Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  “Flanagan!” Tinney cried desperately. The officer turned back, one eyebrow lifted. “Sor?”

  “For heaven’s sake, listen to me!”

  “I’m listening,” Flanagan said patiently. “What?”

  “Higgeldy, piggeldy, my black hen; she lays eggs for gentlemen!”

  “It was a red hen, the way I learned it,” Flanagan murmured. “Now why don’t you go back in your store and take it easy for a bit? Lie down or something?”

  “That’s just it!” Tinney gasped. “I—I can’t—”

  “Can’t what?”

  “A tisket, a tasket—”

  There seemed little point in pursuing such an incoherent conversation. Even Tinney saw that. With a groan he turned and made one more attempt to reenter his store. Useless. Mr. Silver was selling the paunchy customer a dozen dribble glasses, he save.

  MAYBE Silver was a crook. Maybe he intended to rob the till. Tinney grinned tightly. He’d gone to the bank yesterday, so there wasn’t much petty cash on hand. Not enough to matter. Just the same—

  Just the same, Tinney decided he needed a drink. With a glazed look in his eyes, he tottered to the nearest corner, where he glimpsed a cocktail bar, chrome and glass. It was the visual equivalent of a Mickey Finn, but Tinney saw only an oasis in a mad Sahara. He entered, and, at the bar, saw a familiar figure—Luciferno the Great, a man who looked exactly like the devil.

  “Hiya, Tinney,” said Luciferno. “Come over and have a drink.”

  “Thanks, Lu. Whiskey. Beer chaser. Thanks . . .”

  “Your hands,” Luciferno remarked, “are trembling. Hangover, nerves, or ghosts?”

  “The last. I’m in trouble.”

  “So?” The saturnine eyebrows lifted. “What’s wrong?”

  “Diddle diddle—nothing!” Tinney said violently. “Nothing at all.” He gulped whiskey, wondering why he couldn’t tell either Flanagan or Luciferno what had happened. Hypnotic suggestion. Yeah. That was it. On an impulse he pulled pencil and an old envelope from his pocket and began to scribble on it.

  What he wanted to say was, “I’ve been hypnotized. Help! A man named Silver won’t let me into my store.”

  What he wrote was, “Pussy cat, pussy cat, where have you been—”

  Tinney crumpled the envelope and reached for his beer. Then he hesitated, seeking the bartender with his eyes. That worthy, a largish man with a bristling mustache, wandered over.

  “Sir?”

  “Er . . . there seems to be a fish in my beer.”

  “Sir?”

  “A goldfish,” Tinney amplified. “It’s swimming around. See?”

  “Now that is clever,” Luciferno commented. “Not new, of course, but you managed it deftly. Barman!” he added in a loud voice. “There’s a snake in my beer.”

  So there was. A small garter snake was coiled in Luciferno’s goblet, its wedge head raised, regarding the world with dim malevolence.

  “Don’t!” Tinney pleaded softly. “This isn’t a gag. I can’t help it.”

  “He’s enchanted!” cried Luciferno, always a publicity hound. “Or it’s the beer. Look! Another fish!”

  It was true. Two small goldfish were swimming contentedly in Tinney’s goblet. The beer, by some odd legerdemain, had apparently turned into crystal-clear water.

  “Look,” said the barman. “This is bad for business. Are you guys going to lay off?”

  At that moment a fountaining spray of water geysered up from Tinney’s goblet and splashed against the ceiling. The extraordinary fountain continued to play. The bartender cursed luridly, seized the glass, and lifted it. Instantly streams of water shot from the horrified man’s ears.

  “A stooge!” Luciferno accused. “That’s not fair.”

  “Will you shut up?” the wretched Tinney groaned. “I’m getting out of here!” He sprang from his stool, seized his hat, and jammed it down on his head. Immediately he lifted it again to shake out three field-mice and an eel. That done, he took a hurried departure.

  LUCIFERNO trailed him. “Hey, I want to see you. I need some new equipment. By the looks of things, you’ve been brushing up on your tricks.”

  “Lu, for Pete’s sake, not now! I—I—diddle diddle—” Tinney abruptly fell silent.

  Luciferno stared. “You’re drunk? On one boiler-maker?”

