Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  The grip upon his mind relaxed. Circe, confident of her triumph, let her eyelids droop.

  And Arnsen’s mind came back in a long, slow cycle from the gulfs between the stars, drifted leisurely back into the crystalline cavern and the presence of the goddess—and woke.

  Not wholly. He would never be whole again. But he felt the crowding vibrations of the countless prisoners in crystal who had gone the way his own feet were walking now, bewildered, drunken and drowning in emotions without name, sacrificing identity without knowing what they sacrificed. Flung into eternity at the whim of a careless goddess to whom all life-forms were one . . .

  She was turning half away as realization came back to Arnsen. She had lifted one round white arm to let the crystals cascade along it. She did not even see him lurch forward.

  What he did was without thought. The emotions she had called up in him drowned all thought. He only knew that he must do what he did—he could not yet think why.

  The breath hissed between his lips as he stumbled forward and thrust Circe into the flame . . .

  FROM the roof a gray jewel dropped. The tower of fire paused in its rhythm—beat out strongly again. From it a crystal leaped. It hung motionless in the air, and Arnsen seized it with shaking fingers. He felt great, racking sobs shake him. His fingers caressed the jewel, pressed it to his lips.

  “Circe!” he whispered, eyes blind with tears. “Circe—”

  Epilogue

  ARNSEN had not spoken for a long time. Through the window I could see the Cairo stratoship being wheeled into place. Beyond, the lights of New York glowed yellow.

  “And so you came back,” I said.

  He nodded. “And so I came back. I put on my spacesuit and went back to the ship. The crystals didn’t try to stop me. They seemed to be waiting. I don’t know for what. I blasted off and headed Sunward. I knew enough to do that. After a while I began to send out S.O.S. signals, and a patrol boat picked me up. That was all.”

  “Doug—”

  “Still there, I suppose. With all the others. Vail, why did I do it? Was I right?” He didn’t wait for an answer, but cupped the little shagreen box in his hand. He didn’t open it.

  “No,” he went on, “you can’t answer me; nobody can. Circe took the soul out of my body, and I’m empty now. There’s no peace for me on Earth, or in the spaceways. And out there, somewhere, on that asteroid, the crystals are waiting—waiting for Circe to come back—

  “But she will never come back. She will stay with me till I die, and then she’ll be buried with me in space. In the meantime—Circe doesn’t like it here on Earth. So I’m going out again. Sometime, perhaps, I’ll take her back outside, to the unknown place from which she came. I don’t know—”

  An audio announced the plane for Kansas. Arnsen stood up, gave me a smile from his ravaged face, and without a word went out.

  I never saw him again.

  I think that beyond Pluto, beyond the farthest limits of the system, a little cruiser may be fleeing into the void, controls set, racing, perhaps, for the darkness of the Coal Sack. In the ship is a man and a jewel. He will die, but I do not think that even in death his hand will relax its grip on that jewel.

  And the ship will go on, into the blackness which has no name.

  DAMES IS POISON

  A Time-Traveler Introduces Bathtub Gin to the Borgias—and Brews a Merry Medieval Mix-up!

  PETE MANX was unhappy. Usually when he strolled down 52nd Street he was at his best, with tailored plumage that a peacock might have envied. Peacocks’ tastes run to the garish, anyhow, and certainly Pete’s oyster-gray derby, maroon shirt, and egg-yolk tie were far from drably conventional. Mr. Manx, as he himself often remarked, made his own fashions.

  At present his style was cramped. At his side, clasping the Manx forefinger with a moist and grubby hand, was a small child—Joe Manx, Pete’s nephew. A feeling of mild loathing existed between the two. Now, however, due to a series of unforeseen circumstances, Pete had the unwanted job of minding his nephew for the afternoon. He had not had the nerve to refuse his sister-in-law.

  “I lead with my chin,” he groaned silently, glancing sidewise at the flat, freckled face of Nephew Joe. “I was figgerin’ on a game of snooker this P. M.—but not with Young Filthy in tow. Quit that!” he added morosely, as Joe attempted to kick a passing child not much younger than himself.

  Just then Betsi came along. Betsi was Pete’s current heart-beat, an usherette and a honey. Her blue eyes examined the two Manxes, first with surprise, then with anger.

