Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  Inside it seemed quite dark. Also there appeared to be many small points of light, moving erratically, shining and fading like fireflies. But as they stared the lights began to vanish, so they may have been simply hallucinations.

  But that which stood on the far side of the room, facing them, was not hallucination. Not wholly hallucination. It was—someone.

  And it was a stranger. Their eyes and brains could not quite compass it, for it was not anything human. No one, confronted for one brief, stunned moment of his life with a shape so complex and so alien could hope to retain the image in his mind, even if for one evanescent instant he did wholly perceive. The perception must fade from the mind almost before the image fades from the retina, because there are no parallels in human experience by which to measure that which has been seen.

  They only knew that it looked at them, and they at it. There was impossible strangeness in that exchange of glances, the strangeness of having exchanged looks with that which should not be looking at all. It was like having a building look back at one. But though they could not tell how it met their gaze—with what substitute for eyes, in what portion of its body—they knew it housed an individuality, an awareness. And the individuality was strange to them, as they were to it. There was no mistaking that. Surprise and unrecognition were instinct in its lines and its indescribable gaze, just as surprise and incredulity must have been instinct in theirs. Whatever housing the individual wears, it knows a stranger when it sees one. It knows—

  So they knew this was not Rufus—had never been. But it was very remotely familiar, in a wrenchingly strange way. Under the complexity of its newness, in one or two basic factors, it was familiar. But an altered and modified familiarity which instinct rather than reason grasped in the moment they stood and saw it.

  The moment did not last. Against the dark the impossible figure loomed for a timeless instant, its vision locked with theirs. It stood motionless, but somehow in arrested motion, as if it had halted in the midst of some rapid activity. The dark room was full of amazement and tense silence for one brief flash.

  Then noise and motion swirled suddenly around it. As if a film had been halted briefly while the audience gazed, and now sprang back into life and activity again. For the fraction of a second they could see—things—in action beyond and around the figure. A flash into another world, too brief to convey any meaning. In the flash they looked back, unseeing, along the branching of the temporal track that leads from one line to another, the link between parallels along which alien universes go thundering.

  The sound rang out again through the house. Heard from so near, it was stunning. The room shook before them, as if sound waves were visibly vibrating the air, and the four walls sprang suddenly to life as the curtains billowed straight out toward what might have been vacuum at the center of the room. The purple clouds threshed wildly, hiding whatever happened beyond them. For an instant the sound still quivered and rang in the air, the whipping of strained cloth audible below it, and the room boiled with stretched purple surges.

  Morgan said, “Rufus—” and took a couple of unsteady steps toward the bed.

  “No,” said Bill in a gentle voice. Morgan looked back at him inquiringly, but Bill only shook his head. Neither of them felt capable of further speech just then, but Morgan after a moment turned away from the bed and shrugged and managed a slightly shaken,

  “Want some coffee, Bill?”

  Simultaneously, as if sensation had returned without warning to their numbed faculties, they were aware of the fragrance of fresh coffee rising up the stair well. It was an incredibly soothing odor, reassuring, a link to heal this breach of possibility. It bound the past to the stunned and shaken present; it wiped out and denied the interval they had just gone through.

  “Yeah. With brandy or something,” Bill said. “Let’s . . . let’s go on down.”

  And so in the kitchen, over coffee and brandy, they finished the thing they had begun with such hopes six months before.

  “It wasn’t Rufus, you see.” Bill was explaining now, Morgan the listener. And they were talking fast, as if subconsciously they knew that shock was yet to come.

  “Rufus was—” Bill gestured futilely. “That was the adult.”

  “Why d’you think so? You’re guessing.”

  “No, it’s perfectly logical—it’s the thing that had to happen. Nothing else could have happened. Don’t you see? There’s no telling what he went back to. Embryo, egg—I don’t know. Maybe something we can’t imagine. But—” Bill hesitated. “But that was the mother of the egg. Time and space had to warp to bring her to this spot to coincide with the moment of birth.”

  There was a long silence. At last Morgan said.

