Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  Power. Myra Valentine. The Love sigil.

  He must be logical, even though his logic was based on one wild improbability—which was true. Suppose he won Myra. There were disadvantages. His position with the Columbus Insurance Co. was nominal, and a scandal might endanger it seriously. Moreover, there was his wife. Agatha—

  Why—good Lord! The sigil would work on her, too.

  Denworth’s smile was singularly cruel.

  He was impatient now, and hailed a taxi. The beginnings of a scheme were unwinding in his mind. Myra—she would be the summation. There were other matters to take care of first.

  A warning thought stabbed coldly through him. There was danger in magic. Sorcery was a two-edged weapon. One had to hold it very carefully by the hilt, taking care to avoid the blade. The reason was plain to see; use of magic meant the creation of new conditions, against which different safeguards from the familiar ones were necessary. As a man grew older, he instinctively developed defenses, learned how to avoid dangers. Because those dangers had become well known. Life was a tunnel, with pits dug for the feet of the unwary. Most men learned to use a flashlight.

  But magic gave a different sort of light. Ultraviolet, perhaps—black light for black magic, it might be. Denworth grinned at the conceit. Yes—he would have to walk warily. New defenses would have to be erected, old ones altered or made stronger. Goety had its logic, which was not always based on human psychology. But, in this case, the element of magic applied to human beings—It should not be too difficult.

  The Denworths owned—or, rather, Agatha owned—a good-sized, comfortable, rather old-fashioned house in the suburbs. The butler admitted Denworth, an unaccustomed smile on his fishlike face. As he took the other’s topcoat, his hands brushed the garment almost caressingly.

  “Good evening, sir. I hope you are well.”

  “Yeah. Where’s Mrs. Denworth?”

  “In the library, sir. May I get you something—a drink, perhaps? It’s a cold night. Shall I build a fire—”

  “No.”

  “You must watch your health, sir. I couldn’t bear to have anything happen to you.”

  Denworth gulped and escaped to the library. The sigil might prove an embarrassing possession at times. He was reminded of Browning’s Last Buchess, with her unpleasant lack of discrimination. She loved all things—“She liked whate’er she looked on, and her looks went everywhere.” The hell with that.

  A point to be remembered, a discomfort against which to be on guard.

  Agatha was sitting under a lamp, knitting. She was quite pretty, soft, pink, and gave an illusory appearance of helplessness.

  Slowly she turned her head. Denworth saw something in the brown eyes that had not been there for years.

  “Edgar—” she said.

  He bent and kissed her. “Hello, dear.”

  The salutation startled her. “Why did you do that?”

  Denworth didn’t answer. He found a chair opposite Agatha and lit a cigarette. His eyes were narrowed as he watched the blue smoke filter upward.

  Agatha put down her knitting. Her face was troubled.

  “Edgar.”

  “Yes?”

  “I—” She bit her lips. “I’d like to talk to you.”

  “All right.”

  “Then . . . first, though, are you comfortable? May I get you anything?”

  Denworth hid a savage smile under his hand. “Thanks, no. It feels good to relax.”

  “You work too hard, dear. Sometimes I feel that I’m . . . I’m not good for you. Are . . . you happy?”

  “Reasonably.”

  “That isn’t true. I don’t know why I’m talking like this. When you came in just now, I felt—” Agatha didn’t finish. She was crying.

  Denworth said, “You . . . uh . . . you don’t trust me. That’s one trouble, of course.”

  “Trust you?” It was a new thought. By the power of the sigil, Agatha could love Denworth, but trust was another matter.

  How strong was the sigil’s power? There was one way to find out.

  “Your will, I mean,” Denworth said. “Leaving your money to distant relatives. After all, I’m your husband. Bo you love me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then prove it. Make me the beneficiary of your will.”

  For a moment he thought he had failed. But he had put the condition as a test of Agatha’s love for him. She could not refuse.

  “I’ll do that tonight, Edgar.”

  “Tomorrow will do,” Denworth said, sighing. “So—you love me, eh?”

  “I thought I didn’t. But it’s something I can’t help.”

