Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  “There she is.” Duncan nodded at the visiplate, where the bulk of the Maid lay, occulting stars. “We’ll use visual signals. First, though, we’ll have to—” His fingers moved swiftly. A four-inch blaster cannon sent its bolt of electronic energy ravening through space, across the Maid’s bow. Lights on the cruiser’s hull blinked into rainbow colors.

  Paralleling the Maid, steadily drawing closer, the smaller ship kept on its course.

  Duncan said, “They noticed that. They’ll be watching the visiplate—”

  “What are you telling them?”

  “To send over the radium, or we’ll blast ’em to hell.”

  “Good!”

  But Duncan’s lips were tight. He was bluffing, of course. Blasting an unarmed ship full of passengers—well, if it came to a showdown, he could not do it, even if Andrea had not been on board. However, the Maid’s captain couldn’t know that. He wouldn’t dare take the risk.

  Answering lights flashed on the larger ship’s hull. Duncan read them aloud with the ease of long practice.

  “No radium aboard. Is this a joke?”

  “Send another blast,” Olcott suggested. Duncan’s response was to fire a bolt that melted two of the Maid’s stern tubes into slag. That didn’t harm anyone in the passenger ship, but it showed that he was presumably in earnest. And he had to get Andrea aboard now. She had smashed the radio, and probably was already under arrest. Well—

  “Sending radium. Don’t fire again.”

  “Send one of your passengers also. Jane Horton.” Andrea was booked under that alias, Olcott had said.

  There was a pause. Then—“Jane Horton victim of Plutonians. Must have turned off power in Helmet. Found dead in radio room just before you made contact.”

  Saul Duncan’s fingers didn’t move on the keys. Deep within him, something turned into ice. He was hearing a voice, seeing a face, both phantoms, for Andrea was dead.

  Andrea was dead.

  The words were meaningless.

  He became conscious of Olcott at his side, talking angrily.

  “What’s wrong? What did they say?”

  Duncan looked at Olcott. The dead, frozen fury in the pilot’s eyes halted Olcott in mid-sentence.

  Automatically Duncan’s hand moved over the keyboard.

  “Send the body to me.”

  Then he waited.

  On the visiplate was movement. A port gaped in the Maid’s hull, the escape-hatch with which all ships were provided. Based on torpedo-tube principle, powered by magnetic energy, the projector was built to hurl crew or passengers out of the ship’s sphere of attraction. Sometimes the rockets would fail, in which case the vessel would crash on any nearby body. If that danger threatened, a man in a spacesuit, equipped with auxiliary rockets, could survive for days in the void, provided he was not dragged down with the ship. The projector took care of that.

  Now, tuned to minimum power, it thrust a bulky object out into space, pushing it toward the cruiser. Gravitation did the rest. The spacesuit dropped toward the smaller vessel, thudded against the hull. Duncan threw a series of hull magnets, one after another, till the suit was at an escape valve.

  Five minutes later the space coffin lay at Duncan’s feet.

  THROUGH the bars that protected the transparent face-plate he could see Andrea, her long lashes motionless on her cheeks. Duncan’s face was suddenly haggard. Olcott’s voice jarred on his taut nerves.

  “What happened? Did they—”

  “The Plutonians killed her,” Duncan said. “She turned off her Helmet, and they killed her.”

  Hartman was staring at a lead box attached to the spacesuit. “They sent the radium!”

  Duncan’s lips twisted in a bitter smile. With a quick movement he went to the controls’ and turned the cruiser into a new course. On the visiplate, the Maid began to draw away.

  Olcott said, “How long will it take us to get back to Earth?”

  “We’re not going back.” Duncan’s voice held no emotion.

  “What?”

  “Andrea’s dead. The Plutonians killed her. You and Hartman helped.”

  Olcott’s big body seemed to tense. “Don’t be a fool. What good will it do to murder us? What’s done is done. You—”

  “I’m not going to murder you,” Duncan said. “The Plutonians will take care of that.”

  “You’re crazy!”

  Briefly a flash of murderous fury showed in Duncan’s eyes. He repressed it.