  “The—adult. That. I don’t believe it.” It was not quite what he had meant to say, but Bill took up the argument almost gratefully.

  “It was. A baby doesn’t look like an adult human, either. Or maybe . . . maybe this was a larva-pupa-butterfly relationship. How can I tell? Or maybe it’s just that he changed more than we knew after we saw him last. But I know it was the adult. I know it was the . . . the mother. I know, Pete.”

  Across the fragrant cups Morgan squinted at him, waiting. When Bill offered nothing further, he prompted him gently.

  “How do you know, Bill?”

  Bill turned a dazzled look at him. “Didn’t you see? Think, Pete!” Morgan thought. Already the image had vanished from outraged memory-centers. He could recall only that it had stood and stared at them, not with eyes, not even with a face, perhaps, as well as he could remember now. He shook his head.

  “Didn’t you recognize—something? Didn’t it look just barely familiar to you? And so did I, to—it. Just barely. I could tell. Don’t you understand, Pete? That was almost—very remotely almost—my own grandmother.”

  And Morgan could see now that it was true. That impossible familiarity had really existed, a distant and latent likeness, relationship along a many-times-removed line stretching across dimensions. He opened his mouth to speak, and again the wrong words came out.

  “It didn’t happen,” he heard himself declaring flatly.

  Bill gave a faint ghost of a laugh, quavering with a note of hysteria.

  “Yes, it happened. It’s happened twice at least. Once to me and once to . . . Pete, I know what the code was now!”

  Morgan blinked, startled by the sudden surprise in his voice. “What code?”

  “Faust’s. Don’t you remember? Of course that’s it! But they couldn’t tell the truth, or even hint it. You’ve got to face the thing to believe it. They were right, Pete. Faustus, Rufus—it happened to them both. They—went. They changed. They aren’t . . . weren’t . . . human any more. That’s what the code meant, Pete.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “The code for soul.” Bill laughed his ghost of hysterical mirth again. “When you aren’t human, you lose your soul. That’s what they meant. It was a code word, and it wasn’t. There never was a deeper meaning hidden in a code that isn’t a code. How could they have hidden it better than to tell the truth? Soul meant soul.” Morgan, listening to the mounting hysteria in his laughter, reached out sharply to check him before it broke the surface, and in one last fleeting instant saw again the impossible face that had looked at them through the doorway of another world. He saw it briefly, indescribably, unmistakably, in the lineaments of Bill’s laughter.

  Then he seized Bill’s shoulder and shook him, and the laughter faded, and the likeness faded, too.

  THE END.

  THE LION AND THE UNICORN

  It wasn’t ordinary war they waged—it was a strange underground battle between the Baldies and the Paranoids, strange because neither group dared let the humans know they fought!

  The best way of keeping a secret is to avoid even the appearance of secrecy. McNey whistled a few bars of Grief, and the vibrations set delicate machinery in operation. The dull amber of the walls and ceiling changed to a cool transparency. Polaroid cryst
al did tricks with the red glare of the sunset above the Catskills. The deep, cloudless blue sky hung empty overhead. But Barton’s helicopter had already arrived, and soon Callahan would be here, too.

  That Callahan would dare to come, and alone, gave a horrible clarity to the danger. Twenty years ago a dagger would have ended the matter. But not permanently. Barton had used steel, and, while he had not completely failed, he had not succeeded either. The menace had grown.

  McNey, standing by his desk, brushed a hand across his forehead and looked at his wet palm curiously. Hypertension. The result of this desperate, straining attempt to get in contact with Callahan, and the surprise of finding it far too easy. And now Barton as the catalyst—mongoose and snake.

  There must be no clash—not yet. Somehow Barton must be kept from killing Callahan. The hydra had more than a hundred heads, and the Power as well. There lay the chief peril, the tremendous secret weapon of the mad telepaths.

  But they weren’t mad. They were paranoid types, coldly logical, insane in one regard only, their blind warped hatred for nontelepaths. In twenty years, thirty, forty perhaps, they had—not grown—but organized, until today the cancerous cells were spotted throughout the towns of America, from Modoc and American Gun to Roxy and Florida End.

