Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  Even now, marooned on this South Pacific islet somewhere between New Guinea and the Carolines, he was handsome, in the enigmatic, sleek fashion so many women had found attractive. During the night he had managed to shave in the darkness, though he had no mirror, and he reflected with some satisfaction that the Yank corporal, who alone was left alive of the American bomber crew, would be looking like an ape. A decadent race, the whites. Even the Germans—but Major Satura closed his mind to that forbidden thought. It wasn’t his business. The warlords made their own plans.

  He had been marooned here for two days now, and something rather inexplicable had happened. It had its beginning last night, when the Yank plane had swung into view above the sunset horizon, and, at Satura’s orders, his men had raised a distress signal. If all had gone well, the plane would have landed on the beach, the crew would have emerged, and been shot down from ambush. Unluckily, there had been an unexpected development.

  An aircraft of some strange type—it resembled a stubby torpedo, traveling low and incredibly fast—had flashed into view as the plane was leveling off. German? Perhaps. At any rate, it had been following the American ship. And it roared down over the island like a bellowing thunderbolt, raising a hurricane of blasting wind that caught the heeling Yank plane and cracked it up in the surf, a crumpled, hopeless wreck.

  After that, the torpedo aircraft had simply disappeared. Perhaps it had landed on the other side of the island. Satura did not know, but he allowed for the possibility. There was danger in the Pacific these days—there would be danger, until Japan had crushed her enemies and assumed the dictatorship of the Orient that the Emperor demanded.

  THERE had been a fight. The Yanks were more belligerent, even after that crackup, than anyone could have expected. They came inshore to be greeted with a withering rain of bullets from the underbrush—but, most illogically, they did not stop. They kept coming, the ones who were still alive. It was close work, bayonet and pistol, and, in the end, the white beach was bloodstained from more than a dozen corpses.

  Major Satura was not one of these. He went away, biding his time till he could control the situation. Since only two Americans were left alive, and one of these was dying, it should not take too long. Yet the Yank corporal was armed, and—it did not pay to take chances. A trap, an ambush . . .

  Imperturbably the Major hid himself well among the pandanus leaves, well inshore, and spent the night grooming himself as though he were in his own luxurious apartment in Tokio. He spent an equal amount of time cleaning his gun. His bayonet he slid inside his tunic, a vague plan moving within his brain. He felt cheerful enough, for he had a great trust in his brain, that perfectly-adjusted colloid mechanism that had made him one of the most successful surgeons and spies in the Emperor’s service.

  Nevertheless Satura worried a little. It was rather odd that a pile of gold coins should be lying in the middle of one of the jungle trails. He had stumbled over that shining hoard in the night, and the bright tropical moonlight had revealed it to him with astounding clarity. For it was so obviously a mirage—

  And yet it was not. The coins were real enough, and legal tender—English sovereigns, glittering like the dreams of a Midas. A uselessly expensive booby trap, Satura had thought. Too expensive. And there was no point in the thing. Had the Yank corporal planted the money? There had not been time. If not, then who had? Satura did not know, but he skirted the treasure carefully, far too wary to expose himself to danger until he was satisfied that the danger no longer existed. A grenade might be under the gold. It was, definitely, odd.

  Crouching under a breadfruit tree, the Major massaged his long, slender fingers, while the chill of the night died before the sun rising in a blaze of pearl-crimson beyond the forest. He thought again of the torpedo ship of the night before. Had it landed? Was that the answer? And, if so, friend or foes. Satura’s strong hand slipped into his blouse and caressed the steel of the bayonet.

  Presently he decided to investigate the beach of last night’s battle. A half hour’s careful reconnoitering showed him that the corporal was gone, and a count of the bodies told him that he had one enemy left alive. The Major’s impassive face shadowed. The man might be lurking anywhere, trying to kill him!

  Not that Satura had any illusions about the sanctity of human life, or the Japanese race. As a surgeon, bodies were bodies, no matter what the race. And Yanks and Japs bled the same color. It was Satura’s desire that he should not be the one to prove that obvious axiom.

