Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  There’s no way out of this hinterland, except through Bael.”

  Tarbell tried to speak, and discovered that his throat was dry. “Hold on,” he croaked. “I . . . I’ve got something to say about this, haven’t I?”

  “Very little. Why?”

  “Well—I’ve no intention of being eaten.”

  “Eaten! Why—oh!”

  Amduscias looked at Belphegor’s bared fangs and laughed softly.

  “We’ve no intention of eating you, I can say definitely. Demons can’t eat. There’s catabolism, but no metabolism. I wish humans took a broader outlook toward the universe,” he finished, with a little shrug.

  “I wish supernatural beings wouldn’t talk so damn much,” Tarbell said, with a flash of irritation. “If. you’re going to kill me, go ahead and do it. I’m sick of this, anyway.” Amduscias shook his head. “We can’t decide on how to dispose of you, so I suppose . . . eh? . . . we’ll just leave you here. After a while you’ll starve. That all right, Belphegor? Bael?”

  It seemed to be all right. Belphegor and Bael vanished. Amduscias stood up, stretching. “I’ll say good-by,” he remarked. “No use your trying to escape. That door’s locked for good. You can’t get out through it. Farewell.”

  He disappeared.

  Tarbell waited for a while, but nothing further happened. He looked down at the book. It still said Page 12.

  “He’s bluffing.” About what? Who? Amduscias?

  The door?

  Tarbell tried it again, but could not stir the knob, which seemed to have frozen motionless. He shoved the book back into his pocket and considered. What next?

  It was utterly silent. The ambiguous melting objects here and there on the plain did not move. Tarbell walked toward the nearest and examined it. He could make nothing of the blobby outline.

  The horizon—

  He had a feeling that he was in the Looking-Glass garden, and that if he walked far enough, he would suddenly find himself back where he had started. Shading his eyes under his palm, Tarbell swept the unearthly landscape with a searching stare.

  Nothing.

  He was in danger, or else the book wouldn’t have a page number on its cover. Again he referred to Page 12. Somebody was still bluffing. Amduscias, apparently. But bluffing about what?

  Why, Tarbell wondered, hadn’t the demons killed him? Their tactics reminded him of a war of nerves. They had wanted to destroy him—at least, Belphegor and Bael had; there was no doubt about that. Yet they had refrained.

  Maybe they couldn’t kill him. They had taken the next best course—imprisoned him in this—this hinterland. What had Amduscias said at parting? “No. use your trying to escape. That door’s locked for good—”

  Was Amduscias bluffing?

  The door loomed surrealistically in the distance. Tarbell hurried back toward it and tried it again. The knob didn’t move. He took out his pocketknife and tried to unscrew the lock,: but couldn’t; He succeeded only in breaking a blade. Some sort of stasis held the entire lock frozen, motionless.

  He kicked the door, but it was solid as iron. Meanwhile, the book still said Page 12. And the book was never wrong.

  There had to be some way out. Tarbell stood glaring at the door. He had walked, out of the bathroom into this alien world. If he could only reopen the door, he could walk right back into that hotel bathroom. Or—

  “Oh, hell,” Tarbell said, and walked around to the other side of the door, turned the knob easily enough, and stepped back into the room where Barney Donn, Tim Hatton and the two other men were sitting around a table, cards in their hands.

  Donn nodded. “You weren’t long,” he said. “Ready to call me now?”

  Tarbell hurriedly closed the door behind him. The book had not failed him, then. There were obviously two sides to every problem—and the demons had not expected Tarbell to think of the logical solution. Or, rather, the illogical one.

  His experiences in the hinterland had not been measured by earthly time, either. Apparently he had left the room for only a minute or so. At least, the chips were in the pot, and Donn was holding his cards close to his chest, grinning encouragingly.

  “Come on,” he said impatiently. “Let’s get going.”

  Tarbell still held the book in one hand, and a glance at it, as he slid the volume in his pocket, told him that Page 12 was still trumps. He took a deep breath and sat down opposite Donn. Hell—he’d play the game to the limit now. He had no doubt at all but that Barney Donn, like Amduscias, was bluffing.

  “I’m raising,” he said. “But you’ll have to take a check.”

