Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  Witter scowled. “Is something worrying you? Preying on your mind? We cannot afford to have that. If it is your nephew—”

  “No, no. I am not worried about Franz. He’s probably enjoying himself in Paris. I suppose I’m . . . damn!” Schneidler smashed his fist down on the table. “It is ridiculous! A crazy song!”

  Witter raised an eyebrow and waited.

  “I have always prided myself on my mind. It is a beautifully coherent and logical machine. I could understand its failing through a sensible cause—worry, or even madness. But when I can’t get an absurd nonsense rhyme out of my head—I broke some valuable apparatus today,” Schneidler confessed, compressing his lips. “Another spoiled experiment. When I realized what I’d done, I swept the whole mess off the table. I do not want a vacation; it is important that I finish my work quickly.”

  “It is important that you finish,” Witter said. “I advise you to take that vacation. The Bavarian Alps are pleasant. Fish, hunt, relax completely. Do not think about your work. I would not mind going with you, but—” He shrugged.

  Storm troopers passed along the Konigstrasse. They were repeating words that made Schneidler jerk nervously. Witter’s hands resumed their rhythm on the table top.

  “I shall take that vacation,” Schneidler said.

  “Good. It will fix you up. Now I must get on with my investigation of that Polish affair, and then a check-up on some Luftwaffe pilots—”

  The Herr Doktor Schneidler, four hours later, sat alone in a train compartment, already miles out of Berlin. The countryside was green and pleasant outside the windows. Yet, for some reason, Schneidler was not happy.

  He lay back on the cushions, relaxing. Think about nothing. That was it. Let the precision tool of his mind rest for a while. Let his mind wander free. Listen to the somnolent rhythm of the wheels, clickety-clickety—

  CLICK!

  CLICK!

  CLICK a wife and CLICKenteen children in

  STARVing condition with NOTHing but gingerbread LEFT—

  Schneidler cursed thickly, jumped up, and yanked the cord. He was going back to Berlin. But not by train. Not in any conveyance that had wheels. Cott, no!

  The Herr Doktor walked back to Berlin. At first he walked briskly. Then his face whitened, and he lagged. But the compelling rhythm continued. He went faster, trying to break step. For a while that worked. Not for long. His mind kept slipping his gears, and each time he’d find himself going LEFT—

  He started to run. His beard streaming, his eyes aglare, the Herr Doktor Schneidler, great brain and all, went rushing madly back to Berlin, but he couldn’t outpace the silent voice that said, faster and faster, LEFT

  LEFT

  LEFTawifeandSEVenteenchildrenin

  STAR Vingcondition—

  “Why did that raid fail?” Witter asked.

  The Luftwaffe pilot didn’t know. Everything had been planned, as usual, well in advance. Every possible contingency had been allowed for, and the raid certainly shouldn’t have failed. The R.A.F. planes should have been taken by surprise. The Luftwaffe should have dropped their bombs on the targets and retreated across the Channel without difficulty.

  “You had your shots before going up?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Kurtman, your bombardier, was killed?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Inexcusably?”

  There was a pause. Then—“Yes, sir.”

  “He could have shot down that Hurricane that attacked you?”

  “I . . . yes, sir.”

  “Why did he fail?”

  “He was . . . singing, sir.”

  Witter leaned back in his chair. “He was singing. And I suppose he got so interested in the song that he forgot to fire.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then, why in the name of . . . of—Why didn’t you dodge that Hurricane?”

  “I was singing, too, sir.”

  The R.A.F. were coming over. The man at the antiaircraft whistled between his teeth and waited. The moonlight would help. He settled himself in the padded seat and peered into the eyepiece. All was ready. Tonight there were at least some British ships that would go raiding no more.

  It was a minor post in occupied France, and the man wasn’t especially important, except that he was a good marksman. He looked up. watching a little cloud luminous in the sky. He was reminded of a photographic negative. The British planes would be dark, unlike the cloud, until the searchlights caught them. Then—

  Ah, well. Left. Left. Left a wife and seventeen—

  They had sung that at the canteen last night, chanting in it chorus. A catchy piece. When he got back to Berlin—if ever—he must remember the words. How did they go?