  So he found a clean handkerchief—it was typical of the man that he had one—and raised it on a stick, tying his gun atop the improvised flag of truce. Americans were sentimental. He knew the Yank corporal would not shoot him down without a parley, though no doubt the man would be suspicious. Planning well in advance, Satura took the bayonet from his blouse and hid it under a fallen pandanus-leai near the pile of gold he had found on the inshore trail. But he did not touch the gold—not logical Major Satura.

  Instead, he walked out on the beach and yelled Kamerad in several different languages. And, by this time, he had bandaged his right arm, after gashing it slightly to provide blood, and put it in a sling. Which took care of everything.

  It did not quite take care of Corporal Phil Jarnegan’s desire to step on Japs. He had been in the Pacific for quite some time now, discovering that the slanteyed little yellow men were curiously unmoral, and that, to them, the end always justified the means. As Pearl Harbor, and certain executions in Tokio had testified. Not that those Tokio killings had been any surprise. It should not have taken that to make people realize that the Japs were not fighting according to international law. But it was another item in the long bill that was adding up, and would reach a grim total when it was finally presented for payment.

  SO Corporal Jarnegan, being merely a big, tough lug who was in the war to kill Japs, came out of the jungle with his automatic leveled at Satura, and his middle finger trembling on the trigger. He had lost the index finger in New Guinea, but it had not damaged his marksmanship. He looked at the Major, and the Major looked at him, and death trembled in the hot tropical air between the two. There were witnesses, but they did not move or speak.

  “I have a flag of truce,” Satura said suddenly, his eyes on the gun. He pronounced his l’s almost perfectly, which was unusual for a Japanese.

  Jarnegan did not answer, but his grey eyes got a little wider.

  “You will respect a truce, Corporal,” Satura said. “I am unarmed. My gun—”

  “I see it,” Jarnegan growled. “Had a bellyful of fighting last night, eh? You—” He expressed himself in a few . . . well-chosen expletives.

  Meanwhile the Major had been examining his opponent, and felt heartened. The American was obviously not too intelligent. It should be easy to outwit this opponent. And since the corporal had not shot yet, he was not going to. That was elementary psychology in any language.

  “The fortunes of war,” Satura smiled. “I am not responsible. I am a surgeon, Corporal, as you can see by my insignia. My mission is one of healing.”

  “You rank these men,” Jarnegan growled, not moving. His eyes indicated the bodies on the beach. “You were in command. Ambush, eh?”

  “The commanding officer is dead. I left him a few hours ago, inland. He was wounded in the fight.”

  Jarnegan said something rude. “What was that screwy ship that upset us?” he demanded. “One of yours?”

  “No. I do not know. It had no wings. A new type. I had thought it might be an enemy, an Allied ship. Ah, it is uncomfortable standing here, with the sun in my eyes. May I—will you respect the truce?”

  “Truce, bunk! I know you monkeys.” Jarnegan came forward. “Put your hands up. First throw that gun away. That’s it. Now let’s see that automatic up your sleeve.”

  “I’m unarmed.”

  “Let’s see.” There was a swift search. The Major had spoken the truth, since it suited his devious purposes. He was unarmed, except for his safety razor and a smal
l pair of scissors in his tiny first-aid kit.

  Jarnegan pocketed the Jap’s gun. “Yeah,” he said. “So you’re my prisoner. We’re both prisoners. No way off this island, is there?”

  “I know of none.”

  “There’ll be one of our planes over in a week or so, if not sooner. We were sending our position by radio. Only the air got jammed an hour before we cracked up; so it’ll take time for the boys to find us. When they do, monkey, you’ll find yourself locked up for the duration.”

  Satura shrugged. “I am a surgeon, not a fighter,” he said, and was quite correct. There is a difference between a fighter and a killer. “Meantime,” he added, “did you leave a booby trap in the jungle for me?” At Jarnegan’s stare of surprise he went on quickly, describing the golden pile. “I do not know how it came there. It was placed on the trail recently. The coins were shining, not dusty.”

  “If you think I’m falling for a yarn like that,” the corporal said, “you’re a bigger dope than you look.”

  “As you like. I only thought that other ship, last night, it may have landed somewhere on the island.”

