Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  Tony Apollo came walking on . . . .

  Horrified gasps went up from the crowd outside. Pasqual whirled suddenly and made for the door. He forced his way through the mob, and men and women alike shrank from the hysterical lord of the underworld—now a shaking, shrieking wreck. Pasqual looked over his shoulder.

  Tonv Apollo was following.

  Vane said to Lankershim, “Come on, all of you.” He nodded at the officers, and they trailed him out on the sidewalk. Amid the seething crowd, they stared after Pasqual.

  The gangster was climbing a fire-escape, in a frantic attempt to escape from his pursuer. Up and up he went, five stories above the ground to the roof. White faces watched him from the tenement’s windows. On the summit Pasqual vanished for an instant, and then reappeared, holding in his hands a brick he had wrenched from a crumbling chimney.

  Tony Apollo was climbing the fire-escape.

  And Tony Apollo wasn’t a man any longer. He was a red butchered Thing from which blood dripped in a steady stream to the pavement below. The street was filled now with a huge mob; hundreds of eyes were turned up to the roof.

  “KEEP away from me! I didn’t frame you! Stay back!”

  The brick shot down with the force of a bullet. It smashed against Apollo’s shoulder. The man’s body was torn from its grip. It plummeted down through the air.

  Silence, after that a dull, heavy thud. Then, suddenly, Pasqual screamed like a damned soul. For Tony Apollo was getting up, slowly, carefully, and starting to climb the fire-escape again.

  Pasqual found more bricks and hurled them down. Some found their mark; some missed. But Apollo did not lose his grip again. He reached the third story—the fourth—the fifth. White faces watched him with horror from the windows. Apollo ignored them.

  He had no face. Blood was literally pouring from his body. And he kept on smiling, silently, horribly, as he climbed.

  Pasqual suddenly began to scream, “Stop, Tony! I framed you! I framed you! But I’ll give everything back—everything! Only don’t come any closer—”

  Tony Apollo pulled himself over the edge of the roof. He stood up. Pasqual staggered back, clawing at the air, sobbing hysterically.

  Then he fell, and was hidden beyond the parapet of the roof. Tony Apollo fell, too.

  Vane turned to Lankershim. “Better send your men up to the roof. I think our friend Pasqual will talk now. If he’s still sane . . .”

  The chief harked a command. Two officers raced forward, clambered up the fire-escape. After a moment one returnd, while the other, carrying Pasqual’s limp body, followed more slowly.

  The first officer halted before Lankershim. His voice was puzzled.

  “Apollo wasn’t up there.”

  “He got away?”

  The patrolman swallowed convulsively. “I—I guess so. There wasn’t any blood on the roof—”

  Lankershim expelled his breath in disbelief. “No blood! Why, the pavement’s covered with it. Look!” He pointed—and then his jaw dropped.

  There wasn’t any blood visible. It had vanished . . .

  A MONTH had passed. Vane sat in the back of Uncle Tobe’s shop, eating Hasenpfeffer with gusto. The old man was smoking a battered corncob and nodding thoughtfully.

  “Business is better for everyone now that Pasqual’s gang is broken up. He confessed everything, didn’t he—how he framed you—everything?”

  “That’s right.”

  Uncle Tobe suddenly leaned over the table. “I’ve been thinking, Steve—they never found Tony Apollo after he disappeared from that roof.”

  “Probably dead,” Vane grunted. “A wonder he kept alive as long as he did.”

  The grocer smiled. “I have been thinking of various things,” he said, apparently at random. “The way you hypnotized Stohm when he knocked over my showcase—and that red stone you used to have on your forehead.”

  Vane looked up sharply. His face was immobile for an instant. Then, abruptly, he grinned.

  “All right,” he said. “You saw the jewel, eh?”

  “I got a glimpse of it, yes. And now there is a little scar in the center of your forehead—”

  “Operation. I’d figured that I’d have to wear that stone till I died, like the original owner. But he wasn’t—exactly human.” Vane hesitated. “Maybe his race didn’t know much about surgery. Maybe their nervous structure was more sensitive. I dunno. An operation removed the jewel, and I’m still alive.”

  “I see. And what really happened to Tony Apollo?”

  “He died the first day after we broke out of prison. Before that, he asked me to get Pasqual for him if he failed. Tony Apollo was a crook and a gangster, but he played square, in his own way. And he never broke a promise.”