  —in starving condition—

  His thoughts ran on independently of the automatic rhythm in his brain. Was he dozing? Startled, he shook himself, and then realized that he was still alert. There was no danger. The song kept him awake, rather than inducing slumber. It had a violent, exciting swing that got into a man’s blood with its LEFT

  LEFT

  LEFT a wife—

  However, he must remain alert. When the R.A.F. bombers came over, he must do what he had to do. And they were coming now. Distantly he could hear the faint drone of their motors, pulsing monotonously like the song, bombers for Germany, starving condition, with nothing but gingerbread

  LEFT!

  LEFT

  LEFT a wife and SEVenteen children in

  STARVing condition with—

  Remember the bombers, your hand on the trigger, your eye to the eyepiece, with nothing but gingerbread LEFT!

  LEFT

  LEFT a wife and—

  Bombers are coming, the British are coining, but don’t fire too quickly, just wait till they’re closer, and LEFT

  LEFT

  LEFT a wife and there are their motors, and there go the searchlights, and there they come over, in starving condition with nothing but gingerbread

  LEFT!

  LEFT!

  LEFT a wife and SEVenteen children in—

  They were gone. The bombers had passed over. He hadn’t fired at all. He’d forgotten!

  They’d passed over. Not one was left. Nothing was left. Nothing but gingerbread LEFT!

  The Minister of Propaganda looked at the report as though it might suddenly turn into Stalin and bite him. “No,” he said firmly. “No, Witter. If this is false, it is false. If it is true, we dare not admit it.”

  “I don’t see why,” Witter argued. “It’s that song. I’ve been checking up for a long time, and it’s the only logical answer. The thing has swept the German-speaking world. Or it soon will.”

  “And what harm can a song do?”

  Witter tapped the report. “You read this. The troops breaking ranks and doing . . . what is it? . . . snake dances! And singing that piece all the while.”

  “Forbid them to sing it.” But the minister’s voice was dubious.

  “Ja, but can they be forbidden to think it?

  They always think of what is verboten. They can’t help it. It’s a basic human instinct.”

  “That is what I mean when I said we couldn’t admit the menace of this—song, Witter. It mustn’t be made important to Germans. If they consider it merely as an absurd string of words, they’ll forget it. Eventually,” the minister added.

  “The Führer—”

  “He must not know. He must not hear about this. He is a nervous type, Witter; you realize that. I hope he will not hear the song. But, even if he does, he must not realize that it is potentially dangerous.”

  “Potentially?”

  The minister gestured significantly. “Men have killed themselves because of that song. The scientist Schneidler was one. A nervous type. A manic-depressive type, in fact. He brooded over the fact that the ginger—that the phrases stuck in his mind. In a depressive mood, he swallowed poison. There have been others. Witter, between ourselves, this is extremely dangerous. Do you know why?”


  “Because it’s—absurd?”

  “Yes. There is a poem, perhaps you know it—life is real, life is earnest. Germany believes that. We are a logical race. We conquer through logic, because Nordics are the superrace. And if supermen discover that they cannot control their minds—”

  Witter sighed. “It seems strange that a song should be so important.”

  “There is no weapon against it. If we admit that it is dangerous, we double or triple its menace. At present, many people find it hard to concentrate. Some find rhythmic movements necessary—uncontrollable. Imagine what would happen if we forbade the people to think of the song.”

  “Can’t we use psychology? Make it ridiculous—explain it away?”

  “It is ridiculous already. It makes no pretense at being anything more than an absurd string of nearly meaningless words. And we can’t admit it has to be explained away. Also, I hear that some are finding treasonable meanings in it, which is the height of nonsense.”

  “Oh? How?”

  “Famine. The necessity for large families. Even desertion of the Nazi ideal. Er . . . even the ridiculous idea that gingerbread refers to—” The minister glanced up at the picture on the wall.

