Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  Smith held up a warning hand. “Patient, I guess. Under ether, by the way he snores.”

  “He’s got that helmet on.”

  “Ja, ja.” Smith jerked it off. “The herrenvolken need this. And—” He removed my helmet. “—this, too. Number Three will be pleased. This way, we have to pay nothing for the device.”

  “Would we have paid anyway, Herr Schmidt?”

  “Nein,” said Herr Schmidt. “Do not be more stupid than you can help. By posing as a government official—ha! We waste time. Raus! I will meet you tonight—you know where.”

  “Ja, the circus,” said the man with the squint.

  “Sh-h!”

  “Who is there to hear? The baby? Un-sinn.”

  “No precaution is nonsense,” Smith said. He was stuffing the two helmets in a small black satchel Doc had there on a glass case of instruments. “Hurry!”

  They went out. I sat blankly on the operating table, sort of shinned. “Doc,” I yelled.

  No answer.

  The floor looked a dickens of a ways down. But I knew I had to get off the table, some how. I crawled around, cursing squeakily, till I discovered that I had a plenty strong grip for my size. My legs were pretty feeble, but my aims were okay.

  I let myself down over the edge, hung on, dangling, and then dropped. It didn’t hurt. I was so fat I bounced. When I picked myself up, the room seemed to have got bigger. Table, chairs—everything loomed way above me. Doc was lying motionless in a corner. I crawled over to him.

  He was breathing. That was something, anyway. But I couldn’t revive him. Concussion, I guessed. Hm-m.

  My own body was still asleep. I shook its head till it woke up.

  “Listen, kid,” I said thickly. “Try to understand. We gotta get help. Can you hear me?”

  I’d forgotten how young the baby was. He grabbed me by the seat of the diapers and started to drag me around like a puppy, going goo-goo in a sickening bass voice. I called him dirty names, and he finally let go and tried to eat his foot again. My foot!

  I thought of the nurse, but when I crawled into the outer office, she was flattened over her desk, colder than a codfish. The sight of the phone gave me an idea. I couldn’t reach it till I yanked on the cord. Then it thumped down, missing me by an inch.

  I had trouble dialing; my fingers kept folding up. Finally I got a good grip on a pencil that had fallen off with the phone, and that helped. The operator asked me what I wanted.

  “Goblobble—uh—police! Police headquarters.” It was an awful strain to force the soft tissues of my throat and tongue into talking-position. I kept relapsing into mushy gargles.

  “Desk sergeant. Yes?”

  I TOLD him what I wanted—not much, just that there’d been a hi-jacking at the Doc’s. He interrupted.

  “Who is this talking?”

  “Sergeant Cassidy, U. S. Marines.”

  “The devil you say!” He gave a offensive imitation of my voice, which was naturally squeaky. “Thargeant Catthidy, U. Eeth. Marinth. What is this, a gag?”

  “No!” I squealed. “Blast it! Send up a squad.”

  “A thquad?”

  I started to tell him about the Nazi lugs who’d stolen Doc’s invention, but I had sense enough to shut up before I put my foot in it completely. I could feel the officer freezing. But he finally said he’d send a man around, and I had to be satisfied with that.

  So I hung up and looked at my toes. I was thinking hard. I doubted if even Doc could convince anybody he’d invented a Transfer helmet. They’d classify him as a screwpot and toss him in the observation ward. And he was a scientist. I wasn’t even a Marine, technically speaking. They don’t have baby Marines.

  Those helmets were valuable. I didn’t know what Smith wanted with them, but I gathered that Germany might find ’em handy, somehow.

  Then I had it. Spies! Holy jumping catfish!

  A German mind inside the skull of an Allied brass hat—what a sweet method for espionage. Even fingerprinting wouldn’t show the truth. The Nazis could filter in trained spies to key positions, and—and—win the war!

  Whew!

  But—hang it!—nobody would believe me. Doc might be able to convince ’em, with facts and figures, only I didn’t know when he’d wake up. Meantime, Smith was going to turn the helmets over to Number Three, whoever that was. At the—yeah—at the circus.

  I. had my own troubles to worry about, too. Here I was, in Stinky’s body. What would happen if I couldn’t get the helmets back? I’d have to spend the rest of my life as a baby—until I grew up anyway. Somehow, I didn’t like the idea of telling Captain Dawson what had happened.