  “I’m taking this boat to Pluto. I’m going to blast hell out of the Plutonians. They’ll get us eventually, all of us. That’ll be swell. I don’t want to live very long now. But before I die, I’m going to smash as many of the Plutonians as I can, because they killed Andrea. And you two are going with me, because you got Andrea into this mess.”

  Hartman said shakily, “It’s suicide. No ship can. get within a million miles of Pluto!”

  “This ship can. It’s dead black, with rocket screens. And the Plutonians haven’t found us yet—which proves something. Hold it!” The gun flashed into Duncan’s hand as Olcott jerked forward. “I’ll kill you myself if I have to, but I’d rather let the Plutonians do it.” He motioned the others to the back of the cabin as a light flashed on the board. After a moment Duncan nodded.

  “That was the Maid. They managed to repair their radio. Andrea didn’t have time to smash it thoroughly before. They’re talking to a patrol boat.”

  Olcott’s teeth showed. “Well?”

  “We don’t want to be stopped—now.” Duncan fingered the controls. The bellow of rockets grew louder. A shuddering vibration rocked the little cruiser.

  “Not too fast!” Hartman said warningly. “This ship crashed once. It’s still weak.”

  For answer Duncan only increased the power. The thunder of the tubes grew deafening. Already they had crossed the Lunar Line, heading outward in the plane of the ecliptic.

  Duncan rose and went to the spacesuit that held Andrea’s body. He wrenched the intertron knob free from the Helmet.

  “We want no Varra spy here.” The knob was not glowing, and, without power, the Varra was not en rapport with the Helmet, but Duncan was taking no chances.

  Grimly he went back to the controls. Hartman and Olcott watched him, vainly trying to fight back their fear.

  The heavy, crashing roar of the rockets mounted to a deafening crescendo.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Destroying Avenger

  NAMED after the Greek god of the underworld, desolate, lifeless and forbidding as Hell itself, Pluto revolved in its tremendous orbit, between thirty-seven hundred million and four thousand million miles from the Sun. Such distances are staggeringly inconceivable when we attempt to use human yardsticks. Men cannot stand the strain of such voyages without special precautions. Suspended animation is usual on the long hops, and Duncan had made use of the cataleptic drug he found at hand in the cruiser’s emergency supply locker.

  For a long time the three men had been unconscious as the ship, with increasing acceleration, hurled itself toward Pluto. Duncan had carefully measured the Sherman units of the drug, calculating so that he would awaken hours before the others. But he forgot one thing—the terrific resistance khlar builds up within the human body.

  So it was Rudy Hartman who first opened his eyes, groaned, and stared uncomprehendingly about him. He was strapped in a bunk, Duncan and Olcott near by. Memory came back.

  Sick and weak from the long period of catalepsy, Hartman nevertheless forced his aching limbs into motion. Staggering, he presently reached Duncan and took the latter’s gun. That done, he searched for a means of binding his captive securely.

  The bunk-straps were of flexible metal—not long enough, but they might serve a purpose. Hartman, scarcely conscious of his actions, fumbled at a panel and slid it back. Within the cubicle spacesuits were stacked, each with its Varra Helmet. Olcott had ordered them removed when Hartman was repairing the vessel, but the scientist had not obeyed. He had not felt entirely
certain that the cruiser would not be detected by the Plutonians, and perhaps he had felt a twinge of compunction at the thought of sending a helpless man to possible suicide, if his theory proved wrong. So he had concealed the Helmets behind a panel. Now he blessed the lucky chance that had made him do so.

  Duncan was still unconscious. Hartman rolled him out of the bunk and dressed him in a suit, fitting the Varra Helmet in place. With the flexible straps he bound Duncan’s arms to his side; a makeshift job, but it would serve. Finally he pried the intertron knob from the Helmet and sighed with relief.

  Hesitantly he went to the controls. The star-map told him little, except that they were approaching Pluto. Should they begin deceleration? Hartman’s fingers hovered over the studs—Damn! He dared not alter the course. He wasn’t a pilot, and it took trained hands to control a spaceship.

  Well, that didn’t matter. There was another way—with the Varra Helmets.

  HE BROKE an ammonia capsule under Olcott’s nose and applied artificial respiration. After a time Olcott stirred.