  “It’s not such a big island. If it landed, we can find it.”

  “Its crew may find us first. And they may be allies—of one of us.”

  Jarnegan thought that over. His forehead wrinkled in concentration. “Okay,” he said, at last. “I still think you’re a lying lizard, but I’ve gotta look around the island anyhow. So come along. Stay in front of me, if you don’t want a bullet in your belly.” For a moment a savage fury showed in the Yank’s hard face. It was gone instantly, but Satura had decided that he could afford to take no chances with this man. Only trickery—ambush—planned killing—would help.

  And it was already planned.

  So they went inland, along the trail, and there was the pile of gold. Jarnegan stopped, his eyes narrowings his hand on his gun-butt. Satura paused too, ahead of the corporal, and shrugged significantly. “I did not lie, you see,” he said quietly. “We are not alone on this island.”

  “Of all the crazy things,” Jarnegan muttered. “Dumping bullion here! I don’t get it. Booby trap, eh?”

  “It may be—” Satura stopped. Ice crawled down his spine, a shuddering chill that tore through the tropical heat and struck deep into him. For the pile of gold—vanished.

  IN ITS place was, briefly, nothing.

  And then—something. That something sprang out of empty air, so vividly clear and real that it was difficult to realize the miraculous manner of her coming. It was a girl, tall, slim, with a form like Aphrodite of the Shell, her whole body a symphony of smooth flowing lines that were graceful, and attractive almost beyond earthly allure.

  A girl—empty!

  For her eyes were like mirrors, blank shining colorless eyes, shadowed by dark lashes. Midnight ringlets fell about her rounded shoulders. Her arms were stretched out—

  But her eyes were not human. No sorcery, no unearthly science, could breathe a soul into that lovely mirage.

  Satura saw it first. He understood women, and his mind, though not comprehending the nature or purpose of the miracle, seized on the opportunity for which he had been waiting. One enemy is better than two. And almost at his feet, where he had stopped, was the pandanus-leai under which his bayonet was hidden.

  He dropped to his knees. Jarnegan’s gaze flicked to him, saw no danger, and went back to the girl. The American’s hand still rested on his gunbutt, but he was undecided—waiting, puzzled and baffled. Satura did not wait. The bayonet was hidden behind him now, and he rose to his feet, edging away, as though terrified of the apparition.

  “Shoot it,” he whispered. “You have a gun. Shoot it, Corporal. Quick! Don’t wait—it’s dangerous. Can’t you see that?”

  “No,” Jarnegan said. “It’s a girl.” His voice was harshly uneasy. Loudly he said, “Who the devil are you, anyhow? Better talk up quick. Know what a gun is?”

  “She may not know,” Satura said. “But she will learn, now, what a bayonet is.”

  On the word he struck. The sharp steel drove in smoothly in Satura’s strong, deft hands, and the breath went out of Jarnegan with a prolonged groan of pain. He tried to swing his automatic around, but the major’s hand chopped down in a vicious blow at his wrist. Then Jarnegan was down, coughing blood.

  He kicked up at Satura’s body. The bayonet thrust had been at an awkward angle, and had disabled but not killed the Yank. He was still alive, far too much so for the major’s satisfaction.

  Ju jutsu helped. There was a free-for-all, ending when Satura managed to grip the bayonet and twist it in the wound. Jarnegan collapsed. Satura expelled his breath in a long sigh of relief and hastily stripped his victim of weapons. The bayonet had torn free, and blood was seeping from the corporal’s back.

  Satura backed up, leveling his own automatic, and keeping an eye on the girl, who had neither moved nor spoken. When he got about ten feet away, Jarnegan came to life, with the incredible vitality one grew to expect from these bull-headed Yanks, and struggled up, trying to rush the major. Satura fired. His bullet hit the mark.

  “You—yellow—”

  Crack! went the automatic again. But Jarnegan, badly wounded, had lurched aside, and this time the slug missed. Before Satura could fire again, the corporal had flung himself headlong into the forest walling the trail, and was gone. In that thick jungle it would be easy to follow the trail he was audibly breaking, but Satura narrowed his eyes and lifted his gun, fanning out the shots so that they covered a wide arc. He heard a muffled cry and the sound of a fall.

