Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  It lay in his palm, red against the snow he had scooped up with it.

  “Vane!” a guard roared. “Drop that—”

  The Stone blazed, throwing unearthly reddish reflections on white snow and cold-pallid skin.

  It held fascination for Vane. He lifted it toward his forehead. A heavy hand gripped his shoulder, flung him back. But too late.

  The Stone from the Stars leaped from Vane’s palm. He felt an instant of grinding, sickening agony clashing within his brain. It lasted only a moment, and was gone.

  He stood up, throwing off the hand that held his shoulder. The guard—it was bulldog-faced Hanley—went for his gun.

  As he drew it, something made Vane say curtly, “Drop it! Drop the gun, Hanley! Quick!”

  “Like hell I will,” the guard snarled. There was a soft little plop at his feet.

  The automatic had fallen into the snow. Hanley said, “Whup!” and started to bend over to recover the weapon.

  Vane said, “Don’t move!” Hanley froze. The lawyer whirled toward the others.

  “Don’t move, any of you!”

  And the guards stood motionless. Jaeckel was caught off balance, with one leg in the air. He wavered, toppled, and fell flat on his face.

  Vane stood unmoving for a time. Presently he reached up and gingerly touched the gem. His fingers groped searchingly.

  The Stone had attached itself permanently to his forehead. It had sunk in, blazing like a caste mark of some Hindu sect, above and between his brows . . .

  UNREASONING horror shook Vane. He clawed at the jewel, tried to wrench it from its place. He could not budge the gem. His nails slipped off the smooth, cold surface. His wrists began to bleed as the handcuffs dug into them.

  It was nightmare—the guards living statues, the jewel flaming in his living flesh and bone, the dead silence, broken only by the river’s murmur . . .

  Vane lowered his hands slowly and stood staring at the cuffs. Apparently Zaravin had not lied. The Stone from the Stars gave its possessor strange powers.

  And that meant—

  Suddenly Vane thought of Pasqual. Big Mike Pasqual, ruthless, all-powerful lord of Kentonville’s underworld. Too smart for the law. Too strong for his enemies.

  All-powerful—

  Like hell!

  Vane’s smile was not good to see. He was visualizing Pasqual, frozen motionless as the guards had been, screaming for help, facing the death he had arranged for so many others.

  The lawyer turned to Hanley. His young face, with lines of bitterness months of prison had engraved upon it, was hard.

  “Unlock my handcuffs, one of you,” he said quietly.

  “Yeah?” Hanley’s voice was strained but mocking. “I don’t know what you’ve done to me, but I’m not going to take those cuffs off. I won’t—I won’t—”

  His voice rose into a scream. Because all the time he was talking, Hanley was reaching into his pocket, taking out a key-ring, selecting a small key, walking forward and reaching toward Vane’s extended wrists . . .

  “Thanks,” Vane said as the lock clicked. He shook the cuffs off and gingerly massaged his wrists. “Now—let’s see. These prison clothes. They won’t do. But a guard’s uniform—” He shook his head, pondering.

  “And I can’t leave you here. You’d freeze in no time. I don’t know why the devil I care about that, but—I’ve got it. Listen, the three of you. In ten minutes you’ll be perfectly normal again. You’ll go directly back to the prison. You won’t remember anything that happened after you came into this valley. Tony Apollo and I are dead. You saw us fall into the gorge. We’re dead. Do you understand?”

  “We understand,” the three chorused. Jaeckel’s voice was muffled as he lay face down in the snow.

  Vane grinned suddenly. “Okay, boys,” he said, turning. “Good luck!” And he hurried up the slope toward the ridge and freedom . . .

  HIS mind was furiously active. What now? First of all, he had to get rid of these betraying clothes and find more suitable garments.

  What about the guards? For a second Vane felt an unreasoning premonition, but dismissed it casually. After all, he owned the magic gem that gave its owner incredible powers. And—so far—it seemed to work.

  It worked on a tourist Vane stopped, too. The man was about his build, he noticed, and was driving a sedan slowly along the highway that twisted through the mountains near by. Vane simply stood beside the road and commanded—inaudibly—“Slow down and stop. Be careful.” He did not wish to see the man kill himself by plunging over the precipice that gaped across the highway.