  Stinky, in my body, was gurgling and cooing in the other office, and I decided I’d better move, but fast. I tried my legs. They had a tendency to buckle, but I managed pretty well. I knew the trick of walking, I guess, and Stinky didn’t. The muscles weren’t too weak. They hadn’t been trained, that was all.

  But the outer door was shut, and I couldn’t reach the knob.

  It didn’t take long to push a light chair where I needed it, and then I climbed up like a monkey till I could turn the knob. That was enough. Outside, the stairs gave me some trouble, though I got down by crawling backwards, feeling awfully unprotected from the rear. Finally I was in the vestibule, looking up at the big door there, and knowing I couldn’t make it. There weren’t any chairs down here.

  I saw a shadow cross the pane, and the door swung open. It was a cop. He headed up the stairs without seeing me—he was looking up, not down—and I scrambled to get outside before the door shut. I was lucky. It was one of those pneumatic things. But I almost lost my diaper as I squeezed through.

  So there I was on Park, not liking it at all. The people were too big. A few of them glanced at me as they passed, and I figured I’d better start moving. I fell down a couple of times, but that was nothing, except when a hatchet-faced dame with a voice like vinegar started to pick me up, saying something about a poor lost baby. What I told that lady made her drop me like a hot brick.

  “Oh, my gracious!” she yelped. “Such language!”

  She kept following me, though, and I knew I had to lose her somehow. It was the first time I’d ever been trailed by a cookie, even if she was overbaked. I saw a bar coming up, and realized I was thirsty. Anyway, I needed a drink. After what I’d been through, anybody would.

  If I could sit down with a beer or something and think things over, it might help.

  TURNING into the place, I managed the swinging door okay and went in, leaving beagle-puss outside, clucking like she’d gone crazy. It was a darkish, quiet sort of bar, with not many customers, and I climbed up a bar-stool without attracting attention. My eyes just came over the level of the mahogany.

  “Rye,” I said.

  The bartender, a fat old guy in a white apron, looked around. He didn’t see me.

  “Rye!” I said again. “Beer chaser.”

  This time he saw me. His eyes bugged out He came and leaned on the bar, staring at me. Finally he grinned.

  “Well, look at the sprout,” he chuckled. “Did I hear you ask for rye?”

  “Listen, you big lug,” I snarled. “You want me to pin yours ears back?”

  “What with?” he asked. “Safety pins? Haw-haw!” He thought it was funny.

  “Shut up and gimme a shot,” I growled squeakily, and he found a bottle and a glass. I licked my lips. Then, just before he poured, he drew back and looked at me solemnly.

  “I gotta see your draft card, old man,” he said. “Haw-haw-haw!”

  If I could have managed the words that came to my lips, he’d have known for certain I wasn’t an innocent babe. But my palate, as usual, turned into mush.

  “Glab-bab-da-da,” I said, or words to the effect.

  A dignified old buzzard with a gleaming watch-chain strung across his vest came over and picked me up.

  “A fine thing,” he boomed. “Mothers bringing their children into bars—and children this young!” He loo
ked around searchingly, but nobody claimed me. A honey in a blue dress, sipping a Cuba libre in a booth, said I wasn’t hers, the darling, and could she hold me? All of a sudden an idea hit me. Billie! If I could get in touch with her.

  Uh-uh. But I didn’t like to have her see me like this?

  I felt sick. Still it looked like the only way. The trouble was, I had no may of reaching her.

  The old buzzard was getting ready to hand me over to the honey. It went against the grain, but I squalled and clung to the watch-chain, keeping it up till I put the idea across. “I guess he likes you,” the honey said. “Well, you keep him. His mother ought to show up pretty soon.”

  “Yes. Yes. Another scotch, Tony. There.” He sat down in a booth, keeping me in his lap. I toyed thoughtfully with the watch-chain. He tickled me under the chin, and I managed to keep from calling him a dirty name.

  “Poor baby, then. Is it a poor baby?”

  Well, I was. Broke as the devil. Stoney. I needed dough!

  After I’d finished with the watch-chain, I delved into the buzzard’s vest pockets. As I’d hoped, there was a coin or two loose there. I dug out some change, but the lug tried to take it away from me. We had a sort of tussle, and the dough spilled out of my hand, tinkling over the floor.