  “Hartman?” His tongue was thick. “Where—what’s happened?”

  “A great deal. Lie still and get back your strength. I’ll tell you—”

  But Olcott struggled to rise. “Duncan!”

  “He’s safe.” Hartman nodded toward the bound figure. Then he sucked in his breath and sprang up. Duncan’s eyes were open.

  “Stay where you are,” Hartman said, showing the gun. “I won’t hesitate to kill you, you know.”

  Duncan grinned. “Go ahead. You can’t pilot this ship. I can wait.”

  Olcott got up unsteadily. “You’ll pilot it—back to Earth. Damn you, Duncan—”

  “I’ll pilot it to Pluto. Nowhere else.” Hartman intervened. “Wait. Listen, Duncan. We have several Varra Helmets aboard. You didn’t know that.”

  “So what?”

  “We do not need you as a pilot. If we make connections with the Varra, we can chart a course back to Earth by letting them instruct us.”

  Duncan’s eyes changed.

  He said, “You’re crazy.” But his voice lacked conviction.

  “The Varra!” Olcott scowled. “But—” Hartman whirled on him. “I know! It will mean giving up the radium. But there’s no other way. We’re near Pluto. The Plutonians may detect us at any moment. If they do—” He shrugged. “We can keep the radium and die here. Or we can use the Helmets, summon the Varra, and have them guide us back to Earth.”

  “Can they do that?”

  “Easily. If they had tangible bodies, they could pilot spaceships as well as Duncan, or anyone else. As it is, they can tell us how to handle the controls.”

  “We’ll lose the radium. It’ll mean prison too.”

  “Not necessarily. Our lives are worth more than the radium—eh? And the Varra can’t read minds. Suppose we have a convincing story to tell? We planned this space-flight as a scientific expedition, nothing more. We didn’t know Duncan was an escaped convict. We didn’t know he planned to hi-jack the Maid—”

  Olcott rubbed his mustache. “Plenty of holes in that. But you’re right. We can fix up some sort of story. And there’ll be no legal proof—”

  He looked toward the helpless Duncan. “Except him. We don’t want him talking.”

  Hartman touched the gun, but Olcott shook his head. “No. Listen. Duncan. You’re licked. We can get back to Earth, with you or without you. But if we get the Varra to help, we lose the radium. Why not be smart? Play along with us, and you’ll still get your half a million credits.”

  “Go to hell!” Duncan suggested.

  Hartman said, “We’ve no time to waste. We’re not far from Pluto—” He didn’t finish, but there was a suggestion of panic fear in his voice.

  “Right. This ship’s got an escape hatch, hasn’t it? Good.” Olcott hurriedly began to don spacesuit and Varra Helmet. At a gesture, Hartman followed his example.

  “Don’t use the power yet. Help me.” Olcott picked up Duncan by the shoulders. Grunting and straining, the two men carried their captive into the airtight bow chamber, sealing the valve behind them. The magnetic projector, looking like an oversized cannon, faced the circular transparent port through which they could see the starry darkness of empty space.

  “Know how to work one of these?”

  “They’re simple,” Hartman said. “This switch—” He indicated it. “Obviously it closes the circuit. Yes, I can operate this.”

  DUNCAN remained silent as he was roughly thrust into the projector’s gaping muzzle, feet-first. Olcott bent over him.

  “You’ve got auxiliary-suit rockets and enough oxygen. And you can untie yourself, if you work fast, before you hit Pluto. You can make a safe landing—till the Plutonians find you. Well?”

  Duncan didn’t answer.

  Olcott said, “Don’t be a fool! You’ll die rather unpleasantly on Pluto. You know that. Will you take us back to Earth?”

  There was a long silence. Abruptly, with a muffled curse, Olcott snapped Duncan’s faceplate shut, and then his own. Hartman did the same, and, with a wry face, touched the power-button on his Helmet that would summon the Varra.

  In a moment the intertron knob began to glow, with a cold, unearthly brilliance. Olcott hastily turned the power on in his own Helmet. Now there was no time to waste. Soon the Varra would come. . . .