  “But it wasn’t Apollo who followed Pasqual up that fire-escape.”

  Vane smiled grimly. “Pasqual saw him. The Chief saw him. The whole crowd saw him—so did you.”

  “Yes, I saw him,” Uncle Tobe nodded. “But—did you?”

  There was a brief silence. Then Vane shook his head.

  “No, I didn’t see him. He wasn’t there, except in the minds of Pasqual and the chief and all the rest. I—well, let’s say I used hypnotism.” Involuntarily the lawyer’s hand went up to the scar on his forehead.

  Uncle Tobe tugged at his lower lip, “The red jewel? You still have it? What did you do with it?”

  “It’s safe,” Vane said. “Some day—perhaps I may be forced to use it again.

  Anyway—” He picked up his fork “—this Hasenpfeffer is swell. How about another helping?”

  1942

  DESIGN FOR DREAMING

  A Hollywood script writer has a tough time, nervously speaking. And when a magician sends him to the world where the scripts for dreams are written instead of to the Elysian Fields for a vacation—the imagination peddler has recourse!

  Too much Hollywood was the cause. The result, for Timothy Macklin, screen writer, was a severe case of practically psychopathic jitters. His thin, intense face grew thinner, he smoked innumerable cigarettes, and he found himself quivering like jelly each morning when he drove to his office on the Summit Studio lot.

  The cure was obvious, of course. Macklin’s physician sent him to a psychologist, who advised rest and a change of scene. The writer got a leave of absence, thumbed through a sheaf of travel folders, and then telephoned Betsi Gardner, the columnist, Nobody in Hollywood made a move without notifying Betsi. It just wasn’t done.

  “Hello, rat,” the lady said companionably. “What’s up? You missed the shindig last night at Laguna. Jumping catfish, have I got a hangover.”

  “I got worse than that,” Macklin remarked. “I’m a fugitive from a nervous breakdown. My doctor just told me to make tracks.”

  “So? That’s worth a stick or two. Where’re you going?”

  “Dunno. Got any suggestions?”

  “I’ve one,” Betsi said slowly, “but you’d better not laugh. Go see Jerome Dunn.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “You must have been hibernating for the last few months, Tim. I know Dunn hasn’t been in the papers, but you must have heard about him on the grapevine. He’s the boy Hollywood goes to see now. Cures anything from mumps to unrequited love.”

  “What’s his racket?” Macklin inquired.

  “He’s a—magician,” Betsi said. “A sorcerer. Shut up and listen. I’m not kidding. The guy’s got something. His love philters really work.” She chuckled at some stray thought. “Matter of fact, there’s a certain producer who’s got a curse on him now. He doesn’t know what’s wrong, but he’s suddenly developed a dozen or so phobias. He—I one of his directors, and the director went to see Dunn. Figure it out.”

  “What’s the rib?” Macklin grunted.

  Betsi sighed. “Skeptical so-and-so, aren’t you? O.K. Don’t believe me. Just go see Dunn, tell him I sent you, and see what happens. Better have your check book along. Here’s his address. Luck!”

  “Thanks,” the writer said
, and hung up. He reached for a decanter, changed his mind, and turned to view his apartment. It was filled with luggage. Certainly it was high time for Macklin to get tickets for wherever he was going. Oh, well—

  He took a drink. He really didn’t want to go anywhere. Except, maybe, a South Sea island without telephone facilities. But the prospect of seeing his luggage safely on board the boat was definitely unpleasant. Macklin wanted to relax. His mind was racing like an outboard motor in air. He kept visualizing Summit Studios, Hollywood’s special madhouse.

  Ugh!

  Well, what about Jerome Dunn? The guy was a faker, obviously, but perhaps he had something on the ball. Possibly he was a hypnotist. Mesmerism might be the exact thing Macklin needed. On an impulse, he donned a hat, went downstairs, and hailed a taxi, giving the address Betsi had mentioned.

  Twenty minutes later he climbed a steep gravel walk in the heart of the Hollywood hills, toward a comfortable-looking bungalow of white stucco which nestled amid yew trees. A card above the push button said, Jerome Dunn, Consulting Sorcerer.” His finger aimed and ready, Macklin hesitated, listening. A high-pitched, rather tuneless voice was singing from within the house.

