Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  Behind the barred shadows of the trees—shadows deep and velvety—paced the sleek forms of tigers, yellow and black. Their eyes watched Court. Their bodies moved like sliding water through the blazing, shocking richness of that mad jungle.

  A world self-conceived

  He saw the first hint of blue water this time, and sprang away from it. The burnished shield of flower dipped down, pouring burning nectar upon him. Lovely feminine forms, white as snow, bent toward him. I One had red-gold hair, a face of dazzling beauty. It was Irelle!

  The bright tigers faded like the phantoms they were. All but one. Court was astride it, feeling the smooth muscles bunch and ripple , under his thighs as the great beast crouched and plunged upward.

  Cold winds dried the sweat on his cheeks. One hand tight in a furry fold of skin, he flung up the other to guard his eyes from it flames that lashed out at him.

  He was riding through fire—riding on a steed that roared its excitement in deep tones I of bell-like clarity. Like a huge gong the tiger’s cry rang out, and Court, caught in the spell of racing motion and power, shouted too.

  On they raced—and the blue sea loomed ahead.

  Court leaped from of the tiger’s back. He fell through whirling winds that slowed and were gone, leaving a chill barrenness—an empty gray world.

  A gray ness on which a broken line laboriously crawled and elongated.

  Another line, thin, black, came to meet it.

  A few others drifted by.

  Nothing, now, but the grayness and the scatter of lines, meaningless, and yet—Court watched.

  The purest essence of linear art, perhaps. A few lines, symbolic of rhythm and pattern—a pattern basic that artists may seek all their lives and never find.

  For a long time Court stood motionless, watching the silent, unchanging scene.

  The blue sea welled up again.

  In the next vision there was neither color nor sound, nothing that any of Court’s five senses could assimilate. Yet this was the strangest world of all, and the one that held Court longest. He knew it, with some curious inner vision of his mind, and the intoxication of swooping motion through space and time held him.

  After that came other visions.

  Free mind, in a world self-conceived!

  In that ultimate vast freedom, unbound by the fetters of flesh, he sensed at last—something alive. It drew away from him, but he followed it.

  He was no longer completely human. Yet the bonds that held him to his own earth were strong. The psychic forces that could prison a Lyran forever could not quite render Court helpless. He was of a different breed from the Lyrans, of a race that had always fought for survival, and perhaps, too, after his agelong sleep, there was a part of his mind that could not be touched now—something that the blue sea had never given up.

  So, in that incredible space-time beyond life, he thrust out at the fleeing life.

  He recognized it.

  He knew—Farr.

  Unimaginable meeting, in a plane of pure mentality! But the living part of Farr was there, and Court thrust out at it savagely.

  Thrust out—and gripped it. Held it helpless—and bent it to his will.

  Though it struggled, Court was the stronger. At last he knew he had succeeded. He fought free of the inconceivable cosmos that surrounded him, battled doggedly toward a warmth and a familiarity he sensed still existed. He could not fail—not now.

  Fast! He must go fast!

  Into the vortex he went spinning, down and down, faster and faster, smaller and smaller, diminishing from that cosmically unfettered mind into something small and limited and familiar.

  He dropped into a room with bare walls, a tiny room where a tiny figure lay, fettered by its pitifully few senses, leaving beyond him a greater glory than he had ever known before and which he would never know again.

  And so Ethan Court awakened!

  CHAPTER VIII

  Traitor To His Trust.

  A DOOR was open in the wall, and on its threshold Farr stood, a metal key in his hand, life slowly coming back to his dulled eyes. He swayed forward and back like a dummy figure, shaking his head dazedly.

  Court stood up, his knees watery. He staggered forward and wrenched the key from Farr’s fingers, slipping it into his pocket.

  That roused the fat man. He made no attempt to recover the key. Instead he stared at Court half-blindly.

  “By the—by the gods! You’re awake! What kind of a man are you?”

  “I’ve been waiting to get my hand on your throat, Farr,” Court said. But he made no move, waiting for strength to return to his muscles.

  Farr touched his forehead gropingly. “I did not think such a thing was possible. You—you drew me from my dreams and made me open the door of your prison!”

  “All right,” Court said, “Hypnotism.” He knew that was not the full answer.

  “I don’t understand. What did you do?”

  “We were both dreaming,” Court said. “And we met somewhere. Let it go at that.” Farr’s fat body seemed to shrink. “I was a fool. I should not have gone into the dreamworlds where you could reach me. But how could I know the power of your will?”

  “You couldn’t. Which was lucky for me. And mighty unlucky for you, Farr.” Court took a step forward.

  “Wait!”

  “How long was I unconscious?”

  “Not long. A few hours.” Court felt relief. He had thought his visions had lasted much longer—days or even weeks. He gripped Farr’s soft forearm.