  “I just hired a new assistant,” Tinney managed to get out without difficulty. “He’s good. Why not drop into the store and see him? I—I’ve got an engagement.” He left tire magician staring after him, and hailed a taxi.

  “The Parkway,” he said at random. And relaxed on the cushions, pondering.

  Of course it was obvious that Mr. Silver wasn’t human. Tinney had realized that long ago. But to admit the fact, even to himself, was extremely difficult It would automatically mean admitting a lot of other things. The stability of life would vanish. Anything might happen . . .

  Tinney was arguing against himself. Psychologically, he was on the spot He didn’t dare believe in Mr. Silver’s abnormal powers. But he couldn’t disbelieve, either. A god!

  With a violent effort Tinney turned his mind into coldly logical channels. He didn’t believe in the Philosopher’s Stone, either, but he admitted the possibility of its existence. Transmutation of elements could be achieved in the laboratory. Cyclotrons . . . atomic bombardment . . . yeah. Science had an answer.

  If only such an answer existed to explain Mr. Silver!

  Perhaps it did. Magic was—what?—contagious; legerdemain was based on the elementary principles of goety. A kindergarten, as it were. A six-year-old child would be baffled by calculus. A cosine on the triangle’s rim, a simple line would seem to him . . . Tinney shut his eyes tightly. He was veering.

  Legerdemain is to genuine magic as addition, say, is to calculus. Similar ratio. Grant that. Okay. Well, then—

  Mr. Silver was familiar with advanced magic. The Greeks had a word for it. Tinney found himself wishing he was an ancient Greek. One of Hellene’s babies . . . Curious reaction he had to this business. His usually staid and logical mind was spinning off at wild tangents. He forced himself to relax.

  But—the thought was jolting—a god would have almost unlimited powers! Mr. Silver had already proved his unusual abilities. Suppose they could be turned to practical ends?

  That logical thought gave Tinney the rational basis he had been seeking. He forgot the impossibility of his thesis in pondering the incredible possibilities. Only they weren’t incredible. They were . . . hm!

  TINNEY lit a cigarette with shaking hands. He was remembering his lease. It still had four years to run, and was a definite handicap to him. He needed larger quarters. The landlord would not compromise. There was no possibility of subleasing. Suppose, now, a fire gutted the shop . . . nothing incendiary, of course. Nothing that would interest the insurance company unduly. A—a meteor!

  It was a slightly staggering thought. But why wouldn’t Mr. Silver be able to control meteors? If he could—and would—one troubling problem would be solved. The chief difficulty would be the necessity of handling Mr. Silver with unerring tact. The possibilities were unlimited.

  Tinney leaned forward. “Take me back to Times Square,” he commended. “And hurry!”

  Mr. Silver was alone in the store. This time Tinney found no difficulty in passing the threshold. The handsome young man looked up and smiled.

  “Ah,” he said. “Changed your mind, I see. Good!”

  Tinney looked around. “We’re alone?”

  Mr. Silver perched himself on a counter and swung his legs. There was a curiously cryptic smile on his lips. “I see,” he said. “Trust a mortal . . . you’ve figured out a way to profit by my appearance. Greed is always convincing. A man believes what he wants to believe. You know, Tinney, if a human could only forget self—his ego—permanently, he’d be a god. That’s the big difference.”

  Tinney lit a cigarette and examined the till. There was quite a lot of money in it.

  “Made many sales?”r />
  “A few. Stop beating around the bush. What do you want from me?”

  “Well—”

  Silver smoothed back his curly golden locks. “Why be ashamed of the bargaining instinct? It’s a prerogative of humans. You can be helpful to me, Tinney. When a god visits earth, he’s subject to certain three-dimensional strictures. His powers are limited. Thus human contacts are helpful to him. Half the fun of—this—is pretending to live as an ordinary man. I get a kick out of it,” he added. “Eating the sort of food you do, following your crazy life-patterns . . . one of which involves making a living.”

  Tinney hesitated. “Making a living?”

  “Part of the game. I could easily create gold—but that would be cheating. When you play a game, you handicap yourself by following its rules, don’t you? Well—I’m playing at being human. It’s fun.”

  “But you have—certain powers?”

