Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  Vanderhof made a mighty effort to break the spell, but it was useless. He walked on, his gaze riveted on the greasy slate-colored water at the end of the pier. Not a man, woman, or child among the crowd noticed him. He tried to call for help, but no sound came from his lips.

  People were running. Rain began to splash down, first in droplets, then in ever-increasing torrents. The gray clouds were fulfilling their promise. People ran, with newspapers over their heads, to the nearest shelter.

  Wavering on the edge of the pier, Vanderhof felt something pull him back. Magnetically he was made to retreat a few staggering steps, He turned. He started to walk back along the wharf, then he was running with the rest of the crowd. No longer did he hear Walker’s voice demanding suicide. In its place was an urgent whisper that said:

  “Run! Run!”

  Hundreds of men, women, and children were rushing to shelter. The effect of this mass hegira was too much for the human chameleon. A wave seemed to bear him along with the others. Vainly he tried to struggle against the impulse. No use, of course. Rain splashed in his face.

  It was like running in a dream, without conscious volition. Lines of force seemed to drag him onward. Off the pier. On the boardwalk, and along it, in the midst of the crowd. As various members of the mob dived for shelter, poor Vanderhof was tossed about like a leaf in a gale. A group leaped into a hot-dog stand, and Vanderhof veered after them. Then a larger group came past, and he skittered in their wake, utterly helpless.

  They entered Luna Park, and he perforce followed.

  Somehow he was caught in the eddy, and found himself, limp and perspiring, in a penny arcade, almost deserted. A semblance of sanity came back to him. Gasping and drenched to the skin, Vanderhof cowered behind a “grind-box” labeled “Paris Night—For Men Only,” and wondered what in hell was happening to him.

  He tried to think. What had Walker said? A human chameleon. It seemed to have come true. Adept for years at assuming the traits of others, the ultimate transformation had taken place. Whenever he looked at anyone now, he assumed the traits of that person.

  It was really far worse, only Vanderhof didn’t realize it quite yet.

  Logically, the only solution was to stay away from people. A man without personality is bound to reflect the personality of others. Vanderhof peeped out, looking glumly at a rotund little man with white whiskers who was standing at the entrance to the arcade, staring virtuously at nothing. A pleasant little man, he thought. He probably had not a worry in the world. Vanderhof wished he were that man.

  HE WAS startled by the sound of footsteps, and even more startled when a veritable giantess of a woman smacked him over the head with her umbrella. The unfortunate Vanderhof reeled, seeing stars. He gasped, “W-w-wha—”

  “Worm!” the Amazon boomed. “I told you not to enter this—this peep-show!” Her voice quivered with menace. Utterly at a loss, Vanderhof raised his hand to his stinging head, but it was entrapped halfway in what seemed to be a maze of dangling spaghetti. He investigated. It was a set of white whiskers, exactly like the man at whom he had been looking—only the whiskers were on Vanderhof’s face!

  The giantess had turned momentarily to wither the arcade with a glance, and Vanderhof caught sight of himself in a nearby mirror. It did not, however, much resemble Tim Vanderhof. What he saw was a rotund little man with white whiskers.

  With an astonished shriek Vanderhof turned back to his normal self. The apparition in the mirror resumed its usual and familiar semblance. It was again Tim Vanderhof.

  “Oh, my God,” the man murmured faintly. “I’m dreaming.”

  “What?” The Amazon turned, her umbrella raised. Then her eyes dilated. How the devil had her husband managed to get out of sight so suddenly, leaving an utter stranger in place of himself? She didn’t know. She stared balefully at Vanderhof, who shrank back, his eyes on the umbrella.

  Just then the giantess caught sight of the fat little man at the arcade’s entrance.

  She turned, lumbering away. This time she disdained the use of the umbrella. Going, apparently, on a variation of the principle that fingers were made before forks, she lifted a ham-like hand and smote the, fat little man athwart the ear. The beard rippled like a white banner as the wretched creature was hurled out into the rain.

  He raised himself from the mud and dazedly contemplated his wife. She had never before struck him without good cause—what she considered good cause, anyway. If she was going to beat him on sudden, mad impulses, the future would be dark indeed, thought the fat little man.

  He rose and ran rapidly away.

  The giantess followed, crying threats.