  “Ah, ah, naughty!” said Moneybags, and set me down carefully on the seat. He and the bartender started to pick up the coins.

  I swung myself down, snaffled a nickel, and waddled unsteadily toward the back, where I’d seen a phone booth. Moneybags started after me, but I saw him coming. I headed for the honey in the blue dress, holding out my arms.

  She picked me up. It wasn’t hard to take. I kept pointing back toward the booth.

  “What is it, baby? What a nice little fellow! Kiss, then?”

  I complied, and she jumped and looked sort of startled. Oh, well. I kept pointing, and after a while she got the idea. Moneybags came along and stood grinning, obviously on the make, but she wasn’t having any of the old goat.

  “He seems to like you, Miss.”

  “Yes,” she said vaguely. “He wants something.”

  “Phone,” I said, not daring to make it clearer.

  “Oh, he can talk! He knows a few words, doesn’t he?” she smiled at me. “You darling! But you can’t use the phone. You’re not old enough.”

  “Mm-m,” I said. “Kiss.”

  AT THIS the honey blinked. She got up rather fast and took me to the phone booth, holding me up to the mouthpiece. I tried to wriggle free, and managed to get my feet on the seat. Then I waved my arms at her and yelled, “Go ’way.”

  She stepped back, startled, letting me go, and I tried to close the folding door. Moneybags was hovering in the background, only too anxious to help, and he shut it for me.

  “Oh, but—he’ll hurt himself, in there.”

  She was too late. I’d got the receiver down, slipped a nickel in the slot, and was frantically dialing, having a dickens of a time with my folding fingers. I could see Moneybags and the honey staring at me, so I kept my voice as low as possible when I finally got through to Billie.

  “Look, Billie, this is Jerry—”

  “Jerry who?”

  “Cassidy!” I said. “You know me—we got a date tonight.”

  “I have with Jerry Cassidy. But I know Jerry’s voice. Sorry, but I’m busy right now.”

  “Wait! I—uh—got some throat trouble. This is me, honest. I’m in a jam.”

  “As usual. I—you’re not hurt, are you?”

  “Not exactly, but I need help, plenty bad. It’s life and death, hon!”

  “Oh, Jerry! Of course I’ll help. Where are you?”

  I gave her the address of the bar. “Get down here as fast as you can. You’ll find me—I mean you’ll find a baby here. Pick him up and call a taxi. And don’t be surprised by anything you hear.”

  “But where are you? What’s this about a baby?”

  “Tell you later. Rush right down.”

  Moneybags opened the door. I hung up and slammed a right hook on his jaw. The lug thought I was playing or something.

  “Isn’t he clever? Pretending to use the phone like that. I think this calls for a drink, Miss.”

  “Well, all right.” She picked me up, and I let her, not knowing what else to do. So I sat in her lap while Moneybags fed her drinks, and every time the old boy tried to make a date, I yelled. After a while he took a dislike to me. Do you wonder?

  CHAPTER III

  Infant Sleight-of-Hand

  YES, I think Moneybags was getting ready to strangle me when Billie arrived, at last. She’s a trim, pert little trick with long, glossy dark curls and an oval face and everything that goes with it. The minute I saw her come in, I bounced like mad, waved my arms, and yelled.

  Billie looked surprised, but she didn’t ask any questions. Moneybags watched her come toward us.

  “Is this your child, Madame?” he asked.

  “Maa-maa!” I bawled, when Billie hesitated. I could see she was wondering what this was all about. My throat got dry. I couldn’t swallow till Billie finally nodded and grabbed me. She stared around, searching.

  I knew, for me, but Sergeant Cassidy was wearing mufti just then—if you can call knitted wraps and stuff mufti.

  I didn’t dare say anything, but I hoped Billie would remember what I’d told her on the phone. She did. She took me out and called a taxi.

  “Where to, Miss?”

  “The Garden!” I piped.

  He didn’t notice who was talking. Billie did, though, and she stared at me with her eyes getting bigger and bigger.

  “Relax, hon,” I said. “Keep a grip on yourself. Something awful’s happened.”

  “Uh-huh,” she said, whispering. “It sure has. I’m crazy. Oo-oh!”