  “Why Betsi,” Pete said. “Hello!”

  “Hello yourself,” she returned.

  “Telling me you ain’t married, you big four-flusher. Ha!”

  “Not my kid,” Pete explained. “I’m just minding him.”

  “Not your kid—with that mug? Ha!” Betsi repeated, and vanished indignantly into the stream of traffic before Manx could arouse himself.

  He stared after Betsi, failed to discover her, and glanced anxiously at the repulsive face of his nephew. To reassure himself, he found a mirror in a shop window.

  “Okay,” he muttered, somewhat relieved. “I may be no Robert Taylor, but there’s a limit.”

  “I wanta go to Coney Island,” said Joe.

  Pete said no. Too many people knew him at Coney, where he had once operated a concession. Even in downtown New York, he might run into more friends. And the presence of the nephew was distressing to Pete, who prided himself of being a man-about-town. But where could he hide out? Obviously a billiard parlor was out.

  Maybe—maybe—

  Pete hailed a taxi and, regardless of expense, gave an uptown address. Doc Mayhem was the guy. A screwy old duck, but it was as good a hideout as any.

  THE scientist proved to be preoccupied. His small, scrawny figure was jerking excitedly as he ushered Pete and Joe into a living-room, where he promptly forgot them to resume an impassioned argument with a bulky, red-faced man who squatted pontifically in a chair.

  “Hiya, Professor Aker,” said Pete mildly, and was ignored.

  “Strychnine!” the professor bellowed, bringing down a hamlike fist on his knee. “Ouch!”

  “Snake venom!” Mayhem retorted with equal energy.

  “At it again, eh?” Pete observed. He wandered over to a side table and examined curiously an oddly shaped ring Upon it. It looked old. Also, it had a crest Pete didn’t recognize emblazoned upon it. He pressed a tiny catch on the signet, and the crest popped up. From the hollow revealed a tiny, gummy black pellet rolled out onto the table.

  JUST then Joe leaned too far out the window and had to be retrieved. Pete sat the child in a corner, relaxed himself, mopped his brow, and turned to watch the scientists. He always liked a good fight.

  “Strychnine!” Professor Aker roared again. “It’s common knowledge that the Borgias favored it! The alkaloids—”

  “You’re as old-fashioned as Galileo,” Mayhem snapped. “My personal researches show that snake venom was used by both Cesare and Lucretia Borgia.”

  “Why don’t you analyze the stuff and find out?” Aker sneered. “If I were a betting man, I’d trim you for plenty.”

  “Somebody been bumped off?” Pete asked mildly. “What’s it all about?”

  “A friend of mine sent me a Borgia ring he dug up in Italy,” Mayhem explained impatiently. “It has poison in it—hey!”

  “Huh?” Pete followed the doctor’s horrified stare, and his own jaw dropped. Young Joe, hungry as always, had just popped the poison pill into his mouth. His Adam’s apple jerked convulsively.

  “Don’t swallow that!” Mayhem yelped, diving forward.

  “Yeah, lay off,” Pete added. “It might make you sick.”

  “Might make him sick!” Professor Aker mumbled. “Great heavens! That ring belonged to Lucretia Borgia!” Pete looked blank. “You mean it’s hot?”

  “I mean it’s poison! We haven’t analyzed it yet, so we don’t know what type of poison it was.”

&
nbsp; Mayhem thrust the kicking Joe at Professor Aker. “Phone the emergency! Get a stomach pump! Mustard—soapy water—anything!”

  Pete caught on suddenly. “You mean the pest’s swallowed poison?” He gulped. “Doc, we gotta do something. Anything!”

  Mayhem’s face was chalky. “If we only knew what type of poison that was I’ve plenty of antidotes’ in the surgery, but if I use the wrong one . . .”

  “Strychnine!” Aker roared feebly. “Snake—whup! Pete!” Mayhem clutched Pete by the sleeve and dragged the astounded man into the next room. “Take care of the boy, Aker,” he shouted over his shoulder. “Emergency measures! I’ll be right back!”

  PETE, expostulating, found himself in Mayhem’s familiar laboratory. Wires, rheostats, vacuum tubes, and gadgets were strewn about in a confused mass. There was a switchboard, and a metal chair that was all too familiar to Mr. Manx.