  Tim Vanderhof shuddered convulsively. He was going insane. Or else . . . No, it was too ghastly. He couldn’t be a jellyfish as well as a chameleon. He might, perhaps, assume the traits of somebody else, but he couldn’t acquire their actual physical appearance as well!

  “No,” Vanderhof said urgently. “Please—no!”

  Yet it was profoundly and disturbingly logical. He had looked at the fat little man, and had become the fat little man, white whiskers and all. The shock of seeing himself in the mirror had caused him to return to a more normal appearance. What would be the ultimate result? Would Tim Vanderhof fad” into a shadow—a mere thing? Yipe.

  Such was the cry that burst from Vanderhof’s dry throat at the very prospect. He couldn’t go about the world turning into everybody he met. And yet—chameleons did it, in so far as pigmentation went. A specialized animal like a man might go even further. The powers of the mind and the will were unplumbed. Vanderhof knew that, from much perusal of Sunday supplements and science-fiction magazines. Recalling stories he had read by such authors as H. G. Wells, Jules Verne, and Henry Kuttner, he groaned as he realized that the heroes of such tales usually met a sticky end.

  “Oh, no!” Vanderhof whispered involuntarily. “I don’t want to die. I’m too young to die.”

  Footsteps clumped into the arcade. Hurriedly Vanderhof whirled, burying his face in the nearest slot-machine, which featured a presumably authentic reel telling how native women were kidnapped by gorillas in the Congo. It was neither natural shyness nor a genuine interest in anthropology which caused Vanderhof’s sudden retreat. He feared to face anyone, believing, logically enough, that he might turn into that person.

  He dropped a penny in the slot and whirled the crank, scarcely seeing the faded cards that flickered into view and out again inside the machine. A gorilla was engaged in wandering through its native jungle.

  SOMEONE behind Vanderhof began to laugh maniacally. His cries rose into shrill screams.

  There were answering, inquiring shouts. Feet thudded. Someone called, “What’s the matter there.”

  “A monkey!” came the hysterical response. “There’s a gorilla looking at dirty pictures! I’ve got the jumping jitters again!”

  Vanderhof hurriedly turned to face a tall, skinny man with a horselike face and bloodshot eyes. He carried a cane and apparently a large cargo of Scotch.

  “It’s coming after me!” the man screeched, retreating. “First snakes, and now this. Ah-h, those awful glaring eyes!”

  “Sh-h!” said Vanderhof, lifting a placating hand. The drunk shivered in every limb.

  “It hisses like a snake!” he cried, and thrust out the cane like a fencer. Its metal tip caught Vanderhof in the middle, and he doubled up, breathless and gasping.

  And, simultaneously, he saw himself in a mirror.

  It didn’t look like Tim Vanderhof. It was wearing Tim Vanderhof’s clothes, but it was, unquestionably a gorilla—the kind that kidnap native women in the Congo. The sound of footsteps grew louder. The new arrivals were almost at the arcade.

  Vanderhof put forth a mighty effort of will, inadvertently baring his fangs. The drunk emitted a short, sharp cry and covered his eyes. But Vanderhof ignored him. He was glaring, wildly, at the mirror.

  And, suddenly, the gorilla was gone. Vanderhof was himself again.

  Tenderly
rubbing his stomach, Vanderhof straightened to meet the red-rimmed gaze of the horse-faced man.

  “Where is it?” the latter babbled. “Where did it go?”

  “Where did what go?” Vanderhof asked coldly, still maintaining the mental effort that enabled him to keep his rightful form.

  “The gorilla—” There was a pause as people poured into the arcade, asking questions. There was confusion and tumult. And shouting. This died, eventually, as Vanderhof indicated the horse-faced man and explained that he was drunk.

  “I’m not that drunk,” was the surly response. “Snakes, yes. But not gorillas. Where is it? I know.” The man’s glazed eyes brightened. “You hid it!”

  “You’re drunk,” Vanderhof said.

  “Yeah? For two cents I’d punch your face in. Gr-r!” His confusion crystallized into belligerency, the drunk rolled forward, waving the cane. Vanderhof fled—

  It was a hard life, he thought dismally, as he slunk through Luna Park, carefully avoiding crowds. The rain had stopped now, but people were still wary. This was all to the good. Vanderhof could, he found, retain his normal shape by putting forth a strong mental effort, but this could not be kept up for long. Already he felt weak.