  She got white and shut her eyes. I had a nasty moment when I thought she was fainting. How the devil could a baby administer first aid in a taxi?

  “Billie!” I squeaked. “Blog-wob-blob . . . Wake up! It’s me! Jerry! Don’t pass out on me.”

  “B-but—” She started to giggle hysterically, and I knew she was okay. “Oh, my goodness! You’re a midget, of course, pretending to be Jerry.”

  I tilted back my head and stared up at her face, way up there. My eyes kept slipping out of focus, as usual. I felt mad, sick, hopeless. Shucks, you’ve been a baby yourself. You know how it feels. With me it was worse.

  “Billie, I want you to listen and try to understand,” I said. “I’ll lay it flat on the line. It’s daffy, but you gotta believe me.”

  Billie sighed. She was pale around the eyes.

  “Shoot,” she said, “I’ll try, anyhow.”

  So I told her what had happened. All the while I kept wondering how to get out of this mess. If Billie couldn’t help—well, I didn’t know anybody else who could, except the Doc, and he was a non-combatant just at present. I’d already tried the cops. I knew how the desk sergeant must have felt. If a stupid-looking baby had slung such a spiel at me a few days ago, I’d have laughed it off—if that. But in my spot, what else was there to do?

  It was awful. Jerry Cassidy had always been able to take care of himself. A man who weighs two hundred stripped, and no fat, is apt to get pretty cocky. Besides, I knew a few little tricks—some Jap wrestling angles, and some Apache footwork. A lot of good that did me now. I couldn’t even pull the trigger on a light automatic, probably.

  What good is a baby, anyway?

  That got me started thinking of Mrs. Dawson and the Captain. Stinky was a lot of good to them, anyhow. By this time Mrs. Dawson must have come back from her shopping and found me gone. Oh-oh!

  Also I was dead tired, for some reason.

  My muscles felt like watery egg-yolk. I never felt so sleepy, that I could remember.

  I managed to finish telling Billie what had happened, but then I must have fallen asleep in her lap. When I woke up, we were in a drug-store booth, and she was shaking me. “Wake up, Jerry! Wake up!”

  “Da da da,” I
mumbled. “Waaa . . . oh. Wh-wha—”

  “You dozed off,” Billie told me. “Babies need a lot of sleep.”

  “Lay off that baby stuff! I—say, you called me Jerry! So you do believe me, huh?” Billie frowned. “Yes. How do you feel now?”

  “Okay. Well, thirsty I want a drink.”

  “What?”

  “Beer,” I said.

  “What you’ll get is milk.”

  I MADE strangling noises. “Milk! Billie, for Pete’s sake! I may look like a sprat, but I’m still Jerry Cassidy.”

  “Milk,” she said firmly. “I’ll get you a nursing bottle.”

  But I drew the line at that. Billie compromised by getting me a glass of milk, and I had some trouble managing it, slurping the blasted stuff all over my front. Finally we figured out the best way for me to drink—I used straws.

  It wasn’t beer, but it helped. I was plenty thirsty. I sucked away, and Billie told me what had happened.

  “I phoned headquarters, Jerry. I told ’em I was looking for you.”

  “Uh? Oh. Bwob—I mean, what happened?”

  “Doctor McKenney’s still unconscious. So’s his nurse. They’re in emergency. It’s nothing serious, though. And—” She hesitated, “Go on.”

  Billie gulped. “They said they had a Sergeant Cassidy there, all right, but he was either drunk or nuts. All he would do was crawl around on the floor, play with his toes, and cry. They—they said it was an open and shut case. He—you—Jerry, must have gone out of his head and slugged the doctor and his nurse.”

  “Out of his head is right,” I said weakly. “Right into this dopey little noggin.” I slammed a fat fist against my skull.

  “Gee,” Billie said. “I wonder if you looked like this when you were a baby. You must have been awfully cute.”

  “Lay off that,” I howled. “We got work to do.”

  “I don’t know what we can do, Jerry. When the doctor wakes up, maybe he’ll think of something.”

  “What about those Nazis?” I asked. “Smith and Number Three and the others?”

  “I don’t see what we can do.”

  “Look,” I said. “They’re going to the circus, at the Garden. It’s a swell place to meet, in a crowd. Smith’s got the Transfer helmets in that satchel, and I bet he’ll try to slip it to Number Three.”