Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  And as he worked, he theorized. But he had little enough to work with; a few vague, unsatisfactory clues, and they added up to nothing in particular. Despite his hard-held stocism, Satura felt a mounting tension coiling within him like a tight spring. If the door did not yield soon—

  But it yielded at last, vanishing like a burst bubble, leaving no trace of its existence in the square portal. A force-field, perhaps. That did not matter. The important thing now was to get the blazes out of here, the Major decided, lapsing into expressive American vernacular.

  THROUGH the portal he could see little. The lighted walls of his prison sent glowing paths across that cryptic threshold, and gradually his eyes became accustomed to the gloom. Nothing stirred. Neither sound nor motion existed in the next room—for it was a room, Satura realized now, though its geometry was distorted—either in actuality or by the semi-darkness.

  It lay in still, strange Gothic darkness. Yet it was possessed of a curious familiarity to Satura; he had the inexplicable feeling that he had seen it before. But, that, of course, was impossible.

  He took a few steps forward and paused, waiting. The dusty fan of light spread behind him, throwing his gigantic shadow on the farther wall. That wall was curved, Satura saw, but there were planes and angles in its construction that he could sense if not glimpse.

  Transparent cylinders, of varying sizes, floated unsupported, except for pencil-thin beams of light at either end. They swung from these horizontal light-threads like hammocks. And a platform, fitted with unfamiliar apparatus, brought home to the Major a fact he should have realized before.

  This was an operating room.

  He glanced around quickly. There was another door, open this time, and he hurried through it with scarcely a pause to investigate. He was, of course, still armed, but he had no assurance that his bullets would avail against the—the—Hunter.

  A Hunter from the stars. An explorer, alien, inhuman, seeking his quarry in the distant depths of ultimate space, searching the worlds for his quarry—his trophies that hung, mounted, in the enormous chamber Satura had just entered. Tall it was, and correspondingly wide, and the dark gloom made it seem far larger. From the gray shadows things out of nightmare emerged slowly into view—the trophies of the Hunter, mounted, preserved, incredibly lifelike, upon the bare walls.

  Not many had come from Earth. There was an elephant’s head, trunk curled, red eyes blazing; there were huge-clawed paws—no more—that Satura recognized as having once belonged to a mole, the powerful shovel-forefeet that had propelled it underground; there were the rattles of a diamond back; and a few others from this planet. All functional, all logical, all representing the creature’s chief claim to evolutionary survival. A mole lives by its paws. An elephant’s strong, delicate trunk enables it to survive and feed. And that bladder-like object hanging near by was, probably, the ink-sac of a cuttlefish.

  These were sufficiently normal; the rest were not. The Hunter had scoured worlds to get these trophies, Satura thought, his mouth going dry. That greenish, three-eyed, bestial head with its crown of limber tentacles—what planet had once held its tusked ferocity? And that unlikely slab of flesh set with a network of flashing, jewel-like crystals—what purpose had that served?

  THERE were others, many others, for the room was huge. Satura did not waste too much time here. He was looking for escape.

  No door was locked, he found; only the door that had locked him into his prison. From the trophy room he passed into what seemed to be a sleeping compartment, though the furnishings were not designed for human comfort or habitation. The major had an uneasy feeling that the Hunter might not even be of flesh and blood. Theoretically it was possible for beings of pure force to exist. Or a combination of force and flesh—carbon base and electrical energy.

  The engine room, at the nose of the ship. That he was within the torpedoshaped aircraft he had glimpsed the night before Satura was certain now. The curve of the walls indicated that, as well as the layout of the rooms. The engines—well, they gave Satura a cold, frightened sensation in the pit of his stomach. He tried to touch one, but his hand was halted a few inches from the plastic bar he reached for. Force-field again. Or its equivalent.

  Quite by accident he found the door for which he had been searching. It was located high up in the wall, as though the Hunter might have been able to fly up to it, which Satura could not do. He gathered together some curious-looking furniture, stacked it in a pile, and clambered up, his heart pounding. If his captor should return now!