  Yet, at the back of his mind, a queer, perverse excitement was slowly, imperceptibly growing. In a way, it was rather fun. Imagine being able to turn yourself into a gorilla! Everybody was afraid of gorillas!

  People shot them, too, Vanderhof recalled, and shut his eyes. He wavered, hearing faintly the tones of a hoarse, rasping voice that plucked at his nerves. It was like—like—what?”

  Like Walker’s voice. Urgent—commanding. Demanding that he do something—

  He opened his eyes and found himself before a side-show. The barker stood above him on a box, derby tilted back, checkered suit, garish, thrusting out a commanding finger.

  “C’mon, folks! Here it is, greatest sideshow on Earth! Tiniest dwarf ever born of woman, tallest giant since Creation, all the wonders of the Universe gathered here for your inspection. Step inside! You, there—only a dime! Step right forward, mister! The girl will take your dime!”

  “No!” Vanderhof squeaked faintly, and tried to retreat. Instead, he found himself walking forward.

  “Right this way, mister! Pay your dime! R-r-right in here! Step inside—”

  Vanderhof found a dime and paid the admission charge. He didn’t want to go into the side-show. He had a singularly horrid idea of what might happen there. But the barker’s will-power was too strong for him, and he could no longer exert the mental effort that partially insulated him from danger. He was exhausted.

  “I’m a jellyfish,” poor Vanderhof mourned as he entered the show. “That’s what I am. Walker was right. Oh, damn!” he ended futilely, tears of frustrated rage in his eyes. “I wish this would stop!”

  But wishing didn’t do any good. The chameleon man found himself in the sideshow—surrounded by freaks!

  He caught one glimpse of innumerable people—terrifying to him, under the circumstances—ranged around the big room, and then fled through a doorway on his right. It was definitely no time to face giants, dwarfs, dog-faced boys, or wild men from Sumatra. Vanderhof wanted only peace and quiet.

  HE GOT neither.

  He found himself in a small anteroom containing a mirror and a dwarf. The latter whirled and snapped. “Didn’t you see the sign over the door? This is private! I-huh?”

  He stopped talking, and presently resumed. “Say, that’s a clever trick. Are you one of the boys? A magician, huh?”

  “Yeah,” said the now dwarfish Mr. Vanderhof. “I d-do it with mirrors.”

  “Damn good,” returned the little man, whose name was Bingo. “Wait a minute. I want Ajax to see this.”

  “Don’t bother,” Vanderhof started, but he was too late. Bingo whistled, and immediately the room was darkened by the shadow of Ajax, who was seven feet nine inches tall, and would have had no need for snowshoes.

  Vanderhof shut his eyes. He tried to assert his will-power, or what little remained of it, and was rewarded with pleased noises from giant and dwarf. “Clever!” said the latter. “Did you see that? He was little a minute ago. Now he isn’t.”

  “That’s right,” the giant rumbled. “He looked like you, too, Bingo. Did you notice? Who are you, Mister?”

  “I wish I knew,” Vanderhof gasped, feeling lost and helpless. He dared not open his eyes. He was again in his normal semblance, but the very sight of either Ajax or Bingo might cause another metamorphosis.

  “You!” a new voice broke in—one familiar to Vanderhof as that of the drunk in the arcade. “I been looking for you. I want to punch you in the snoot.”

  Vanderhof, feeling set-upon, almost had a mad impulse to sock the drunk, but habit prevailed. He took refuge in flight, or tried to. Unfortunately, he ran into the mirror, bumped his nose, and turned, opening his eyes.

  He saw Ajax and Bingo.

  The drunk lunged forward, lifting his cane. Then he halted, and a scream of stark terror burst from his throat.

  “Yaaaah!” he shrieked. Apparently considering this an insufficient comment, he threw up his hands and added, “Waaaab!”

  He fled, leaving a memento in the form of his cane, which he flung at Vanderhof with unerring aim. Nose and cane collided.

  Ajax and Bingo whistled in chorus: “Wow!” said the latter. “Didja see that? Mister, you’re good! You almost scared me.”