  “If you want a proud foe to make tracks—

  If you’d melt a rich uncle in wax—

  You’ve but to look in

  On our resident Djinn,

  Number seventy, Simmery Axe—”

  Macklin rolled up his eyes and rang the bell. Instantly the door swung open. On the threshold was standing a fat little man with an extraordinarily sharp, pointed nose, which quivered slightly as though with excitement. Mr. Dunn wore a faded dressing gown, moth-eaten carpet slippers, and an expression of violent greed.

  “A customer!” he said, his plump cheeks bouncing. “Come in! Oh, wonderful! I shall soon have more money!”

  “Uh—” Macklin gulped, taken by surprise. The little man was unorthodox, even for Hollywood. But Dunn seized the other’s arm and dragged him across the threshold.

  “Oh, fine, fine!” he gurgled happily. “I love money. You’ll pay me for my services, won’t you? You’re not . . . not a deadbeat?” His beady little eyes darkened with a sudden suspicion. “You have money? Answer me?”

  “Yes. But that doesn’t mean you’re going to get any of it. You’re Jerome Dunn?”

  “Me! Oh, yes. Sit down. It’s wonderful to be a magician. I get so much money—sit down, please!”

  Carefully Macklin lowered himself into a chair and stared around. The room looked perfectly ordinary. A lounge, a center table with a bowl of wax fruit upon it, some bad pictures on the wall—bad in the artistic sense, Macklin thought regretfully—and the usual arrangement of carpet, lamps, and bric-a-brac. Everything was slightly greasy.

  “Yes,” Dunn said, “very greasy. It’s the smoke. The nasty stuff I have to burn sometimes before the demons will appear! My! And then things go wrong so often.” He sighed. “But it isn’t my fault. Think something!” he ended urgently.

  “Huh?” Macklin’s eyes widened.

  Dunn beamed. “No, I’m not crazy. See? I’m reading your mind. I’m clever—a real magician. Who are you?”

  “If you’re such a swell magician, you ought to know without asking me. My name’s Timothy Macklin. Betsi Gardner suggested I see you.”

  “Why?”

  For answer Macklin took out a complete medical report—X rays and all—and handed them to Dunn, who examined the material with interest. “I see. Neuroses. And—”

  “You any good at hypnotism?”

  “Wonderful,” Dunn said firmly. “But—”

  “No buts. That’s what I need. Something to soothe my mind—to make me forget all this merry-go-round. Adaptations, continuities, screen credits, directors, producers—I’m fed up. I need a rest. When I came to Hollywood, I figured I could make dough. I have. But I’m going rapidly nuts. Have you ever been in a movie studio, Dunn?” The magician shuddered. “I’ve heard stories. What you need, Mr. Macklin, is a drink.”

  “I’ve tried that—”

  “Of Lethe.”

  “Never tried that,” Macklin said. “But . . . huh?”

  “Lethe,” Dunn explained, “is the Water of Forgetfulness. You don’t want too much of it, of course. A few sips once in a while. The Water will lull you . . . you won’t have a bit of trouble with nerves. See?”

  “I’ll try anything once,” Macklin agreed wearily. “How much is it by the quart?”

  “You’ll have to go after it,” Dunn said. “Lethean Water can’t be taken out of the Greek Hades. They’re very strict about that. Lethe’s a river, you know—it flows past the Elysian Fields. I’ve been there. Nice place, but pretty dead. I jest,” he added hastily. “Get it?”

  “No,” said Macklin, slightly confused.

  “You wanted a trip—well, I’ll throw that in free of charge. You’ll have to go get the Lethe yourself. I can send you to the Elysian Fields, and, once you’re there, you can just take it easy. Drink Lethe whenever you like, and, after you’re completely rested, come back to Earth. That’s simple, isn’t it?

  “Sure. But now let’s talk sense. What—”

  Dunn jumped up, rummaged in a cupboard, and came back with two small rolls of parchment. “Here are your tickets. One will take you to the Elysian Fields and the other will bring you back here. I guarantee the cure. I won’t tell you how to use the scrips till you write me a check. Five thousand dollars, please. Jerome Dunn, with a J—”

  Macklin wrote the check, wondering why he did so. He couldn’t think clearly. This excitable little man was like a cricket rasping on his nerves. But maybe Dunn could cure him. Magic, of course, was out, but—this was probably a psychological build-up to the hypnotic angle. Moreover, Macklin thoughtfully postdated the check by a few days. No use to take chances.