  The door was simple enough. A twist, a push, and the valve was open, letting in the warm hibiscus-scented afternoon wind. It was still early; the sun was just past noon. And the tropical forest lay all around. There had been no attempt to conceal or camouflage the ship.

  IT WAS a long drop to the ground, but Satura took the risk rather than delay. He landed painfully, and for a moment thought his ankle had failed him. But the twinge passed, and he made for the jungle, limping a little. Once he looked back. There was nothing to see; the ship from space lay motionless, a dark titan resting on alien ground.

  The Major ran. He had more clues now, and was building up to a definite and unpleasant conclusion. First of all, he knew well that this was an antagonist he could not physically defeat. His tour of the ship had told him that. Bullets—ridiculous! Only strategy and logic could help him now.

  For he was marooned on the island with the Hunter, and he knew that when the Hunter returned, the fantastic scientific powers of the alien being could track him down and capture him without the slightest difficulty. Only the fact that the creature had been absent had saved Satura now.

  It added up. Big game hunters collect trophies. If life existed elsewhere in the Solar System, or in other systems, there was no reason why life patterns should follow completely alien lines. Science was based on certain rigid principles. Specimens are required for many purposes. Trophies are collected for two reasons; as specimens, and for sport.

  In this particular case, there was specialization. The Hunter had not preserved merely the heads of the creatures he had bagged. On the contrary, he had been thoroughly scientific about it, and preserved only the vital parts—the parts that were vital from the evolutionary viewpoint. A mole’s claws, an elephant’s trunk, a man’s—head.

  Satura, ploughing doggedly through the forest, nodded thoughtfully. The head, the brain, was representative of genus homo. Undoubtedly the Hunter had been pursuing that Yank plane, trying to bag his prize, when the crack-up had occurred. And after that, the Hunter had simply set his traps automatically and gone off about whatever strange business he might have elsewhere on Earth.

  A lesser man, the Major thought, might have yielded to superstitious cowardice. He did not. He was afraid, but that was nothing distressing, it was the danger signal that warned him and kept him alive. Those snares, now, might prove difficult.

  One ties a kid goat to capture a tiger, or a crocodile. To lure birds, breadcrumbs will do. But for human beings, more complicated lures are necessary. Gold, women, guns, a means of escape from the island as represented by the plane on the beach.

  Radio projection of visual images? Was that how it had been done? Satura did not know; he did not care a great deal. The whole point was that the Hunter could read the minds of humans as easily as men could foresee the reactions of a rabbit. He had not even troubled to attend to the matter himself, probably. Robot apparatus, specially trained and conditioned, might have laid the traps and snatched Satura into the prison cell within the ship. Remembering the operating room, he bared his teeth in a mirthless grin.

  But he was Major Satura, not a superstitious, helpless fool like—for example—that Yank corporal. That Yank—

  Satura stopped short, his eyes widening. The answer had come to him suddenly, as though by inspiration. It was not inspiration, though; it was merely logic, seen clearly by his keen brain.

  Item: the Hunter wanted—must want—the head of a human being as a specimen. There
had been none in the ship’s trophy room.

  Item: It was impossible to escape from the island till help came. The Hunter’s science could easily track down his quarry.

  Therefore: find another quarry.

  Satura struck off at an angle into the forest, much relieved, but knowing that he must Work fast. It might be, of course, that the Hunter did not want the complete head, merely the brain. That was a chance he’d have to take. Yet it did not seem likely. The trophies had been complete parts, not butchered organs.

  Another head—

  Presently he found Jarnegan’s blood trail and followed it till he discovered the American soldier, unconscious under thorny bushes, where he had tried to conceal himself. Makeshift, crude bandages were about the corporal’s torso, and Satura’s lip curled scornfully at sight of such sloppy work. Still, there was no time to waste now.

  HE FOUND wood, kindled a fire, and brought fresh water from a nearby spring, setting it to boil. His first-aid kit came out, and his razor. Complete sterilization was impossible, but at least it would help to take as many precautions as he could.

  He stripped Jarnegan and examined the man’s wounds. The bayonet gash had already stopped bleeding, and did not look serious. The bullet wound was another matter. The slug was embedded dangerously near the spine.