  “Doc,” he protested, as he was forced into the chair. “This ain’t no time to go time-traveling.” Briefly he wondered whether the eccentric scientist had a last gone off his rocker.

  Mayhem was making hasty adjustments. “It’s the only way, Pete, if we want to save the boy’s life. There isn’t a minute to waste. We’ve got to find out what poison was in that ring.”

  “But—”

  “Quiet!” the doctor roared, slamming down switches. “Just listen! That ring belonged to Lucretia Borgia! Undoubtedly she put the poison in it.”

  “I don’t know the dame.”

  “She lived hundreds of years ago, in Italy. I’m sending you back there, Pete, so you can find out what kind of poison was in the ring. When I bring you back here, you can tell me, and I’ll know what antidote to use.”

  “But it may take weeks!” Manx expostulated.

  “It may take weeks in Renaissance Italy,” Mayhem said, “but I’ll bring you back to this time-sector in exactly one minute. It’s a new improvement I’ve just added to the machine. It’s now two-twenty-five. Take as long as you like in Italy—it doesn’t matter, because you’ll come back here at exactly two twenty-six. See?”

  “No,” Pete said.

  “Find out what that poison was,” the scientist snapped, and pulled a switch.

  Briefly the world spun and jolted around Pete. He opened his eyes to find himself prostrate under a fish-stall. More than one sense apprised him of this fact.

  Dazedly he crawled out, muttering, and stared around. The time machine had worked again, jerking Pete’s consciousness back through the centuries to inhabit the body of someone who lived late in the 15th century. He found himself in a bazaar, an open-air market.

  “Looks like Hollywood,” Pete mumbled, feeling homesick. A hot Italian sun blazed down from a cloudless sky. All around him people, clad in unusual costumes, were haggling and buying and selling. Manx glanced down at himself.

  The body he was inhabiting was clad in nondescript medieval garments, and there was a sword in its scabbard buckled to his side. Unfortunately the stones in the hilt were imitations. Oh, well.

  Pete scowled, remembering his mission. He’d have to hurry. No, he wouldn’t. It really didn’t matter how much time he spent in Renaissance Italy. Only one minute would elapse in 1941—plenty of time to give young Joe the antidote. Providing, of course, that Pete found out the nature of the Borgia poison.

  He accosted a passing stranger, a well-dressed man with a face like a ferret and a neatly trimmed black beard.

  “Hey, pal. Just a minute.”

  The stranger whirled, one hand going to his rapier-hilt, his teeth bared in a snarl. “By the Saints!” The startled look faded from the keen eyes, but wariness remained. The lean, brown hand did not leave the rapier. “Who are you?”

  “Uh—Petro Mancos,” said Pete, using the first alias that came to his mind. “But that don’t matter. I’m a stranger here. All I want is a little information.”

  “Pah!” The bearded man made an impatient gesture. “Orsino has no time to waste on such as you.”

  “Just tell me where I am!” Pete pleaded. “I’m looking for a party named Borgia. And I’ve got a hunch I won’t find any telephone directories here.”

  The other stared. “Borgia! Sangre! What is your business with that house? And which Borgia do you mean?”

  “Lucretia,” Pete said.

  There was a flashing smile. “Oho! Then I, Orsino, shall help you! By your looks, you’re an outland mercenary soldier. Come with me to this wine-shop and we’ll talk.”

  Over red Oporto, they talked. Pete felt distrustful of Orsino, yet He was apparently in luck. For the black-bearded man was willing to help him.

  “Lucretia Borgia never sees anyone without special recommendations. Yet I serve her and can get you an audience.”

  “Swell!”

  “Only,” Orsino paused and tapped his nose. “Only you must do a slight favor for me first. Cesare Borgia is staying here in Milan for a time, and I am supposed to deliver a gift to him. I cannot as I must leave for Genoa today. If you will undertake this errand, I shall arrange for you to see Lucretia Borgia.”

  “Why not?” Pete felt pleased that everything was turning out so well.

  “Excellent! Now here is the gift. Be sure it reaches Cesare’s hands. And be equally sure that you do not open it yourself!” There was sudden mockery in the black eyes. “Else you may regret it. Cesare gives a banquet tonight, as always. He seeks to increase his popularity by feeding and wining the nobles of Milan. And Cesare is always curious about exotic gifts. A great, stupid Hull of a man—” Orsino clamped his lips suddenly, as though he had said too much. “I shall give you explicit directions. Tonight, you must go to his palazzo.”