  “I wonder if you love me enough to die for me,” Denworth almost whispered. Whether or not Agatha heard he didn’t know. He got up abruptly and went into the living room, where he mixed himself a stiff drink.”

  “What a swine you are, Edgar Denworth,” a soft voice said.

  “I—Eh? Who’s that?” The man turned, spilling droplets from his glass. Nothing was visible, of course.

  “Your friend Turzee. Turzee the Brawler. The pixy whose bracelet you stole, foul monster. If you didn’t have the sigil on, I’d have you Under the Hill in two shakes.”

  “I’ve got it on, though,” Denworth pointed out. “So you can get back to hell and stay there.”

  “It’s true I can’t harm you,” Turzee said. “I love you too much for that. And black shame it is that an honest pixy should be compelled to love a verminous louse like you. But I’ve brought a friend. Your majesty!”

  “Yes, Turzee,” said a new voice, low and deadly cold. “As you say, this is not fit. Men have changed since Adam. This one is—not good.”

  “Your spells should remedy that,” the Brawler suggested. “A nonexistent being can’t be either good or bad. Leave the bracelet, though, please. I want it.”

  “Yes, Turzee,” Oberon whispered. And there was silence.

  Something, terrible and unseen, hummed in the emptiness of the air. Denworth felt horribly uneasy. He backed away, licking his lips.

  “It is useless, Turzee,” Oberon broke the stillness. “There is no flaw in the sigil. I love this man myself. I cannot harm him. Can Wayland Smith not add the silver link by teleportation?”

  “He can’t,” Turzee growled-softly. “I asked him. And without the silver link, the bracelet’s charm is unbreakable.”

  Den worth took a deep breath. His palms were sweaty. If Turzee’s voice had been horrid, that of Oberon was utterly shocking. And yet there was no good reason for that phenomenon. Probably it was that nasty whisper—the feeling that it had been used so much for unthinkable syllables that it had acquired a subtle venom that almost dripped from it. It was a whisper not intended for any human language.

  There was still liquor in the glass, and Denworth finished it with two gulps. He looked around.

  “Still here?”

  “Yes,” Oberon said. “Turzee, if you get him Under the Hill, call me immediately. I should enjoy myself.”

  “Not much chance, your majesty,” the Brawler said despondently. “He’s too smart to take off the sigil, and while he wears it . . . you know.”

  “He’ll come a cropper,” Oberon prophesied, dropping into unexpected colloquialism. “He’ll take the bracelet off to bathe, or something of the sort. Why not sick mixed pixies on the malapert wretch? That might work. It would get on his nerves, at least.”

  “I shall, your majesty,” Turzee said. “I have your leave?”

  “By all means. Try bribing the worm, too. Good-by.”

  There was a swish of displaced air. Denworth blinked.

  “Oberon’s gone?”

  “He’s gone. That’s not a bad idea, bribing you. Suppose I promise you vast rewards and immunity if you return the sigil?”

  “Could I trust you?”

  “If I swore by cold iron, you could. How about it?”

  “No. A bird in the hand—I’ll just keep the bracelet. I’ll feel safer.”

  “Loathsome rat
of a man!” Turzee hissed. “You try my patience. You forget that I have certain powers—”

  “Which you can’t use on me,” Denworth pointed out blandly.

  The Brawler sizzled furiously. “Ah-h! Do you know what I’d like to do to you? That!” A chair beside Denworth horrifyingly became semiliquescent, and melted in blobs into the carpet. “And this!” Turzee added as the butler opened the door to peer into the room.

  “Mr. Denworth—”

  He got no further. The wretched man was hurled violently forward on his face. He seemed to be indulging in contortions, as though a mad Swedish masseur was working on him. An astounded face was briefly visible; then the butler lay motionless, his limbs twisted into what seemed to be inextricable knots.

  “That,” Turzee said. “See?”

  Denworth moistened his lips and hurried to his butler’s rescue. The latter made no sound until he was untangled.

  “Eh?”

  “S-s-s-sir,” the man finished, with a supreme effort. “I’m sorry, sir. I . . . I must have had a seizure. I fear I am ill.”