  Vanderhof, tears of pain in his eyes, turned to the mirror. “Yeah,” he said in a shaky voice. “You may not believe it, but I’m scaring myself. Ami crazy, or do I look like both of you?”

  “Well,” the dwarf said judiciously, “the top part of you looks like me, but the bottom half looks like Ajax. I don’t see how you do it. You must be on the big time.”

  Vanderhof was silent, considering the impossible reflection in the mirror. From the waist up he was Bingo, the dwarf. His lower extremities were those of a giant. The result was harrowing in the extreme. It was like putting a chameleon on Scotch plaid.

  With a mighty effort he resumed his normal appearance. There were cries of amazement and appreciation from his companions. Leaving them to their simple pleasures, Vanderhof walked unsteadily back into the main show. He was bound for fresh air—lots of it. And peace.

  Chameleons, however, do not lead peaceful Jives, contrary to the opinions of some. The unexpected is always happening.

  As Vanderhof crossed the big room, he was trying to understand what had happened. He had assumed the outward appearance of two people at the same time—abnormal people at that. Things were getting worse. Ajax and Bingo. Bingo and Ajax. Giant and—

  Whup! Vanderhof had entered another room, over the doorway of which was a sign reading, “Magic Mirrors,” and paused, facing the only normal mirror in the place. He was looking at the same conglomeration of dwarf and giant that he had viewed before.

  Good Lord! Could he change his shape by merely—thinking? The thought was appalling, yet it possessed a curious, perverse fascination for Vanderhof. Standing perfectly motionless, he concentrated on his own normal self.

  And there was the reflection of Tim Vanderhof facing him!

  That, at least, was a relief. But, feeling slightly safer now, Vanderhof didn’t stop. He wanted to make sure. He thought of the side-show barker outside, and visualized him mentally. Derby hat, cigar, checkered suit.

  The reflection in the glass showed the barker, though there was neither derby, cigar, nor checkered suit. Apparently only Vanderhof himself could change. His clothing remained unaltered. That was natural enough.

  He returned to his normal self.

  “You!” said a familiar voice. “I been looking for you! None of your tricks, now! I wanna punch your nose.”

  “Oh, my goodness!” Vanderhof said, turning. “You again!”

  “Yeah!” said the drunk belligerently. “Wanna make something out of it?” He lifted the cane and advanced. Vanderhof, perforce, retreated into the room of Magic Mirrors
. He found himself being backed into a comer, his fascinated gaze riveted on the cane. Its metal tip looked extremely hard. The drunk had recovered it, or else acquired a new one. In any case, it seemed to be a dangerous weapon.

  The horsey face bore a malignant expression. “I’m gonna smash you,” it said, and thrust itself forward. Vanderhof backed away, feeling the cold surface of a mirror at his back. He was trapped. The room was empty. No use to call for help. The din from the next room, where a band was loudly playing, would drown any but the loudest shrieks.

  ABRUPTLY Vanderhof felt irritation.

  His stomach was still sore from the cane’s tip, and his nose, too, was aching. He said, “Go away.”

  “No,” the dmnk growled. “I’m gonna smash you.”

  Sudden, violent rage boiled up in Vanderhof. He thought of Ajax and Bingo. If they were there, they’d help him. But—

  Vanderhof thought diligently, visualizing giant and dwarf. From the startled look that came over the drunk, he realized that the metamorphosis had once again taken place.

  He stepped forward, warily at first, and the horse-faced man retreated.

  At that precise moment Vanderhof caught sight of himself in one of the mirrors that lined the place. The change was not quite the same as before. This time, from the waist down, Vanderhof was Bingo, the dwarf. His upper portion resembled Ajax the giant.

  Nor was that the worst. The mirror that reflected the insane image was no normal one. It was a distorting mirror, designed to cause laughter by warping and twisting images. Concave, it reflected Vanderhof not only as a half-giant, halfdwarf, but as a swooping arc—a being bent like a bow’, such as had never before existed on Earth.

  The drunk shrieked. “No, no!” he babbled. “Not that!”

  Vanderhof realized that he had taken on the attributes of the distorted image. He glanced at the cowering horse-faced man, and felt a warm glow of triumph.

  It faded as he was punched in the stomach by the cane.

  Vanderhof got mad. He said, with slow emphasis, “Okay. You asked for it. Now you’re going to—get it!”