in the throne room,” Gru Magru explained unhelpfully. “Podrang just grabs them out of the air.”

  “Oh!” the harassed Crockett groaned. At that strategic moment Brockle Buhn’s worst instincts overcame her. With a loud shriek of delight she knocked Crockett down, kicked him twice, and sprang for the emperor.

  She got in one good blow before Podrang hammered her atop the head with one gnarled fist, and instantly her turnip-shaped skull seemed to prolapse into her torso. The emperor, a bright purple with fury, reached out—and a yellow crystal appeared in his hand.

  It was one of the Cockatrice Eggs.

  BELLOWING like a musth elephant, Podrang hurled it. A circle of twenty feet was instantly cleared among the massed gnomes. But it wasn’t vacant. Dozens of bats rose and fluttered about, adding to the confusion.