Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  He saw one of their infants, for all appearances a furry, gray, tailless kitten. He noticed that dueling was an established and almost a sacred custom.

  Their religion, curiously oriental, was a form of ancestor worship.

  “Psychologically, it’s displaced egotism,” Denham murmured. But he did not say it aloud.

  The Listeners—he could learn little about them. Except that they were supposedly invulnerable. This Denham did not believe. He was anxious to see one of the aliens. But none had ever been captured. It was seldom indeed that the Listeners ventured outside of their Tower.

  In this, as well as in other factors, Denham thought he read weakness. The Listeners themselves knew they were not invulnerable. But what their flaw might be, it was difficult to guess.

  “An X-ray would have betrayed Achilles,” Denham remarked once. “We need the same thing, figuratively speaking. I’ve got to see the Listeners at close range—know them! But that isn’t possible, I suppose.”

  Varr was rubbing her slim hands with sweet-smelling oil.

  “It’s quite possible. I expected this would be necessary. We have a well-knit organization, Denham, and we can enter the Tower whenever we wish.”

  “The Cloaks of Invisibility?”

  “No. I told you the Listeners keep some of us as slaves—”

  “Well?”

  “Corek and I are slaves.” Her voice was a malicious purr. “When we wish to leave the Tower, we do—secretly. Others of the Free People take our places, disguised to resemble us.”

  DENHAM lifted quizzical eyebrows. The girl smiled.

  “We are experts in disguise. In a few elads—minutes—I could turn myself into you. Any of us could. Corek!”

  Her voice was not raised, but instantly the man appeared, his leonine face expressionless.

  “Well?”

  “Our ally is skeptical.”

  “I heard,” Corek said.

  He went to a panel in the wall, swung it open to reveal shelves filled with jars and boxes. The back of the door was a mirror. Corek found a thin rubber mask, laid it aside, and deftly began to mould a waxy substance into his pointed jaws, building them out. Presently his face had the same general bony contour as Denham’s.

  Then he slipped the mask into place, applying an oily unguent to duplicate the other man’s coloring. He slipped transparent shells over his eyes, taped down the points on his ears, rubbed a dark powder into his hair. When he turned, Denham stared in amazement at an almost perfect duplicate of himself.

  Corek’s voice, too, was Denham’s. “You see?” he asked. “This is one of the oldest of our arts.”

  “We shall go to the Tower, the three of us,” Varr murmured. “Denham must be disguised to resemble—well, why not Ferrad? They do not look unalike.”

  “Ferrad, also, is a Tower slave,” Corek explained. “You can take his place easily.”

  “Good!” Denham said. “I’d like to get a close look at the Listeners. And this will do it.”

  Corek was already removing his disguise. Denham came up behind him, and the other moved imperceptibly away. The cat-people did not like to be touched.

  “Give him Ferrad’s face, Corek,” Varr said. “I shall see that a platform is ready for us.”

  Presently Corek’s deft fingers were moving over Denham’s features, altering, adjusting, building out here and there. The basic human face is oval. A cat’s skull is flatter. But the feline people, of course, had high foreheads and a larger cranium. The chief difficulty was in the face itself, from the eyes down.

  Corek built out Denham’s cheekbones and elongated the jaws to a tapered chin.

  “Ferrad has a beard,” he said. “That will help.”

  Glass shells, painted to resemble feline eyes, were slipped into place. Bits of soft plastic gave Denham’s ears slight points. The rubberlike mask, of the texture of skin, was fitted, and Denham’s hair dyed in streaks.

  He looked rather like a tortoiseshell cat, he decided, eying his reflection with amusement in the mirror.

  False fingernails were glued on, thicker and more pointed than Denham’s own. Corek brought garments that were nearly duplicates of his own, but of a harsher texture.

  “That will do,” Corek said at last. “Walk as we do, now, and talk less sharply. That is all to remember.”

  Denham stared at the mirror, unable to recognize himself. This was makeup artistry brought to a high degree of perfection. He was entirely unconscious of the mask on his face, so pliable was it, and the eye-shells were little handicap.