  There in the clearing, in the hot afternoon, Major Satura worked at the task in which he excelled: surgery. He was a master; no one could deny that. And never had he performed an operation under such tremendous difficulties. All the while, his ears were tuned to any strange sound that might mean danger—that the Hunter was returning. Before that happened, he must be ready.

  Three hours later he had finished, and was completely exhausted. Corporal Jarnegan was still unconscious, but he would live now, the bullet removed from his back, and his wounds washed aseptically and bandaged. Satura stepped back, expelling his breath in a long sigh, and looked down at the other.

  A barbarian. Undoubtedly a barbarian. But he would be the Hunter’s trophy, rather than Major Satura, who would survive to serve his Emperor and the Rising Sun. Though there must be certain sacrifices—

  Jarnegan was ugly; there was no doubt about that. His feet were large, unlike Satura’s small ones, and his gnarled, strong hands, with the right index finger missing, compared unfavorably with the Japanese Major’s slim, wiry hands. Ah, well. If it came to a choice—

  The Hunter must be aided in his choice. Satura opened his razor, removed a blade, and sterilized it. Then he took a small metal mirror, aseptic material, and a few other items.

  Since the Hunter desired a head—he would desire a good specimen, one in good condition. Not—mangled!

  Once a little hiss of pain escaped Satura, even though he had managed to administer a local anaesthetic to himself. But the hypodermic was not infallible, and such a monstrous operation was sickening in its masochistic brutality.

  Yet it was logical, and the only possible way now. Later, perhaps a plastic surgeon could remedy matters. Oh, undoubtedly! Aside from a few scarcely visible scars, Major Satura would be as handsome as ever.

  Meanwhile, he was losing face . . .

  By the time he had finished, he was a gargoyle. Bandages hid all but his eyes. Beneath the bandages were muscles skilfully cut, wounds grotesquely enlarged, his mouth slitted—and worse. With shaking hands the Major lit a cigarette and sat down to wait. It had been even worse than he had expected.

  Jarnegan woke up.

  He opened his eyes, saw Satura, and let out a steady stream of profanity that continued unbroken for ten minutes by the Major’s wristwatch. When he paused, Satura smiled.

  “You are ungrateful,” he pointed out, speaking painfully through the bandages. “I have saved your life. Or hadn’t you noticed?”

  Jarnegan snarled. “So what? You’ve got something up your sleeve. Have our guys landed? Figuring on keeping me as a hostage—that it?”

  “Don’t talk. You’ll exhaust yourself. You are still weak.”

  “The blazes I am!” The American struggled to his feet and stood swaying. He took a step forward.

  Satura negligently unholstered his automatic. “A tribute to my medical skill. Yes, you’ll live, Corporal. You lost a good deal of blood, but you’re strong. Strong enough to shave yourself. Do that!”

  Jarnegan stared. “Eh? What’s the big idea?”

  “I had no time, or I should have shaved you. Now do it yourself or I shall shoot you. There is hot water. No, I am not joking.” The Major’s silky voice hardened. “Do as I say, quickly!”

  Corporal Jarnegan blinked, shrugged, and turned to obey. Satura smiled at him.

  “The razor will not be much of a weapon against my gun, if that’s in your mind.”

  There was no answer. Jarnegan took the metal mirror and scraped away at the stubble on his weathered cheeks.

  “You monkey screwball,” he muttered wiping the last of the lather from his chin. “I always knew Japs were crazy. Now I’m sure of it. What’s been going on here, anyhow?”

  SATURA said nothing. He was watching a shimmering point of light that had appeared about ten feet away, in empty air in the clearing. Even in the fading afternoon dusk he made out outlines—of a sort—surrounding the creature, like a tracery or a shadowgraph. Those outlines were not even remotely human, and the eye rebelled at following them.

  The Hunter had returned.

  As Jarnegan swung around, and as Satura automatically raised his gun, knowing its uselessness, a veil of—nothingness—dropped down upon them. The Major felt the gun drop from his hand, heard it thud on the ground. There was a scuffle. A body hurtled against his legs: Jarnegan, diving for the fallen weapon. Instantly, in the face of this immediate danger, Satura kicked out, but his toe missed its mark.