  “Sure,” Donn nodded. His eyes widened at sight of the amount. “Wait a minute, Tarbell. This game’s for cash. Checks are O.K.—if you’ve got the money to cover them.”

  “I’ve got it,” Tarbell lied. “I’m in the chips, Barney. Didn’t I tell you?”

  “Hm-m-m. It’ll be unfortunate if you can’t pay.”

  Tarbell said, “The hell with it,” and took more of the blue chips. Hatton’s eyes widened. This was big money.

  Donn raised.

  Tarbell did the same.

  Donn said, “Mind taking my I O U?”

  “Not a bit.”

  The stakes mounted till Hatton got dizzy. In the end, Donn called and Tarbell laid down. The reporter had two kings and three queens. Donn had a royal flush—almost. He had drawn to fill the flush, but hadn’t made it. He had been bluffing.

  Tarbell said, “You’re lucky at stud, Barney, but I guess draw poker’s my game.”

  Donn grinned. “I like excitement. Give-me a pen, somebody.” He wrote a check. “Money’s easy for me to make. So I figure I have to pay out to make it come in. Here you are, Sam.”

  “Thanks.” Tarbell took the check and collected his own scrip. He shook hands with Donn and led the dazed Hatton from the room.

  In the lobby the photographer woke up sufficiently to say, “Hey! I forgot to snap the pictures.”

  “Let it wait,” Tarbell advised.

  “I want to get to the bank before it closes.”

  “Yeah. I should think so. How much did you take Donn for?”

  “Not quite enough,” Tarbell said, scowling. The check was in five figures, but—what the hell! Five figures, with the magic book in his possession, was peanuts. He had muffed a chance by aiming too low. And now there were only six chances left.

  Maybe only five! Those two crises might have counted individually. Damn again. If he used up all his chances, and Meg still survived, it would be just too bad. Somehow, he had to get rid of the familiar. But how?

  How could he maneuver her into a situation where the book would tell him how to destroy Meg? The enchanted volume told him only how to protect himself.

  Ergo—a situation where only Meg’s destruction would save his own life. That was what was needed.

  “Just like that,” Tarbell grunted, his long strides carrying him toward the bank. Halfway there he changed his mind and hailed a taxi. “Sorry, Hatton. I thought of something important. See you later.”

  “Sure.” The photographer stood on the curb, looking after the cab. “What a man! Maybe he don’t care about money.—I dunno. I only wish I had my pink little paws on some of that dough!”

  Tarbell went to his broker’s office, asked astute questions, and watched the ticker. He was playing for high stakes, and was willing, now, to take somewhat more than a gambler’s risk. He put his entire fortune on AGM Consolidated, though he had to argue briefly with the broker.

  “Mr. Tarbell! AGM? It’s—Look! Four points while we’ve been talking. The bottom’s dropping out of it.”

  “Buy it, please. All you can. On margin.”

  “Margin? Mr. Tarbell . . . look, have you got some inside tip—”

  “Buy it, please.”

  “But—look at that ticker!”

  “Go ahead and buy it.”

  “Well—all right. It’s your funeral.”

  “Right,” Tarbell said, with every appearan
ce of satisfaction. “It’s my funeral. Looks like I’ll be flat broke in a day or so.”

  “I’ll be asking you for more margin by morning.”

  Tarbell retired and watched AGM drop steadily. It was, as he well knew, one of the most worthless stocks in existence, and the bottom had dropped out of it only a day or so after the company’s formation. He was on a toboggan rushing rapidly down to pauperism.

  He took the book from his pocket and stared at it. There was a new numeral on the cover. That meant a new crisis—which he himself had precipitated. Swell!

  Page 2 said: “A fortune in oil lies beneath your feet.”

  Tarbell’s eyes widened. He looked down at the deep-napped claret carpet. Five stories down was the substrata of Los Angeles—oil? Here?

  Impossible. In the Kettleman Hills, out at San Pedro—anywhere but in the heart of downtown Los Angeles. There couldn’t be oil in this ground. If, by any fantastic chance, there was, it was manifestly useless to Tarbell. He couldn’t buy the land and sink a well.