  “Sure. And I’ll use them, as long as I don’t break the rules by doing so. Now let’s have it. I’m willing to help you. A fair bargain. D’you want money?”

  Somehow Tinney could not grasp the thought of a million dollars being dumped in his lap. It was like trying to comprehend astronomical terms. He explained about the lease.

  “Meteor, eh?” Silver said, and vanished. In a moment he was back, grinning.

  “Fair enough. There’s a small one not far away. I can guide it down here . . . let’s see. You own a house in Jersey, don’t you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I advise you, then, to let the meteor destroy it.”

  “You’re—you don’t understand!” Tinney objected. “It’s this lease—”

  “I know,” Silver murmured. “I’m just giving you good advice. If you don’t want to take it, suit yourself.”

  “You’ll bring the meteor down here? And make sure the shop’s burned completely? And—I don’t want anybody killed.”

  “A laudable thought,” Mr. Silver remarked. “No one will be killed. One final warning, Tinney. Don’t try to doublecross me.”

  “Of course I won’t try,” Tinney said virtuously.

  The other’s sardonic eyes dwelt on him. “That’s well. You see, the gods Seldom exact personal vengeance, but there’s an unpleasant sort of justice that takes over in such cases. An automatic adjustment, more or less. Often mortals have tried to get the best of the gods. Please don’t do that, Tinney.”

  “I wouldn’t think of it.”

  “Sorry I put the idea into your head,” Mr. Silver said. “Let’s get out of here before the meteor strikes.”

  AS THEY reached the door, there was a whistling crash. The crash kept reechoing; the whistle kept shrilling in Tinney’s head. His eyes, he discovered, were closed.

  He opened them. He was staring up at a white ceiling.

  His skull ached. What the devil had happened?

  “Sorry,” said a familiar voice. Mr. Silver appeared. “A falling tile hit you. I couldn’t guard against accidents. But nobody died.”

  Tinney licked his lips. “W-what happened?”

  “What you wanted. The meteor struck. Here!” Silver said, thrusting a folded newspaper into Tinney’s hands. “I have work to do. See you later.”

  He vanished. Tinney read the paper. Exultation filled him.

  The shop had been gutted. That automatically canceled his lease. As Silver had said, no one had been seriously hurt by the accident. The meteor itself had crashed into an adjoining shop, and the resultant fire had gutted half a city block. The entire property had been owned by the same man, Jonas Kidder.

  “Good!” said Tinney, who didn’t like Mr. Kidder. Then his jaw dropped as he read on.

  The meteor had contained diamonds. Not many, but they were large ones, and for the most part nearly perfect. An unusual happenstance. Yet scientists admitted that there was no reason why diamonds shouldn’t exist in a meteorite.

  Since the object had fallen on Kidder’s property, he profited accordingly. He had become even more wealthy than before . . .

  “Oh, damn!” Tinney gasped. His triumph had turned to ashes. Why hadn’t he taken Silver’s advice? If the meteorite had fallen on his new Jersey property, he’d be a rich man now. Why hadn’t Silver been more explicit?

  Obviously because the gad’s liked their little jests. Their weakness in that respect was notorious. Tinney closed his eyes and considered.

  Next time . . . next time! This wasn’t a fairy tale in which you had a limited number of wishes. Mr. Silver was presumably ready and willing to assist Tinney in various profitable ways. If the god could bring down a meteorite from the sky, he could certainly perform equally potent miracles. Then—

  Money. That was the answer, of course. Tinney found a button and summoned the nurse. He learned that he could leave the hospital within a few days . . .

  In the meantime, Mr. Silver appeared. “The insurance has gone through okay,” he remarked. “I’m handling the business for you, by proxy.”

  “I didn’t sign a proxy—”

  “Well, your signature’s on it. What are your plans now? Going to open another shop?”

  “Look,” Tinney said, “I want to get some money.”

  “There’s insurance money.”

  “I mean—an inexhaustible purse, or something like that. Can you—”

  Mr. Silver nodded and vanished. He reappeared to thrust a leather wallet into Tinney’s hands.

  “This is what you want, I think. Unzip it.”

  Tinney obeyed. He took out ten twenty-dollar bills.

  “Now close it. Good. Open it again.” Tinney extricated ten more bills of the same denomination. He looked up inquiringly.