  “The Listeners won’t see through the disguise?” he asked. “How will I know what work to do? Ferrad—”

  “The Tower slaves have few duties,” Corek told him. “They are—what is the word?—controls. They are given an illusion of freedom, even to the extent of worshiping in the temple. But always they are under observation. The Listeners did not want to get out of touch with their subject race. The slaves were valuable for numerous experimental purposes.”

  Well—that was logical. Man domesticated wolves. Today, house dogs would protect their masters against their own kind. The Listeners, presumably, did nothing without a purpose.

  And then—then the little trio was ready. Varr came back, tense excitement in her air.

  “The platform’s waiting.”

  They left the cave and were soon racing far above the ground, the winds tearing at them. It was very dark. But Varr guided the flying platform without hesitation. Once she glanced at a chronometer—a little transparent lens filled with slowly shifting, varicolored disks, which Denham could never learn to read.

  “Ahead of time. Well, better than late. And it is time to leave the platform, before the Listeners detect it.”

  The airship slanted down.

  “The Listeners built the Tower on the ruins of our greatest city—which they destroyed,” Corek said. “They left only our underground temple, perhaps in mockery. The slaves are permitted to worship there.”

  “So?” Denham was silent, pondering.

  This was odd. Why should the Listeners have been so considerate? Superstition on their parts? Perhaps. He filed the thought for future reference, as Corek went on.

  “There is a secret passage from the Temple to the outside. The Listeners do not know it exists. You shall see.”

  The platform landed on a hillside of moss that camouflaged it deftly. Varr stood up, stretching and arching her back. Her eyes glowed in the gloom, changed from green to orange.

  Behind them, Denham saw, was a starlit valley, over which they had flown. A blaze of unfamiliar stars glowed in the jet vault of the sky.

  And beyond the valley was a pattern of light. Varr caught his look of wonder, and smiled.

  “Water,” she said. “It is slightly radioactive here.”

  All through the valley the water glowed in intricate channels, where streamlets and perhaps irrigation ditches lay. The faint, emerald runes were luminous, moving, alive. Like the bloodstream of some vast, incredibly alien beast.

  Golden light tipped the further hills. A moon rose, the largest of the three, and the radioactivity dimmed to vagueness. Yet still it pulsed and shivered there in the green glow, as though the monster slept, to waken only in darkness.

  Another moon came, and the third, as they waited. Triple shadows made strange patterns. The valley changed, altered.

  Night mists rose from the waters. Billows of cloud were drawn up, slow and relentless. Soon they blanketed the entire valley. The vast bowl was filled with a rolling, slowly shifting mass of pallid fog.

  The golden light poured down upon the mists. It spread through them. And the valley was nothing now but dim, living gold.

  Denham turned from the unearthly loveliness of this spectacle. As never before, he realized the complete alienage of this world. Even its beauties were those of a different universe.

  That thought reminded him of Lana Bellamy. He looked up. Beyond the triple moons, beyond the stars of this sub-atomic system, wa
s his own world. And there, frozen into stasis, a drama of murder was being enacted. It would be fulfilled, unless he could change the course of destiny.

  “Come,” Varr said.

  CHAPTER VIII

  The Hunt Ends

  THEY topped the ridge. Below, far distant, was the lake where Denham had first landed. Corek drew out three of the Cloaks of Invisibility, and they donned them.

  “There are seldom thought-finders stationed this close to the Tower,” Varr said. “But the mind-slowing drug is here”—she touched her breast—in case of need.”

  Invisibly they went on. The lake lay exactly as Denham remembered it, with zones of light on its surface, and the pale Tower of the Listeners on the farther shore.

  A high rock concealed the tunnel which ran under the lake to the Tower, far distant. One of the luminous lenses gave sufficient light, and here the Cloaks were not necessary. On they went, and on, till the passage ended before a blank wall.

  “We are beneath the Tower now, at the temple,” Varr said.