  The sedan stopped. The man got out. He stared at Vane and gasped, “You’re the escaped con! Don’t shoot—”

  “Take off your clothes,” Vane said.

  “I will not!” the man said in a shocked voice, shucking his overcoat. He removed his necktie. “Undress in the open-air? I’ve never done such a thing in my life!”

  He pulled off his pants. “I won’t undress and that’s flat!”

  “Keep your underwear,” Vane smiled, as the man continued to strip. “Swell. Now get in back and cover yourself up with that afghan I saw there.”

  “I won’t,” the man said, crawling into the back seat and pulling the afghan over him. “I won’t.”

  “Now keep quiet.”

  There was no answer. Vane donned the garments and got in the front seat. He found a comb in an inner pocket and adjusted his hair till a lock of it fell over the jewel that flamed on his forehead. Still he was not satisfied. He picked up the black Homburg that lay on the seat beside him, turned down the brim, and pulled it over his eyes. Peering into the rear-view mirror, he nodded, satisfied. It would do. The gem was hidden from casual scrutiny.

  Vane was whistling softly as he slid the car into gear and began the long journey into Kentonville . . .

  CHAPTER III

  The Man Who Was Dead

  SIX hours later, at five-thirty, Vane reached his destination. He paused on the outskirts and bought a paper from an excited newsboy.

  “Big mystery, mister,” the kid was yelping. “Men from Mars—escaped convict—jeez!”

  “Sure,” Vane said, and gave the boy a dollar he found in his pocket. Later he parked under a street light and examined the headlines. A worried frown puckered his brows.

  There was trouble he had not anticipated. His plan had not been successful. The three guards had awakened ten minutes after he left them and started plodding back to the prison. But before they topped the rise they were halted by reinforcements the warden had sent out, The newcomers saw the spaceship, and, worse, they had followed the tracks in the snow.

  They read the signs correctly. One of the escaped convicts had fallen into the gorge. The other had escaped; his tracks ended at the highway, where he had obviously boarded an automobile. The dragnet was still out. The mystery of the surviving convict’s identify wasn’t solved by Hanley, Jaeckel, or Bester. In the face of plain evidence and sane logic, they continued to contend firmly that both Apollo and Vane had fallen into the gorge.

  The spaceship made headlines. Wild guesses were made as to its origin.

  Naturally, the three guards added little light to the problem. They had never seen the ship before. Obvious they were lying, since their tracks in the snow told a different story. Jaeckel, Hanley, and Bester were now protesting against their confinement in the observation ward.

  Vane grinned.

  There was a watch in his vest pocket, he found. Five-thirty-five. And, as the newspaper showed, this was Thursday. The lawyer shoved the car into gear.

  “Unless Pasqual has changed his methods since I was sent up,” he murmured, “his boys are making the rounds on East Third Street right now. Wonder if Uncle Tobe’s still in business?”

  He had decided on a definite plan. Swiftly he treaded the familiar streets of Kentonville, feeling an odd sense of pleasure at seeing well-known sights again.

  The City Hall—the old Mattingly mansion—Curlew Park—and the slu
ms.

  The tenement district, where Vane had been born and where he had fought his way up from the gutter. The slums were part of Vane. Beneath the squalor and the filth he saw something else, a high, unwavering courage that kept on where all else failed. Kids playing naked under the hydrants, bent old shopkeepers saving their pennies to send their children to school, shapeless, tired-eyed mothers slaving over oven-hot stoves in the blazing summers . . .

  VANE parked the car and turned his head. He said to the man lying under the afghan, “In two minutes you’ll wake up and drive to your home. You won’t remember anything that’s happened since I met you.”

  There was no answer. Vane emerged from the car and crossed the street, looking up at the twilit sky. Ramshackle tenements loomed all around. Tiny, grimy little shops were visible everywhere. Pushcarts were visible here and there.

  Vane entered a small grocery whose window bore the legend: Elite Grocery.

  A bell tinkled as he stepped across the threshold, looking around the gloomy interior. A glass showcase, filled with cheap candy, was at his left. The place looked just the same—like any other grocery in slumtown.

  A boy came from the back—a sallow, taffy-haired kid whose thin face was splashed with freckles. He stared at Vane.