  I’m old, McNey thought. Forty-two, but I feel old. The bright dream I grew up with—it’s fading, blotted out by a nightmare.

  He glanced in a mirror. He was big-boned, large-framed, but soft. His eyes were too gentle, not suited for battle. His hair—the wig all telepathic Baldies wore—was still dark, but he’d buy a graving one soon.

  He was tired.

  He was on leave of absence from Niagara, one of the science towns; but there were no furloughs from his secret job. That was a job many Baldies held, and one no nontelepaths suspected—a combination of policing and extermination. For paranoid Baldies could not be allowed to survive. That was axiomatic.

  Over the ridge lay the town. McNey let his gaze travel downward, across pine and sumac groves, to the pool in the brook where trout hid under shadowed overhangs. He opened part of the wall and let the cool air enter. Absently he whistled the phrase that would start the supersonics and keep mosquitoes at a respectful distance. On the flagged walk below he saw a slim figure, trim in light slacks and blouse, and recognized Alexa, his adopted daughter. The strong family instinct of Baldies had made adoption a commonplace.

  The fading sunlight burnished her glossy wig. He sent a thought down.

  Thought you were in the village. Marian’s at the show.

  She caught the hint of disappointment in his mind. Intrusion, Darryl?

  For an hour or two—

  O.K. There’s an apple-blossom sequence in the pic, and I can’t stand the smell of the stuff. Marian asked me—I’ll catch a dance or two at the Garden.

  He felt wretched as he watched her go off. In the perfect telepathic world there would be no need for secrecy or evasion. That, indeed, was one of the drawbacks of the paranoid system—the mysterious, untappable wave length on which they could communicate. The thing called the Power. It was, McNey thought, a secondary characteristic of the mutation itself, like baldness, and yet more strictly limited. It seemed that only the paranoid Baldies could develop the Power. Which implied two separate and distinct mutations. Considering the delicate balance of the mental machine, that was not improbable.

  But true rapport was vital for a complete life. Telepaths were more sensative than nontelepaths; marriage was more complete; friendship warmer; the race a single living unit. For no thought could be hidden from probing. The average Baldy refrained, from courtesy, when a rapport mind went blurred; yet, ultimately, such blurring should become unnecessary. There need be no secrets.

  Both Marian and Alexa knew of McNey’s connection with the organization, but it was a tacit understanding. They knew without words when McNey did not want to answer questions. And because of the deep trust that comes from telepathic understanding, they refrained from asking any, even in their thoughts.

  Alexa was twenty now. Already she had felt the reaction of being an outsider in a world complete in itself. For Baldies were still intruders, no matter how much rationalization was used. The great majority of humanity was nontelepathic—and fear, distrust, and hatred lay latent in that giant tribunal that daily passed judgment upon the Baldy mutation.

  Capital punishment, McNey knew very well, was the sentence contingent upon a thumbs-down verdict. And if the thumbs ever turned down—

  If the nontelepaths ever learned what the paranoids were doing—

  Barton was coming up the path.

  He walked with the lithe springiness of youth, though he was over sixty. His wig was iron-gray, and McNey could sense the wary alertness of the hunter’s thoughts. Technically Barton was a naturalist, a big-game hunter. His quarry was sometimes human, however.

  Upstairs, Dave, McNey thought.

  Right. Is it here yet?

  Callahan’s coming soon.

  The thoughts did not mesh. The semantic absolute symbol for Callahan was simpler in McNey’s mind; in Barton’s it was colored by associations from a half-lifetime of conflict with a group he hated, by now, almost pathologically. McNey never knew what lay behind the violence of Barton’s hatred. Once or twice he had caught fleeting mental images of a girl, dead now, who had once helped Barton, but such thoughts were always as inchoate as reflections in rippling water.

  Barton came up in the dropper. He had a seamed, swarthy face, and a trick of smiling lopsidedly so that the grimace was almost a sneer. He sat down in a relaxer, sliding his dagger forward into a more handy position, and thought for a drink. McNey supplied Scotch and soda. The sun had dropped beyond the mountain, and the wind grew colder. Automatic induction began to warm the room.