  But the book said, “A fortune in oil lies beneath your feet.” Tarbell stood up hesitantly. He nodded at the broker and went out to the elevator. A small bribe enabled him to visit the basement, which was of no help whatsoever. The janitor, in answer to guarded questions, said that the Hill Street subway ran under the building.

  Tarbell came out and stood in the lobby, chewing his lip, conscious that his money was rapidly being dissipated in the worthless AGM Consolidated. The book couldn’t be wrong. It gave the answer to every human problem.

  His eyes fell on the building directory. His broker’s office was 501.

  “Beneath your feet—” Oh, oh! The book might be very literal indeed. What was in Office 401?

  A photographic supply company—but 301 gave the right answer. Pan-Argyle Oil, Ltd.

  Tarbell paused long enough to check 201 and 101, but his original guess had been accurate. He didn’t wait for the elevator. He ran up the stairs and burst gasping into the broker’s office.

  “Mr. Tarbell!” the man greeted him. “I’m still buying, but this is crazy. You’d better, get out while the getting’s good.”

  “I will—but tell me just one thing. Is Pan-Argyle Oil on the board?”

  “Uh—yes. Nothing bid, three asked. But that’s as bad as AGM. Pan-Argyle’s a cheap wildcat outfit—”

  “Never mind,” Tarbell snapped. “Sell AGM and buy all the Pan-Argyle you can get your hands on. Margin!”

  The broker threw up his hands and reached for the telephone. Tarbell examined the book. The numeral was gone.

  And that left four chances. Maybe five—five at most. He’d play safe. Say, four chances to outwit Meg and get rid of her permanently. Then—if this oil deal worked out as he expected—he could sit back and relax.

  He headed for a bar and toasted himself silently. Then he toasted the book. A handy little volume! If Napoleon had possessed it, there’d never have been a Waterloo—provided the chances had been used wisely.

  The point was, apparently, to play for big stakes.

  Tarbell grinned. The next step—Meg. As for security, what was he worrying about? With sufficient money, he’d have security enough. As much as any man could. The powers of the book were limited, obviously; they couldn’t change a man into a god. Only the gods were completely happy—if, indeed, they were.

  But a fortune would be enough. Perhaps he’d go to South America—Buenos Aires, or Rio. Travel was restricted, in these days. Necessarily. Just the same, he could enjoy himself there, and there would be no difficulty with the law, in case his blackmailing proclivities were ever raked up. Extradition is difficult when a man has enough money.

  A shadow flashed past his eyes, and he turned in time to see the tail of a cat vanish out the door. He caught his breath and grinned. Nerves.

  But, unmistakably, the warmth of the book made itself felt against his side.

  Very slowly Tarbell took it out.

  Page 44.

  “Poison!”

  Tarbell looked thoughtfuly at the whiskey sour before him! He beckoned to the bartender.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Was there a cat in here a minute ago?”

  “A cat? I didn’t see any . . . no, sir.”

  A little man sitting near Tarbell turned his head. “I saw it. It came over and jumped up on the bar. Sniffed at your drink—but it didn’t touch it.” Guess cats don’t like whiskey.” He giggled.

  “What sort of cat was it?” Tarbell asked.

  The little man looked at him oddly. “Ordinary sort of cat. Big fella. White feet, looked like. Whit of it?”

  “Nothing.” Tarbell turned back to his drink and sniffed it. There was an unmistakable bitter almonds odor. Prussic acid, the conventional poison.

  Tarbell left the bar, his face rather white. Three chances. Perhaps he had miscalculated, after all. But ten, in the beginning, had seemed an abundance.

  There was no sign of Meg.

  He didn’t bother to go back to the Journal, though he phoned to get a report on Pan-Argyle. He was not surprised to learn that a new field had suddenly been brought in somewhere in Texas. It looked big—plenty big. He had got in just under the wire.

  He phoned his broker, and the news was eminently satisfying. Buying on margin had its advantages. As a result, Tarbell was already a rich man.

  “It may peter out, though,” the broker said. “Shall I hang on?”

  “It won’t peter out.” Tarbell’s voice was confident. “Keep buying, if there’s any stock left floating around.”