  “It’s all right,” Denworth said. “You’d better go and lie down. What did you want?”

  “I forget. Oh . . . yes. Mrs. Denworth wishes to speak to you in the library.”

  Denworth hastily left, since the butler was beginning to eye him with affection. There was no sign of Turzee the Brawler. Perhaps he had given up—

  Not likely. He seemed to be a stubborn sort of pixy. Denworth shrugged and entered the library, where Agatha looked up with a wistful smile.

  “I’ve just phoned my attorney, Edgar,” she said. “He’ll be here within the hour. I’m going to change my will and make you the beneficiary.”

  “Oh.” Denworth felt uncomfortable. Simon Henderson’s steely eyes always disturbed him. The old lawyer had a way of looking at people as though he saw into them. He might ask questions—

  “I’m sorry I can’t wait, Agatha. I’ve a business engagement downtown. Do you mind?”

  “Of course not. Take care of yourself, dear.” Denworth nodded and half turned. Agatha said, “Would you mind very much if—”

  She rose, went to him, and kissed him. Denworth could scarcely repress a smile as he went out, donning his topcoat in the hall. The sigil’s power was remarkable. He wondered if it were cumulative.

  In his taxi, he remembered that there was no need to fear Simon Henderson. The bracelet’s charm would affect the, attorney as it affected all other living things. But—oh, well—there was no point in staying home when the Cabanavista was putting on a new floor show tonight.

  Perhaps because he was a little afraid, he felt the need for extroversion. The impinging of magic upon routine is basically disturbing. It opens vistas. Routine habits of thought are even more, disrupted when pixies are involved. Pixies were—unexpected.

  Seated at a ringside table, Denworth looked blankly at semistripped and shapely wenches and brooded over the situation. “It seemed well in hand. He had been ushered, with all signs of affection,; to the best seat in the house, much to the astonishment of the head waiter, who hurried over to see what was up. He came, as it were, to scoff, and remained to worship. His attentions were cut short only by the arrival of a blond socialite named Mary Bushwalter, whom Denworth knew slightly. Mary took the seat opposite the man and glared all other contenders into oblivion.

  She was a charming, fluffy-brained woman who had always snooted Denworth, and he took pleasure now in her obvious adoration. From all around the big room stares were leveled at the man, magnetically attracted by the Love-sigil. He ordered drinks, and was not surprised to receive champagne, on the house.

  “I like you, Mr. Denworth,” Mary Bushwalter said, batting her eyes significantly. “I fear you’ve been hiding your light under a bushel. Do you know that you’re very handsome?”

  “Oh, no,” Denworth murmured absently. “Distinguished, perhaps. Still—”

  “You’re beautiful,” Mary insisted. “I like you—very much.” Over the rim of the glass she eyed him with shocking significance.

  Denworth, however, was not interested in the Bushwalter. He was brooding over the ensorcelled bracelet and the possible scope of his powers. As yet he had not put the talisman to a really severe test. Nor could he, until Agatha had. changed her will.

  “I wonder,” he said suddenly, “if you’d lend me a thousand dollars. I’m short of money just now. Can you—”

  “I’ll write a check,” said Mary; who was notoriously stingy. “Don’t bother to pay it back.” She fumbled in her handbag.

  Denworth expelled a deep breath. Hell—he didn’t need Mary’s money, especially as there were certainly strings on it. The Bushwalter was a demanding wench. He had merely wished to test the sigil’s power; the result was eminently satisfying.

  “I was kidding,” he smiled. “I don’t need the dough, Mary.”

  “Take it anyway, I have lots.”

  “So have I,” said Denworth, not troubling to use the future tense: “Forget it. Have another drink.”

  At that precise moment Mary Bush waiter’s hair turned into a writhing nest of snakes.

  “That,” said Turzee the Brawler’s all-too-familiar whisper, “is what I’d like to do to you, you lovable little blob of unmentionable filth. See?”