  Mr. Silver shrugged. “An old trick. The cornucopia formula. The inexhaustible purse isn’t new by any means. Each time you open that wallet, there’ll be two hundred bucks in it. A good round sum, two hundred bucks.”

  TINNEY tried it again. And again. And yet again. It worked, all right. There was a thousand dollars in his lap. Struck by a thought, he compared the serial numbers of the bills.

  “That’s all right,” Mr. Silver smiled.

  “They’re legal tender.”

  “But where do they come from? They’re not new—”

  “Treasure trove. We have power over all dark places. Wherever money is hidden in the dark, our hands can reach it. This batch, for example, came from the cache of an old miser in the—um—the Panamint Mountains in California.”

  “But it’s stolen!”

  Mr. Silver didn’t answer. There was a mocking gleam in his blue eyes. Tinney flushed and glanced away.

  “So you’ll keep the wallet, of course,” Mr. Silver said. “Fair enough. Now let’s make plans.”

  “Plans? I—”

  “You don’t want to open another store, do you?”

  “Lord, no!” Tinney exclaimed. “I’m sick of that. I—I think I’ll retire.”

  “Not yet you won’t,” Mr. Silver told him. “I want to see the world. Take part in life, as it were. You’re going to become a practicing magician, Tinney.”

  “Uh?”

  “Like Houdini and those boys. Tinney the Great. You’ll tour the country. I’ll act as your assistant.”

  “But I’m not a magician,” Tinney expostulated. “I can’t do a thing like that.”

  “Leave it to me,” Silver smiled. “All you’ll have to do is follow my orders, and—there’ll be magic.”

  “Now wait a minute. I don’t like the idea at all. I don’t want to travel. I—”

  “You’re an ungrateful so-and-so, aren’t you?” Mr. Silver inquired. “I’ve made you wealthy. You can live in luxury for the rest of your life. All I ask is your cooperation for—say—two years. After that I’ll have had enough of earth for a while, and I’ll push off. You won’t see me again. You can settle back and enjoy your ill-gotten spoils.”

  Tinney pulled at his lower lip. “But—”

  “It seems a fair bargain to me. But if you prefer I’ll take back the wallet and try som
eone else. Eh?”

  “No!” Tinney said sharply. “I’ll do it. Of course I’ll do it.”

  Mr. Silver smiled once more, rather sardonically. “One deals with the lower orders on their own ground,” he remarked cryptically. “Well, I fly. There’s much to be done. See you presently.”

  He vanished. Tinney lay back and considered, clutching the wallet greedily. Two years of road shows . . . um. It might be worse, Not the sort of life he enjoyed, but—

  Mr. Silver was busy. The next day traffic in Times Square was halted by a curious phenomenon. Above the pedestrian island in the center of the street, slightly north of the subway kiosk near the Times Building, a human form was observed floating in midair. A female human form. A strikingly pretty one, in an intriguing bathing suit. It was difficult to tell whether she was alive or dead for her eyes were closed, and she floated, face down, twenty-five feet above street level. Great interest was aroused.

  A FIRE-TRUCK was summoned, and the ladder swung upright. The body of the girl floated up, beyond the reach of the topmost fireman. When the truck had departed, the girl descended to her former level.

  There she stayed, with occasional excursions into the upper atmosphere. The Mayor came down and was photographed. A cowboy from Madison Square Garden tried to lassoo the floating girl. There was little work done in the offices adjoining Times Square. There were more people outside the Paramount Theater than there were inside the building.

  Matters remained static until nightfall, when the girl abruptly vanished. In her place a shower of leaflets came fluttering down. They read:

  TINNEY THE GREAT IS COMING!

  The World’s Greatest Greatest Magician

  Will Soon Appear in New York!

  BE READY!

  IT IS regrettable that already Joseph Tinney was considering the safest and best method of double-crossing Mr. Silver. Nothing crude, of course. And definitely nothing dangerous. The thing was, Tinney didn’t want to waste the next two years playing vaudeville circuits.

  It seemed a small matter, and no doubt was. But Tinney was avariciously anxious to employ his new-found fortune in ways best known to himself. Hedonistic by nature, he nevertheless would not willingly have caused pain to another—unless it seemed necessary.