  “There isn’t. But you’ve got almost a controlling share.”

  “Good.” Tarbell hung up and considered. He’d have to move fast now.

  Three chances—

  He cheered himself up by buying a car from an acquaintance, who had been pressed for money lately; and presently was tooling the big sedan along Wilshire Boulevard, squinting against the sunset. The next step was to find Meg and maneuver himself into a very dangerous position, where only the familiar’s destruction could save him.

  Quite suddenly Tarbell saw the way.

  It would take two chances—but that would still leave one for emergencies. And it would get rid of Meg permanently.

  He turned on La Brea and headed for Laurel Canyon. It was necessary to get in touch with the familiar. Under the circumstances, time counted. No more of the irreplaceable pages must be used up now. Not until the final test—

  Tarbell grinned sardonically. He had had ten chances; the result was money. Well, the aphorism about spilt milk was consoling, after a fashion. He swung into Sunset, and thence to Laurel Canyon Road.

  After that he went cautiously. He was hoping that Gwinn’s body had not yet been discovered, and that he could get in contact with Meg at the magician’s house. It was a slim chance, but he could think of no other.

  Luck was with him. The house loomed dark and silent. Letters stuck out of the metal mailbox at the curb. The rising wind caught one and fluttered it away into the twilight.

  Instinctively Tarbell’s eyes sought the cat, but it was nowhere in evidence. He parked, the sedan in the roadway behind the house, hidden by dwarf trees and underbrush. Then he went back and climbed the steps, his heart beating faster than normal.

  The door was closed but unlocked. He pushed it open and entered.

  The room was slightly changed. A pentagram was traced on the floor, and the remnants of several oil lamps were broken shards. Oil had soaked into the carpet, and was strong in Tarbell’s nostrils. The body of Gwinn sat motionless behind the table.

  “Meg!” Tarbell said softly.

  The cat came out of the shadows, green eyes gleaming.

  “Yes?”

  “I . . . I wanted to talk to you.”

  Meg sat down, waving her tail. “Talk away. But you have used seven pages of the book already, you know.”

  “Then Barney Donn and the demons counted separately.”

  “Yes. You have three pages left.”
<
br />   Tarbell said, standing motionless in the twilit room, horribly conscious of Gwinn’s corpse, “Will you take a sporting chance?”

  “Perhaps. What is it?”

  “I’ll gamble with you. My life as the stake. If I win, you—call it off. If I lose, I’ll destroy the book.”

  Meg waved her tail. “I’m no fool. If we gamble, and you’re in danger, the book will help you.”

  “Then I won’t use it,” Tarbell said, his voice a little unsteady. “Here’s the proposition. We’ll guess at a card’s suit. Two guesses each. If I lose, I . . . I’ll destroy the book. Only I make one stipulation.”

  “What?”

  “I want twelve hours to set my affairs in order. Twelve hours from now, if I lose, I’ll throw the book in the fire at my apartment and wait for you.”

  Meg looked at the man inscrutably. “And you won’t use the book to help you win?”

  “Right.”

  “I agree,” the cat said. “You’ll find cards on that shelf.” It waved a white-mittened paw.

  Tarbell got the cards and shuffled them expertly. He spread them out on the carpet and looked at Meg. “Will you draw? Or shall I?”

  “Draw,” the familiar murmured. Tarbell obeyed, but did not turn the card over. He laid it face down on the oil-soaked carpet.

  “I choose—”

  His side felt warm. Instinctively he drew out the book. On the front cover two numerals were black against the luminous white disk.

  33

  “Don’t open it,” Meg said, “or the deal’s off.”

  For answer, Tarbell placed the book at his side, unopened. His voice shaking, he whispered, “Hearts and spades.”

  “All right.” The cat flipped the card over with a deft paw. It was the jack of clubs.

  The numeral on the books cover vanished abruptly.

  Meg flicked out a lazy pink tongue. “Twelve hours, then, Tarbell. I’ll be waiting as patiently as possible.”

  “Yeah—” Tarbell was looking at the book on the floor beside him. “Twelve hours,” he repeated softly. “Then I’ll destroy . . . this . . . and you’ll kill me, I suppose.”

  “Yes,” the cat said.