  Denworth turned a pallid yellow, but kept his nerve. Mary had not yet realized what had happened. Perhaps she merely thought her carefully arranged coiffure had come undone, and was uncoiling. She put up a swift hand, touched the horror, and opened her mouth to a silently screaming square. A serpent head flipped down her forehead and peered intently into her wide eyes. Mary closed eyes and mouth and slid noiselessly under the table. The cloth swallowed her. No sound emerged save for a faint hissing.

  Luckily the Cabanavista was badly lighted, on the familiar principle that a clear view of your friends’ faces is apt to rip asunder the glorious glow of illusion that liquor provides. The principle is sound; reality should not intrude into dreams. In this case the result was lucky for Denworth, though only briefly.

  It presently became distressingly clear that Turzee had not arrived alone. He had taken Oberon’s advice about calling in aid.

  The Cabanavista, in fact, was lousy with pixies.

  They were invisible, of course, a situation to which many of the night club’s customers owe their continued sanity. Turzee apparently had culled his assistants from the very dregs of pixydom, creatures of low and demented impulses, whose idea of a good time involved such matters as donning tablecloths and flapping weirdly about the room, like amorphous harpies. The cloth before Denworth was snatched off abruptly, rising up into a bunched, ghostly figure hovering in the air before him.

  Someone shrieked.

  Denworth calmly drank more champagne. A faint chattering was heard; and Turzee’s vicious whisper announced, “I’d fling that stuff in your face if you weren’t wearing the sigil. By Nid and Kronos, I’ll show you what I’d like to do to you. At ’em, lads!”

  A chorus of piping whistles answered him. Men and women were rising from their fables, shouting questions. Waiters scurried to and fro, casting helpless glances at the head waiter, a sleek, handsome creature whose life had heretofore been untroubled. Basically he was not fitted for an encounter with pixies. His idea of quelling the incipient riot was to leap on the orchestra’s dais, flap his hands, and tell a false and lying story to the microphone standing before him.

  “It’s all right, folks,” he chattered. “This is part of the show—”

  “Sue you!” a furious voice bellowed from under an overturned table. Several pairs of legs were visible sticking out, and wine bottles hung in empty air, pouring their contents upon the wildly flourishing limbs. Two tablecloths flapped in slow circles around the scene. At nearby tables people were staring with fascinated eyes.

  But the head waiter’s soothing voice had its effect. Gradually everyone turned to watch the man on the dais. Despite the ghostly, avian tablecloths, it seemed possible t
hat trouble might be averted.

  Then the microphone began to rock. Almost imperceptibly it tilted to the left. The head waiter swayed after it. Back it moved, this time to the right.

  And back once more. With slowly increasing arcs the pixilated microphone rocked to and fro. The harassed announcer swayed in time to it, rather resembling, in his actions, a hypnotized cobra. The effect of his speech was totally nullified by his inexplicable behavior.

  When the microphone levitated itself into the air, the head waiter tilted back his head, gave a few inarticulate cries, and made helpless, despondent motions. He had given up. The damn place was haunted, and there was nothing more he could do about it. He’d done his best. It obviously wasn’t good enough. Especially since the microphone, with a jerk, detached itself from its cord and began to pursue the head waiter into the disintegrating orchestra, the component parts of which fled off in all directions like an expanding universe.

  Few noticed the scene on the dais. There was trouble enough among the tables. Only one remained in place; the others were overturned or rolling about wildly, amid crashing glass and tinkling service. The dim lighting added immeasurably to the effect. Since the rampaging pixies were invisible, it was natural that several customers should blame their troubles upon the humans nearest them, and as a result a few interesting fights started. Inevitably others were sucked in—

  Denworth glanced under the table. Mary Bushwalter’s hair had returned to its normal state, though the woman was still unconscious. For the rest, a tablecloth flapped past Denworth, and a malicious little voice whispered, “Hope you like it, rat.”

  Denworth sighed and rose, delicately wiping his lips with his napkin. He made his way to the door, avoiding struggling knots of bodies, and, since the hat-check girl was missing, found his own hat and topcoat. That done, he went out and called a taxi. The sirens of police cars were screaming. But the tumult from within the Cabanavista had mysteriously lessened in volume.