  He grappled with Jarnegan. The corporal had the gun now, and—and—

  And Satura felt the American’s body floating away, dissolving, as the world itself was dissolving in the tremendous emptiness that had suddenly opened beneath him. Even at that moment, he had a brief touch of wonder at the efficacy of this mental anaesthetic, and then it took effect. Oblivion swallowed him.

  His last conscious thought was one of triumph. He had won, in this duel of wits with a creature far more powerful than himself. He had used logic . . .

  Jarnegan’s head, not his own butchered face, would look down from the shadows of the alien ship’s trophy room.

  An hour later Satura opened his eyes and saw a patch of starry sky. He was lying on the beach, near the fringe of jungle. Something had awakened him.

  A man was tramping nearby, walking heavily, unafraid, and cursing as he walked. Satura recognized Jarnegan’s voice.

  He lay silent, hidden in shadows, till the sound had receded and vanished. His mind churned in wonder and foreboding. What had happened? Had the Hunter rejected both humans—found them both unsuitable for his collection?

  Pain stung his bandaged face.

  He lifted his head wearily and looked along the length of his body, noting that both guns were in his belt. He must have wrested the automatic from Jarnegan, then, during that last struggle. So the American corporal was unarmed, helpless. And—

  Why had the Hunter not taken his trophy?

  Not till Satura tried to stand erect did he understand. So great a surgeon was the Hunter, so perfect his healing powers, that there had been no pain. Cauterization was complete and aseptic.

  The operating room in the alien ship had been used, after all. And the Hunter had collected another trophy—man’s most valuable part, from the standpoint of evolution.

  Not the brain, for, compared to the mind of the Hunter, human brains were less than those of the apes.

  There is only one mammal on Earth that can cross its thumbs over its palm. Because man can do this, he is today the dominant race.

  A streak of fire flamed in the night sky, and a thunderclap of wind heralded the passing of the Hunter, in search of new trophies. But there was another hunter on the isl
and now, a merciless avenger who needed no guns to make his kill.

  As for Satura’s own guns—

  Without hands, a man cannot fire an automatic.

  SWING YOUR LADY

  Amazons Can’t Stop Pete Manx When He Whizzes Away to the Land of Wild Women to Tame a Few Assorted Shrews!

  PETE MANX was in the worst spot of his eventful life. Not even the undeniable splendor of his costume had power to lift his drooping spirits. And that showed pretty well how sunk Manx felt.

  He fingered the carnation in the lapel of his cutaway and grimaced miserably. Then he craned his neck to look out the back window of the taxi. No sign of pursuit. Only upper Broadway, sweltering under an Indian summer sun.

  “I been run out of Cowper, Kansas, for selling patent medicine,” he reflected, “and that circus riot in Elk’s Tooth wasn’t no bed of roses. But I never came up against a dame like Margie before. Oh, gosh. Wish I was dead. What a life. Maybe she’s trailing me now.” Pete Manx shuddered convulsively. If there was only some place to hide . . .

  “Yipe!” said Mr. Manx, and bent forward as though he had been kicked in the stomach. “Doc Mayhem! That’s it. Hey, I don’t want to go to the East River. Changed my mind. Uptown, and fast!”

  He gave the driver an address.

  Ten minutes later he burst into the home-and-laboratory of Doctor Mayhem, wild-eyed and disheveled. “Doc!” he yowled. “Hey! I need help, but quick. Where are you?”

  A burly, red-faced man with a paunch and the expression of an embittered gorilla appeared, puffing at a cigar and staring. “Pete? Mayhem isn’t here. He’ll be back pretty soon.”

  Pete Manx scowled at Professor Aker, who was an old enemy of his. Then he jumped nervously as an automobile horn blew in the street outside.

  “I can’t wait,” he chattered. “That dame may come after me with an axe. Prof, you know how to work the Doc’s time machine, don’t you?”

  Aker nodded. “Of course.”