  “Steve! Jez—” He whirled. “Pop! Hey! Steve’s here!”

  “Eh? Who? What—” Uncle Tobe came into view. He looked like a gnome, except for his lack of beard. His face was brown and wrinkled as a walnut, and the faded blue eyes blinked at the intruder.

  Then, suddenly, he was running forward unsteadily, gripping Vane’s arm with skeletal fingers, drawing him back into the store.

  “Steve! Come in here, quick! They’re all looking for you. Did anyone see you come in?”

  Vane smiled, but let himself be pulled back through faded curtains into the back room, where Uncle Tobe lived with his adopted grandson. He sank down on a rickety couch and pulled his hat lower over his eyes. No use frightening his hosts.

  “Hold on,” he said. “I’m in no danger, Uncle Tobe. Really. I—the police can’t touch me.”

  “You’re cleared? They know you were framed?”

  “Not—yet,” Vane said slowly, and hurried on. “Listen, I want some information.

  Does Pasqual still collect his protection dough from you?”

  “Yeah,” the boy broke in. “He sure does. Raised the ante, too. That dirty gorilla of his—he busted Uncle Tobe smack across the face when we was half a buck short. We cleaned out the till, too, but we couldn’t make it.”

  The old man’s eyes searched Vane’s face. “Something’s happened to you, Steve,” he said, frowning. “What is it?” “Never mind that. When is the collector due again?”

  “Today,” the youngster burst out. “I’m going to stick a knife in—”

  “Mickey!” Uncle Tobe’s voice was sharp. “You want to grow up to be a gangster?

  You shut up!”

  Vane said, “Okay. I’m going to wait right here. I want some information from Pasqual’s thug, but when he comes I want you to pay him off as usual.”

  Uncle Tobe bit his lips nervously. “I haven’t the money this week, Steve. I’m five dollars short. I’ve been trying to borrow it, but everybody else is hard up too.”

  “Swell. Don’t worry about that.” Vane paused as he heard the sound of a motor starting across the street. He smiled a little. His weird power was still with him. He stood up and put his hand on the old man’s stooped shoulder.

  “Don’t worry about it, Uncle Tobe,” he said quietly. “Remember when I was a little kid, you used to slip me candy whenever I came in the store? Remember why you did that?”

  The other nodded. “Sure, Steve. You swiped a peppermint stick out of the case once, and I caught you at it. You never did it again.”

  “No. I remember what you told me—that there was always a right way and a wrong way of getting things, and the wrong way wasn’t ever necessary. You said if I wanted candy, you’d give it to me. Well—I owe you plenty, Uncle Tobe. I’ve thought of what you said a lot of times. And—”

  The bell tinkled. Mickey went to the curtain and turned back a white face. “It’s Stohm. Uncle Tobe—don’t go. I’ll go—”

  THE old man shook his head, smiling, and went past the boy into the shop. Mickey followed. Vane stepped to the curtains, parted them a trifle, and peered through the aperture.

  Uncle Tobe was talking to a hulking, unshaved man who looked like a prizefighter. His cauliflower ear seemed to verify that conclusion. His neck made a beefy roll of red fat over a dirty collar. Small black eyes, embedded in little pits of gristle, watched the old grocer.

  Stohm’s hand lay palm up on the counter. He turned it over and smacked it against the wood.

  “I can’t help that,” he grunted. “I want the dough. And now.”

  “I’d give you all I have,” Uncle Tobe said. “I’ll make up the rest next week.”

  Stohm said nothing, but waited. Mickey stood against the counter and glared, his freckles standing out against rage-pallid skin.

  Slowly the old man counted out greasy bills, silver, and pennies into the fat palm. Stohm thrust the money carelessly into his pocket.

  He said, “Just to make sure you don’t forget to make up the difference next week.” His heavy foot pushed against a showcase, and it fell over with a shattering crash. Candy showered the floor.

  Uncle Tobe sprang forward as Stain turned to another case. The blue-veined old hand clutched a brawny arm. With a contemptuous grin the gangster swung his fist and knocked the grocer down.