  Dunn didn’t notice. He seized the check, gloated over it, and practically licked it. Then he thrust it into a capacious wallet and sighed happily.

  “Just burn one of the scrips,” he said. “Keep the other handy. Don’t lose it. When you’re ready to come back, burn that. Simple, isn’t it?”

  Macklin said, “Yeah,” and sat looking at the two rolls of parchment. He opened one, to find its surface covered with cryptic heiroglyphics in red ink.

  “Well, burn it,” Dunn said. “Got a cigarette lighter?”

  Macklin nodded, thumbed a flame, and applied it to one of the parchments. Instantly the thing sizzled and melted in his hand, sending up a thick cloud of greasy, black smoke. Macklin cursed, jumped up and shook his hand, which had been burned. He coughed rackingly, his eyes stinging. The smoke was so thick he couldn’t see Dunn, seated across from him.

  Gradually it cleared away. Macklin took one look and closed his eyes in shocked disbelief. Hypnotism. That’s what it was. He couldn’t be standing in a . . . a room where everything was—floating.

  “Hi!” said a shrill voice. “A rookie, huh? Where’s that phone? Tassle your ears, Snule, where is it?”

  “Here, Broscop,” came a deeper reply. “By the chandelier. What world is he from? Mars or Valhalla, I’ll bet.”

  Macklin opened his eyes. He was in an office. It wasn’t quite a normal office. The chief reason was that everything was floating in midair. A heavy mahogany desk was angled up near the ceiling, and chairs were drifting about in a confused fashion. The carpet looked like something out of the Arabian Nights. And the two occupants of the room were also afloat.

  One was a very small green man, with pointed ears and no clothes. The other was a merman, with gills, weed-green hair, and a tapering fish tail.

  “Emergency,” said the green man into a telephone slightly smaller than himself. “I don’t care! So they’re all at a preview—did I send ’em there? It’s a rookie—yeah. O.K. We will. Doing anything tonight, blondie?” He hung up with a tiny sigh. “One of Queen Mab’s girls. I could go for her.”

  “You’d best get back to work,” growled the merman. “This dream’s got to be past the censors by
four o’clock. It’s a super-special.”

  “Dream,” Macklin remarked incoherently. “That’s it. I’m dreaming. Or else I’ve gone off my crock.” He clawed at a drifting chair and found himself somersaulting in midair. When he recovered, the merman had swum forward to face him.

  “Cool off,” the creature advised. “This isn’t a dream. It’s the place where they make dreams. You’ll get used to it after a while.”

  “I . . . ugg—”

  “I,” said the green man, “am Broscop. A leprechaun. This merlad here is Snule. We’re collaborating just now. Your name is—”

  “Timothy Macklin,” the other said automatically. “It’s all right. I’m crazy. I must be. D-does everything float around this way all the time?”

  Broscop laughed shrilly. “Of course not. We were getting in the mood for a flying dream. We’re working on a weightless sequence—it’ll go to a Jovian eventually, for its first showing. I dunno where the second run will be. Here!” He swam to the wall, pushed a few buttons, and the furniture slowly. sank back to a more usual position. So did Macklin and his two odd companions. The merman curled himself into a curious chair shaped to accommodate his nether extremity. Broscop perched on the edge of the desk.

  “Sit down and take it easy,” he advised. “You’re new here, and that’s always tough. Wait’ll you see the director, though! He’ll set you right.”

  “Tough on the kid,” the merman rumbled.

  Broscop nodded. “Yeah, it’s Old Growly this week, isn’t it? He’s a hard case. Come on, Timothy Macklin. You’re in the army now.”

  “B-but—”

  The leprechaun jumped down from the desk, reached up to clutch one of Macklin’s fingers, and urged him to the door. “Come on!” he commanded.

  Outside was a brightly lighted corridor, quite empty. Little Broscop said in an undertone, “I’ll look out for you, lad. Snule’s just dyspeptic. Bad tempered—all mermen are. Now listen, Timothy Macklin—you’ve gotta go see Old Growly. Play along with him. He likes yes-men. I’ll pull some wires and get you assigned to working on a dream with me. I’ll show you the ropes. Here’s the place. Good luck.”