  Cold eyes dark with fury, Olcott gestured. Hartman, in response, swung the projector’s muzzle into position; both men closed their faceplates. The transparent shield of the bow port slid aside, and the air within the escape hatch blasted out into space.

  Hartman moved a lever. Electro-magnetic energy blasted out from the projector, blindingly brilliant. One flashing glimpse the men had of Duncan’s bound, spacesuited body hurtling into the void—and then it was gone, racing toward Pluto at breakneck speed.

  Hartman closed the port and pumped air back into the tiny chamber. Abruptly a voice spoke within his brain.

  “Who are you? Why do you summon the Varra? And why are you so near to Pluto?”

  Olcott had heard the message too. He framed the thought: “You are a Varra? We need help.”

  “We are Varra. What help do you require?”

  Olcott explained.

  HE HAD fallen for many minutes. Beneath him the jagged darkness of Pluto lay, cryptic and forbidding. It was time to use the rockets, but still Duncan hesitated, though he had freed himself from his bonds. The flares would certainly attract the attention of the Plutonian mind-vampires, and then—

  A shadow occulted the stars. For a moment Duncan thought it was a meteor; then he recognized the cruiser. Jets screened, almost invisible, it was still driving on its course toward Pluto!

  He did not stop to ponder the reason. Instinct sent his gloved fingers to the studs built into his suit. The tiny emergency rockets burned white in the darkness of space. Duncan was hurled toward the cruiser. Involuntarily he held his breath, looking downward at the vast circle of Pluto. Would he die now?

  The rockets had flared only briefly; perhaps they had not been noticed. He did not use them again. Instead, he waited, moving steadily onward with no atmosphere to slow him down by its friction. The gravitation of Pluto pulled at both man and ship, but each fell at the same rate—no! The cruiser was pulling away! That meant its masked tubes were still on.

  Duncan risked another jet. This time his space-boots thumped solidly on the hull. He levered himself toward the side port, which could be opened from without, unless it had been locked. True, when the valve slid aside, the ship’s air would be lost in space, and anyone within the cruiser would die. Duncan grinned savagely. Bracing himself awkwardly, he tugged at levers.

  The port opened. Duncan was almost flung away from the ship by the blast of air that gusted out. He recovered his balance, swung himself across the threshold—

  At his feet lay two space-suited bodies, Olcott and Hartman. The faceplates of their Varra Helmets were open, but they had not died of lack of oxygen. That was evident. The froze
n, strained whiteness of their features told a different story that Duncan read instantly. The Plutonians had brought death to Hartman and Olcott; they had died in the same manner as Andrea.

  Duncan closed the port behind him, his face expressionless. Inwardly he was tense as wire, in momentary expectation of cold fury striking at his brain. He stood waiting.

  The star-map on the instrument panel flared. That meant atmosphere ahead. Duncan was at the controls in two strides. His number might be up, but he had no intention of dying in a crash—not while there was still a possibility of revenging himself on the Plutonian creatures.

  He checked the ship’s course, decelerating as much as he dared. So keyed-up were his nerves that he jumped sharply when a voice spoke inside his brain.

  “Who are you, Earthman? Why are you here?”

  Before Duncan could frame a response, he felt a thrill of sudden urgency flame through him. Something, cold and deadly as space itself, reached into his mind. There was an instant of sickening giddiness—

  It was gone. The sky-screen flamed crimson. The cruiser was within Pluto’s atmosphere blanket.

  DUNCAN gasped for breath. He was scarcely conscious of manipulating the cruiser, leveling off into a long, swooping glide. Death had touched him very nearly—and had been avoided miraculously by a fantastically small margin. The implications of what had happened turned Duncan white with incredulous shock.

  For the thing that had been en rapport with his mind had tried to kill him. And that thing had been not a Plutonian, but a Varra! Duncan was certain of that. In his space-piloting days he had been in close touch with the Varra, and had learned the distinctive feel of the creatures—there was no other word—within his mind.

  But the Varra were friendly to Earthmen!

  The rough terrain of Pluto lay below. A cold, bluish radiance, almost invisible, seemed to flicker here and there. Duncan set the ship down with trained skill, landing on a broad plateau at the base of a high range of alps.