  A panel, studded with varicolored gems, was before her. Her slim fingers flicked over the jewels, sliding them into new positions.

  “This is the signal. This switchboard is connected with a mosaic panel on a wall of the temple. When a certain pattern is made—so!—a message is plain to read. Plain for the Free People, I mean; not for the Listeners.”

  Denham felt a touch of uneasiness.

  “I’m not sure I can play Ferrad’s role.”

  “He has one daily task to perform, like the other slaves. A monotonous but simple one. For the rest, the Listeners pay little attention to their cattle.”

  Restrained fury shook the girl’s voice. Denham caught a blazing glance from Corek’s amber eyes. Cattle—

  “I wonder why the Listeners didn’t destroy your race long ago, Varr,” he said. “It would be safer for them. Making you slaves was—dangerous.”

  “Aye,” Corek agreed throatily. “But the Listeners did not wish to wreck this world. Their deadly rays could have blasted it into a desert of ash. But that cost was too great. They thought they could safely wait till they’d developed some specialized weapon that would kill only us, and nothing else.”

  “And they have that weapon now?”

  “Now—or soon. So we have little time.”

  Corek’s tiger-strong hand gripped the other’s arm.

  “Denham, you must find their weakness. I cannot long endure being a slave!”

  For a moment it seemed as though Corek’s face was the snarling, terrible mask of a beast. His blood-heritage showed plain. Denham barely suppressed a shudder at such naked hatred.

  A panel in the wall slipped aside, interrupting them. Corek dropped his hand and stepped back. Through the gap came three figures, two men and a girl. The girl was a perfect double for Varr; Corek and Denham were duplicated by the men.

  “We saw your signal, Varr,” the girl reported. “We brought Ferrad, as the message said.”

  “Good. I left a flying platform at Point Three. Come here each day at worship time, in case I need you.” Denham was staring at Ferrad, whose face he wore. The panel still gaped open in the wall. Denham started involuntarily as Corek gripped his shoulder and thrust him through. Varr followed. The panel closed.

  CLINGING gray curtains brushed Denham’s face, were swept aside. The three conspirators emerged in a small cave, undecorated save by the drapes, and empty except for a circular pool of water in the floor’s center.

  “This is one of the ritual pools,” Varr murmured. “A part of our religion. Come.”

  They passed through a curtained doorway and stood motionless, briefly, at the entrance of—a cavern?

  No—it was a temple, Denham realized. The light that filled it was clear and shadowless, like the gray of a cloud. A curious solemnity filled the great room, a cup brimmed with silence. Doric pillars, white and smooth, rose against the walls.

  On the walls, here and there, were mosaic pictures, mere patterns of coruscating color, blazing with a barbarous, jeweled splendor in contrast with the simplicity of the rest of the temple.

  In the center was a raised dais, covered with a transparent dome. Under the dome were pillars, a forest of them, black shining pedestals each topped with a white, opaque sphere. On the globes were inscribed symbols in a language Denham could not read.

  “The Listeners left us this,” Varr said, very quietly. “This is the burial place of our ancient kings, who became gods.”

  Ancestor worship. A definitely feline trait, Denham thought.

  “When the Listeners first came to this planet, long ago,” Varr went on, “they destroyed the city that stood here. This temple they could not destroy. When they attempted to enter it, lightning barred their way. The gods—our ancestors—rose to defend their sacred place. Since then, the Listeners have never entered this temple, nor sent any of their messengers here.”

  THERE was awed veneration in Varr’s eyes as she bowed before the great crystal hemisphere, the first time Denham had ever seen it there. Corek followed her example.

  There were others of the feline race in the temple, similar to those Denham had already seen. They ignored the three newcomers. Newcomers? Not at all. To all outward appearances, they had simply entered one of the ritual pool caverns, to emerge again after a few minutes. The substitution had been deftly accomplished.

  “Now we must be careful,” Varr said.

  She took from her garments a chronometer similar to her own and strapped it about Denham’s upper arm, where it was hidden by his sleeve.