  IT was simple enough. Pete stowed the flat package under his tunic, thanked Orsino, and set out to kill time till sunset. Milan was an interesting place. He found a few ducats in his purse, earned, presumably, by the original inhabitant of this body. Pete added to them, after learning that the Milanese were familiar with dice games.

  The hours passed pleasantly enough in various wine-shops. And there was interesting gossip to be heard—the latest scandal about Henry Tudor, whose bloody horoscope had just been cast by a noted astrologer, Spain’s disputed discovery of the sea-route to the Indies, Catherine of Aragon’s unpopularity in England, the latest axe-murder and love-nest slaying in Rome. It all seemed very familiar to Pete.

  He was as adaptable as a chameleon. Moreover, his frequent journeys into the past had taught him the value of keeping his mouth shut when in doubt. He listened and learned. Cesare Borgia was immensely popular in Italy. He reminded Pete a bit of Diamond Jim Brady, with his lavish entertainments, his endowments and philanthropies, and his hearty goodnature. But Lucretia!

  “She’s a bad lot,” one scar-faced swordsman whispered. “And she hates her brother, Cesare, bitterly. Afraid of his popularity. She gives banquets, too, but she uses too much seasoning.” His eyelids lowered significantly. “Poison!”

  “Yeah?” Pete gulped wine and set down the goblet with a bang. “What kind?” He looked excited.

  But the other shrugged. “She has her secrets. Her hatred of Cesare is even worse since the Arab came.”

  “What Arab?”

  “A great Shaykh of the East. His ship was wrecked, he was captured by pirates. Now he’s an honored guest of Cesare. There is some reason, I don’t know what, why the Shaykh’s friendship is immensely valuable.”

  “Yeah?” Pete watched lamps being lit. “Well, I gotta make tracks. See you later, pal.” He cast a few golden ducats on the table and departed. Presently he was at the palazzo of Cesare Borgia.

  It was more difficult than he had thought to see his quarry. The guards touched their pikes and swords menacingly. Pete, however, talked fast.

  “He’ll be glad to see me. I’ve got a gift for him.”

  “Let’s see it.”

  “Sorry, boys. I got my orders.”

  “You have also a well-filled purse?” suggested one of the soldiers meaningly.

 
Pete caught on. He distributed ducats, and was ushered into the guard-room and told to wait.

  “It may be a while, Messer Mancos,” a soldier said, “but you may drink with us, if you Tike.”

  Pete lifted a pewter goblet to his lips. “Thanks. Down the hatch, shavetails.” He didn’t trouble to explain that.

  HE waited, and waited. Also, he chafed. The guards were rolling dice on the rough table, and Pete noticed his ducats were passing across the board. Presently he edged into the dice game, with unexpected results. He lost steadily. He discovered at last that the dice were loaded, but he felt it inadvisable to make any accusations. The soldiers looked like tough customers, and their swords were sharp.

  However, Pete had his methods. He withdrew to a corner of the table, found three pewter goblets, and arranged them before him, upside down. Under one of the cups he slipped a ducat. A few confusing passes, and the ducat emerged from under an entirely different cup. This was an old gag for Pete. He had often done it before, with walnut shells and a pea.

  As he expected, the soldiers were interested. Pete blandly ignored them. He kept on with his little game. At last he paused, scratching his head, and glancing puzzledly from one goblet to another. He put out his hand and hesitated.

  “That one,” a soldier said helpfully, pointing.

  “I think it’s that one,” Pete scowled. The guard laughed. “You are blind! I saw—”

  “If the ducat’s under the one you’re pointing at, you can have it.”

  Curiously enough, Pete lost the bet. It was the old come-on—sucker bait. Within a few minutes the soldiers were clustered around Mr. Manx, betting excitedly on the elusive ducat.

  They won, sometimes, but more often they lost.

  A new voice broke into the clamor. “Allah! The man has skill!”

  The guards drew back, saluting, Pete looked up to see a scrawny, beaknosed man in flowing garments and a turban.

  “Hi, pop,” he said companionably. “Want to sit in?”