  From his hiding-place behind the curtain, Vane watched, feeling a hot tide of rage surge through him at the sight. Before he could move, however, Mickey had leaped forward and drove his small, hard fist into Stohm’s somach[sic].

  The thug grinned. He picked up Mickey by the shirt, holding him helpless in midair.

  Stohm said, “Don’t get smart with me, sprout. I’m gonna twist your ears off—”

  Vane’s hand lifted. He brushed the hat off his head. The Stone from the Stars flamed with unearthly crimson light.

  The lawyer’s lips moved silently. And Stohm stood helpless, frozen, still gripping Mickey . . .

  “Don’t move, Stohm,” Vane whispered softly. “Don’t move a muscle. Just stay like that . . .”

  The gangster’s eyes were wide. His face was twisted into a grimace. He glared at Mickey as the boy twisted and struck out with his small, fury-driven fists.

  They drove into Stohm’s face. They flattened his nose and split his lips. They blacked his eyes and raised red welts on his cheeks.

  “Leggo o’ me!” Mickey shrilled. “Lemme go!”

  But Stohm didn’t relax his grip, He couldn’t. He couldn’t even yell for help.

  Only his eyes spoke of stark horror as he continued to hold the boy before him.

  Blood spurted from the gangster’s nose, dripped down his chin. Uncle Tobe staggered forward and seized Mickey about the waist. He tore the boy’s shirt free from the iron fingers that held it.

  “Mickey! Stop it! Stop!” He thrust the lad behind him. “Don’t touch him, Stohm.

  If you do—”

  Uncle Tobe stopped, staring at the other.

  Vane readjusted the hat on his head and stepped through the curtains. He patted the grocer’s shoulder.

  “It’s okay, Uncle Tobe. I told you it’d be. You’re a good scrapper, Mickey. Now be quiet for a bit.”

  He turned to Stohm.

  “Where’s Pasqual?”

  THE gangster’s face remained expressionless, but his voice said thickly, “I dunno.”

  “When were you to see him again?”

  “Tonight. At eight. He’s throwing a party tonight at his house. He’s celebrating because Tony Apollo’s dead.”

  “Yeah,” Vane said thoughtfully. “That’s right. Pasqual was always afraid of Apollo. Well, listen to me, Stohm. You’re coming along to headquarters, and you’re going to confess—answer tru
thfully every question that’s put to you.

  Hear me?”

  “Yes,” Stohm said dully.

  “My God!” Uncle Tobe’s thin frame was shaking. “What’d you do to him, Steve?

  Hypnotize him?”

  “Call it that,” Vane nodded. “See you later.” He turned to the door.

  “You can’t go out in the street. You’ll be recognized.”

  The lawyer pulled the Homburg lower over his forehead. “Oh, I dunno. Even if I am—I don’t think I’ll be arrested.” He grinned at the old grocer. “You’ve helped me a lot, Uncle Tobe. And you, too, Mickey. Fists are better than knives, aren’t they?”

  “Me,” the boy said, eyeing his hands with awe, “they sure are, Steve.”

  “Come on,” Vane commanded Stohm, and the gangster followed him out of the shop.

  Realizing that the latter’s bruised face would attract attention, Vane soon managed to find a taxi. The driver was suspicious, but a brief command from the lawyer had instantaneous effects.

  “Police station,” Vane directed, and settled back on the cushions beside the dazed Stohm.

  Newsboys were yelling extras as they rode on. “Spaceship from Mars! Read all about it! Convict still at large!”

  “Wonder why people figure Mars is the only planet that has life?” Vane mused.

  “Well—” His thoughts turned to Pasqual. Eight o’clock. He had a rendezvous with the underworld king at eight . . . He was conscious of an overwhelming hunger.

  What had the Mercurian said? Vane tried to remember. The Stone from the Stars feeds on life-energy—that would speed up his own basal metabolism, of course.

  And there was something else—some warning Zaravin had given. What—well, it didn’t matter. Nothing could harm Vane as long as the red jewel glowed on his forehead.

  He was soon to learn how wrong he was in thinking this.

  CHIEF OF POLICE LANKERSHIM looked up casually as his office door opened. Then he caught his breath and rose half upright, staring at the man on the threshold.

  Lankershim’s hard-bitten, tired face was suddenly ludicrous with amazement.