  “I told you the Listeners have scanning rays that can pierce stone. We may be spied upon at any time. When a scanner is turned upon us—see?—the disks in your chronometer will shine red; you will feel warmth against your skin. Be wary, then—be very wary!”

  Denham nodded.

  “Why haven’t the Listeners ever discovered the tunnel under the lake, with their rays?”

  “Those rays cannot pierce water. It diffuses the beam, somehow. Also, the Listeners had not looked for danger so close to their stronghold.” Varr looked around. “Come; it is the time for sleep.”

  The temple was slowly emptying. Denham and his companions followed the others. They were far beneath the conical Tower, he realized, as an elevator shot them swiftly and silently upward.

  They emerged in a street, at one of the lower levels, and mounted a moving platform like an endless belt, which whirled them in a spiral outward from the center. The Tower was much huger than Denham had realized. It must be nearly a mile, perhaps even two miles in diameter.

  He began to understand the construction of this level, at least. The ceiling was fifty feet above his head, and the featureless metal buildings rose to that ceiling. The “main street” was an endless, movable belt that wound out in a spiral from center to circumference!; the other streets did not move, and were radials. Denham thought of a spider web.

  Overhead, light filtered down from the ceiling. But nothing green grew here. It was an artificial world, exotic and strange. The mechanical perfection of it was entirely alien to the cat-people. No cat was ever a slave, Denham pondered, with a certain wry amusement.

  As yet he had not seen any of the Listeners. But he was anxious to do so.

  A featureless metal ball, no larger than Denham’s head, drifted past as they rode the endless belt. About to ask a question, he felt Corek’s warning pressure on his arm.

  “An ‘ear’—they fly everywhere,” the other muttered. “The thing is a microphone, Denham, and listens to all it hears. So be very careful from now on.”

  Denham nodded. He had a feeling that this monstrous shell of metal was about to press in and crush him. Scanning rays that could pierce solids—flying “ears,” thought detectors—Good Lord! How could he find any way to fight the fantastic power of the Listeners, invulnerable as they apparently were?

  Yet some way must be found. His ray-projector had to be recaptured. And where it was Denham could not guess. Somew
here in the Tower, of course, but—

  A man was waiting for them in Varr’s dormitory room. He was a sleek, wiry young fellow who reminded Denham irresistibly of a hunting cheetah. A trimmed yellow mustache was set in dapper points, and his smooth blond hair was like a tight skull-cap.

  “Hunt’s end, Varr,” he greeted.

  “Hunt’s end. May it come soon! What is the news, Morlan?”

  Morlan sat down again on cushions and watched under lowered lids.

  “It will keep. This is the man from another world, eh? His disguise is good. The Listeners will not know he is not Ferrad.”

  Suddenly he reached for a stringed lyrelike instrument at his side and began to pluck at it. His voice murmured a wordless song.

  Simultaneously Denham felt a sensation of warmth above his right elbow. Surreptitiously he glanced at the chronometer Varr had given him. The tiny disks were glowing red.

  A scanning ray was on them.

  The sensation passed. Morlan put down his lyre, making no reference to the incident. He smiled at Corek.

  “You grow impatient, Corek,” he said softly.

  “Yes,” Corek said briefly—and his eyes gleamed.

  Morlan chuckled, spreading out one hand. Denham saw sharp nails unsheathe themselves.

  “Hunt’s end—Listen! Do you remember those two spaceships that came here, el ads on elads ago? Well, our spies have learned the truth. They came from the world from which the Listeners originally fled, hunted outlaws.”

  Varr leaned forward.

  “Well?” she said.

  “They came to destroy the Listeners, who have begun their evil ways again, as we know only too well. A sentence of death was passed on the Listeners, generations ago, and those spaceships found their quarry and came to fulfill that sentence. But the Listeners had grown too strong. They destroyed their hunters!”

  Corek sucked in his breath.

  “And?” he said.

  Morlan relaxed, smiling.