  Witter looked startled, and, after a hesitant pause, laughed. “I never thought of that. Silly. What I always wondered was why they were starving when there was still plenty of gingerbread. Is it possible to be allergic to gingerbread?”

  “I do not think so. The gingerbread may have been poisoned—a man who would desert his family might have cause to hate them, also. Perhaps hate them enough to—Captain Witter!”

  There was a blank silence. Presently Witter got up, heiled, and departed, carefully breaking step. The minister looked again at the picture on the wall, tapped the bulky report before him, and shoved it away to examine a typewritten sheaf which was carefully labeled IMPORTANT. It was important. In half an hour the Führer would broadcast a speech, one for which the world had been waiting. It would explain certain things about dubious matters, such as the Russian campaign. And it was a good speech—excellent propaganda. There were to be two broadcasts, the first to Germany, the second to the rest of the world.

  The minister rose and walked back and forth on the rich carpet. His lip lifted in a sneer. The way to conquer any enemy was to crush him—face him and smash him. If the rest of Germany had his own mentality, his own self-confidence, that ridiculous song would lose all its force.

  “So,” the minister said. “It goes so. Left. Left. Left a wife and seventeen children—so. It cannot harm me. It can get no hold on my mind. I repeat it, but only when I wish to do so; and I wish to do so to prove that the doggerel is futile—on me, anyway. So. Left. Left. Left a wife—”

  Back and forth strode the Minister of Propaganda, his hard, clipped voice snappily intoning the phrases. This wasn’t the first time. He often repeated the song aloud—but, of course, merely to prove to himself that he was stronger than it.

  Adolf Hitler was thinking about gingerbread and Russia. There were other problems, too. It was difficult being Leader. Eventually, when a better man came along, he would step out, his work done. The well-worn record slipped from its groove, and Hitler pondered the speech he held. Yes. it was good. It explained much—why things had gone wrong in Russia, why the English invasion had failed, why the English were doing the impossible by way of raiding the continent. He had worried about those problems. They were not really problems, but the people might not understand, and might lose confidence in their Fiihrer. However, the speech would explain everything—even Hess. Goebbels had worked for days on the psychological effects of the speech, and it was, therefore, doubly important that it go through without a hitch. Hitler reached for an atomizer and sprayed his throat, though that was really unnecessary. His voice was in top shape.

  It would be distressing if—

  Pfui! There would be no hitch. The speech was too important. He had made speeches before, swayed people with the weapon of his voice. The crucial point, of course, was the reference to Russia and the ill-fated spring campaign. Yet Goebbels had a beautiful explanation; it was true, too.

  “It is true,” Hitler said aloud.

  Well, it was. And sufficiently convincing. From the Russian discussion he would go on to Hess, and then—

  But the Russian question—that was vital. He must throw all his power into the microphones at that moment. He rehearsed mentally. A pause. Then, in a conversational voice, he would say, “At last I may tell you the truth about our Russian campaign, and why it was a triumph of strategy for German arms—”

  He’d prove it, too.

  But he must not forget for a moment how vitally important this speech was, and especially the crucial point in it. Remember. Remember. Do it exactly as rehearsed. Why, if he failed—

  There was no such word.

  But if he failed—

  No. Even if he did—

  But he wouldn’t. He mustn’t. He never had. And this was a crisis. Not an important one, after all, he supposed, though the people were no longer wholeheartedly behind him. Well, what was the worst that could happen? He might be unable to make the speech. It would be postponed. There could be explanations. Goebbels could take care of that. It wasn’t important.

  Don’t think about it.

  On the contrary, think about it. Rehearse again. The pause. “At last I may tell you—”

  It was time.

  All over Germany people were waiting for the speech. Adolf Hitler stood before the microphones, and he was no longer worried. At the back of his mind, he created a tiny phonograph record that said, over and over, “Russia. Russia. Russia.” It would remind him what to do, at the right moment. Meanwhile, he launched into his speech.