  Only then did he follow, cautiously.

  He did not find Jarnegan. He found a blood-stained trail leading into the green gloom, and he decided not to follow. As a trained surgeon, he knew that the Yank had been mortally wounded, and there was no sense in risking his own life unnecessarily. So, smiling in a pleased fashion, he went back to investigate the mirage.

  The girl had gone.

  In her place was a complete shortwave sending apparatus.

  Major Satura, wondering what the dickens was going on, thought grim thoughts about booby traps, and demolished the short-wave with a few bullets. He did not dare use it himself, but he did not want Jarnegan to find it before the corporal died.

  Leaving the wreckage, he returned to the beach and collected the weapons, throwing most of them far out to sea, but saving plenty of ammunition in case of need. On his last trip to the water’s edge, he was surprised, on returning, to find a Zero on the beach behind him.

  NOBODY was in the plane, and its presence was highly improbable. Satura’s dark face grew more impassive than ever. He raised his gun carefully, sighting, but not firing. A less intelligent man might have been frightened. Perhaps Satura was, physically, but he knew the value of fear-propaganda, and the necessity of keeping tight control over his nerves.

  Logic—ruthlessness—against these, nothing could stand. Provided that an intelligent, trained brain lay in back of those acquired traits.

  The major raised an eyebrow at the too-inviting plane, skirted it warily, and dived into the jungle. A few feet along the trail he noticed a branch he had not seen before. Light glinted there on metal. An automatic pistol . . .

  It was logical for it to be there. One of the Yanks must have dropped it last night. So, logical as ever, Major Satura came forward, bent over, and picked up the weapon—

  His hand went through it. It had no tangible existence. He jerked back, taking alarm too late, and simultaneously a wrenching, jarring shock shook every atom of his body. Blazing light blinded him. He felt swift vertigo, a giddy rocking in which gravity was lost and the winds of darkness were tearing at the essence of his soul itself, shaking it perilously, and then the nightmare metamorphosis had passed, leaving no trace.

  But he was no longer in the jungle.

  The trap had been sprung. The ambush had succeeded. The snare had worked. Automatic out, Satura stared around, lips skinned back from his teeth, the emotionless mask shat
tered for once. This was not logic—it was—was sorcery.

  He held that thought for only a moment. After that, common sense came to his aid. There were walls around him; he stood in a bare, shining chamber about seven feet square,-and there was a door set in one wall, though without any keyhole that Satura could discover. And the room was perfectly bare and featureless. Walls, ceiling and floor were of a dull grayish metal that sent out a pale, shadowless glow.

  A prison?

  He waited, with mounting impatience, for the Enemy to manifest himself, but nothing happened. At last the Major holstered his gun and took a few slow steps toward the door, testing the floor with his toe.

  He was reminded, somehow, of a trap-line, set in advance, while the trapper returns to his cabin and makes his rounds only at intervals. Was the Enemy absent, then? It seemed possible. At least, Satura hoped so. It would give him a little more time to investigate this perilous mystery.

  The door was complicated. Few men could have fathomed the mystery of the lock. But Satura had a mind above the average in its capabilities, and his hands were surgeon’s hands, trained and accurate to a hair’s breadth. He had some tools with him, in his first-aid kit, and he improvised others. He worked on that door for five hours, while sweat streamed down his flat cheeks and soaked his tunic. Each hour, he allowed himself a five-minute pause for a brief rest. No more than that.

  One must take advantage of a reprieve. And this was merely a reprieve; a temporary stay; Satura was certain of that. His deft fingers flew. More and more, as he worked, he became convinced of something shockingly unlikely. The mind that had contrived this lock was not an earthly mind—or, if it was, it certainly was not human. For the principles of the lock’s construction followed intricate patterns of rhythm and pressure that were not based on ordinary laws of physics. As though the door, and its lock, had been made to resist physical conditions—such as abnormal pressure—which do not exist on this planet, save in the great deeps of the ocean, or in the upper stratosphere.