  Lucky you caught me. On my way north. Trouble.

  About Us?

  Always.

  This time what?

  Barton’s thoughts broadened.

  Peril to Baldies

  Wigless Baldy with Hedgehound group Villages being raided

  Wingless? Paranoid?

  Know little. Can’t establish communication.

  But—Hedgehounds?

  Barton’s sneer was reflected by his thought.

  Savages. I’ll investigate. Can’t let the humans connect Us with raiding Hedgehounds.

  McNey was silent, pondering. It had been a long time since the Blowup, when hard radiations had first created the mutations, and brought about the decentralization of a culture. But those days had seen the beginnings of the Hedgehounds, the malcontents who had refused to join the village unions, who had fled to the woods and the backlands and lived the savage life of nomads—but always in small groups, for fear of the omnipresent atomic bombs. Hedgehounds weren’t seen often. From helicopters you might catch glimpses of furtive figures trailing in single file through the Limber-lost country, or in the Florida Everglades, or wherever the old forests stood. But by necessity they lived hidden in the backwoods. Occasionally there were quick raiding parties on isolated villages—so few, however, that no one considered the Hedgehounds a menace. They were nuisances at best, and for the most part they stayed away from towns.

  To find a Baldy among them was less singular than amazing. Telepaths formed a racial unit, branching out into family groups. As infants grew, they were assimilated. Might be some sort of paranoid plot. Dunno what sort.

  McNey tipped his drink. No use killing Callahan, you know, he pointed out.

  Tropism, Barton’s thought said grimly. Taxis. When I catch ’em, I kill ’em.

  Not—

  Certain methods work on Them. I’ve used adrenalin. They can’t foresee a berserker’s actions in a tight, because he can’t foresee his own. You can’t fight Them as you’d play a chess game, Darryl. You’ve got to force them to limit their powers. I’ve killed some by making them light with machines, which don’t react as instantly as the mind. In fact—shadow of bitterness—we dare make plans ahead. The parano
ids can read our minds. Why not kill It?

  Because we may have to compromise.

  The blasting wave of hot, violent fury made McNey wince. Barton’s negative was stunningly emphatic.

  McNey turned his glass, watching the moisture condense. But the paranoids are expanding.

  Find a way of tapping their Power, then!

  We’re trying. There’s no way.

  Find a secret wave length for us.

  McNey’s mind blurred. Barton looked away mentally. But he had caught a scrap of something. He tried not to ask the question burning within him.

  McNey said aloud, “Not yet, Dave. I mustn’t even think it; you know that.”

  Barton nodded. He, too, realized the danger of working out a plan in advance. There was no effective barrier that could be erected against the paranoids probing.

  Don’t kill Callahan, McNey pleaded. Let me lead.

  Unwillingly Barton assented. It’s coming. Now.

  His more disciplined mind, trained to sense the presence of the radiations that meant intelligence, had caught stray fragments from the distance. McNey sighed, put down his glass, and rubbed his forehead.

  Barton thought. That Baldy with the Hedgehounds. May I bring him here if necessary!

  Of course.

  Then a new thought came in, confident, strong, calm. Barton moved uneasily. McNey sent out an answer.

  After a minute Sergei Callahan stepped out of the dropper and stood waiting, warily eying the naturalist. He was a slim, blond, soft-featured man, with hair so long and thick that it was like a mane. Only affectation made paranoids wear wigs of such extreme style—that and their natural maladjustment.

  He didn’t look dangerous, but McNey felt as though a feral beast had come into the room. What had the medievalists symbolized by the lion? Carnal sin? He couldn’t remember. But in Barton’s mind he caught the echo of a similar thought: a carnivore, to be butchered!

  “How d’you do,” Callahan said, and because he spoke aloud, McNey knew that the paranoid had classed his hosts as a lower species, and gave them patronizing contempt. It was characteristic of the paranoids.