  It was good. It was a Hitler speech.

  “Now!” said the record.

  Hitler paused, taking a deep breath, throwing his head arrogantly back. He looked out at the thousands of faces beneath his balcony. But he wasn’t thinking about them. He was thinking of the pause, and the next line; and the pause lengthened.

  Important! Remember! Don’t fail!

  Adolf Hitler opened his mouth. Words came out. Not quite the right words.

  Ten seconds later Adolf Hitler was cut off the air.

  It wasn’t Hitler personally who spoke to the world a few hours later. Goebbels had had a record made, and the transcription, oddly enough, didn’t mention Russia. Or any of the vital questions that had been settled so neatly. The Führer simply couldn’t talk about those questions. It wasn’t mike fright, exactly. Whenever Hitler reached the crucial point in his speech, he turned green, gritted his teeth, and said—the wrong thing. He couldn’t get over that semantic bloc. The more he tried, the less he succeeded. Finally Goebbels saw what was happening and called it off.

  The world broadcast was emasculated. At the time there was considerable discussion as to why Hitler hadn’t stuck to his announced program. He’d intended to mention Russia. Why, then—

  Not many people knew. But more people will know now. In fact, a lot of people in Germany are going to know. Things get around there. Planes go over and drop leaflets, and people whisper, and they’ll remember a certain catchy German stanza that’s going the rounds.

  Yeah. Maybe this particular copy of Astounding will find its way to England, and maybe an R.A.F. pilot will drop it near Berlin, or Paris, for that matter. Word will get. around. There are lots of rnen on the continent who can read English.

  And they’ll talk.

  They won’t believe, at first. But they’ll keep their eyes open. And there’s a catchy little rhythm they’ll remember. Some day the story will reach Berlin or Berchtesgarten. Some day it’ll reach the guy with the little mustache and the big voice.

  And, a little while later—days or weeks, it doesn’t matter—Goebbels is going to walk into a big room, and there he’s going to see Adolf Hitler goose-stepping around and yelling:

  LEFT

  LEFT

  LEFT a wife and SEVenteen c
hildren in

  STARVing condition with NOTHing but gingerbread LEFT—

  THE END.

  TIME LOCKER

  A useful little gadget. Stick anything in and it shrank, shrank to a point where it was invisible and totally concealed—but it would also shrink other things and permit curious sorts of crime—

  Galloway played by ear, which would have been all right had he been a musician—but he was a scientist. A drunken and erratic one, but good. He’d wanted to be an experimental technician, and would have been excellent at it, for he had a streak of genius at times. Unfortunately, there had been no funds for such specialized education, and now Galloway, by profession an integrator machine supervisor, maintained his laboratory purely as a hobby. It was the damndest-looking lab in six States. Galloway had spent ten months building what he called a liquor organ, which occupied most of the space. He could recline on a comfortably padded couch and, by manipulating buttons, siphon drinks of marvelous quantity, quality, and variety down his scarified throat. Since he had made the liquor organ during a protracted period of drunkenness, he never remembered the basic principles of its construction. In a way, that was a pity.

  There was a little of everything in the lab, much of it incongruous. Rheostats had little skirts on them, like ballet dancers, and vacuously grinning faces of clay. A generator was conspicuously labeled, “Monstro,” and a much smaller one rejoiced in the name of “Bubbles.” Inside a glass retort was a china rabbit, and Galloway alone knew how it had got there. Just inside the door was a hideous iron dog, originally intended for Victorian lawns or perhaps for Hell, and its hollowed ears served as sockets for test tubes.

  “But how do you do it?” Vanning asked.

  Galloway, his lank form reclining under the liquor organ, siphoned a shot of double Martini into his mouth. “Huh?”

  “You heard me. I could get you a swell job if you’d use that screwball brain of yours. Or even learn to put up a front.”

  “Tried it,” Galloway mumbled. “No use. I can’t work when I concentrate, except at mechanical stuff. I think my subconscious must have a high I.Q.”