  “We’re going back to Valyra now, both of us. You as hostage. If any of your men try funny business, it’ll be too bad for you. Valyra needs you now. I’ve got some ideas about these dream-creators of yours. It’s just possible they could be adapted as weapons.”

  At that Farr tried to wrench free, his eyes widening.

  “No, Court! No! I was foolish. I know that now. I should have told you the truth in the beginning, but I felt it would be impossible to convince you.”

  “What truth?”

  “I have no choice. You must believe me. Court. You didn’t know my motives for bringing you here.”

  “Well?”

  “I wanted to stop you from building weapons, so much is true,” Farr said. “But my reasons weren’t selfish. I’m a leader of the Underground Group.”

  “Peace at any price, eh? Peace while the Deccans invade and conquer?”

  “No! Decca wants peace, for reasons I can show you. Decca is not secretly arming. If it were, I’d have acted in an entirely different way. I’d have given you every assistance in weapon-making. But here’s the truth, Court, something I’ve found out only after much espionage through my group. There is a man in Lyra who wants to seize control of the country, and then make war. He is the enemy. Decca really has no weapons. They can’t conceive them any more than we can.”

  Court laughed harshly. “The devil they can’t! Your story’s too thin. A Deccan tried to kill me with a death-ray of some sort, so I happen to know you’re lying.”

  “Tried to kill you? A death-ray?” Farr bit at his thick lips. “I’ve never heard of such a thing. That’s folly. We of the Underground Group are in communication with Decca, and both the Deccans and our group are working for peace.”

  “You’re easily duped. I think you’re a liar, Farr.”

  DESPERATION showed on the fat man’s heavy face. He hesitated. “Yet I’m forgetting. There’s the treaty.”

  “What treaty?”

  “Do you remember Tor Kassel?” Farr asked. “The physician who brought you back to life?”

  “The man who was captured by the Deccans?”

  “Yes. He’s in my castle now. Will you talk to him, Court? I ask only that.”

  “So I can walk into another trap? No, thanks. We’re leaving right now.”

  “But you ought to see him.”

  Court’s fingers sank into Farr’s arm. “Lead the way. If there’s trouble, I’ll break your back. I won’t need any weapon for that.�
� Farr hesitated then let his shoulders sag hopelessly.

  “Very well,” he said. “But you’re making a mistake.”

  “Just see that you don’t make any,” Court said. “Move!” He kept his grip on Farr’s arm as the other turned toward the door, stepped through into a tiny room, and pressed a stud on the wall. The chamber—an elevator—began to move swiftly upward. Presently it stopped. A panel opened.

  Cool green light beat in on Court. He saw a shadow looming before him, the shadow of a gaunt short man with a gleaming bald head. He swung Farr before him. “You can break my back if you like, but now you must talk to Tor Kassel,” Farr said quietly. “He knows the truth, and you must learn that truth from him.”

  For a brief interval the tableau held, Kassel standing in mute inquiry before them, Court holding Farr in an immovable grip as a shield.

  “All right, I’ll listen,” Court said. “But talk fast.” A few minutes later the three men were seated in comfortable pneumatic chairs with a photostatic manuscript before them, a manuscript which Kassel had obtained from a secret hiding place in the wall. Court read it carefully. Then he scowlingly touched a signature with his finger.

  “The Administrator of Decca signed the document, eh?”

  “This is a true copy,” Farr said. “The original was delivered to the Throne weeks ago.”

  “If the Throne got it,” Kassel added. “It may have been intercepted.” Court shook his head. “I still don’t understand. If Decca isn’t planning invasion, what does all the excitement mean?”

  “Decca never planned invasion,” Farr said. “We of the Underground Group knew that, and we were in constant communication with Decca. It was through us that Decca learned of your resurrection. You were a menace—a man who knew how to build weapons. So Deccan spies were sent to kidnap you before that danger could be realized. They failed. They caught Tor Kassel instead.”

  “I’ve been in Decca for weeks,” Kassel said. “I know a great deal now that I never guessed before. The Deccans are a peaceful race. They cannot build weapons any more than we can. Their minds were conditioned against it, as ours were, long ago. But they know of the militaristic movement in Lyra, and they have been trying to stem it. This treaty is the latest move, and it seems a useless one.”

  Court picked up the sheets. “It offers to open all Deccan laboratories, factories—all Decca—to Lyran visitors. Hm-m. Peace possible only through complete trust and understanding . . . Such lowering of common barriers will help to prove to the most suspicious Lyran that Decca has no warlike intentions.” He whistled between his teeth. “If this is on the level, it changes the setup a lot. Why is Lyra so convinced that Decca’s going to invade?”

  WITH a worried gesture, Farr leaned forward. “There is a man, a ruthless Lyran without ideals or gentleness, a man who looks on the human race as vermin, created only to further his desire for power and conquest, who is responsible. You name him, Court.”

  “Hardony,” Court said. “Yes, it would be Hardony. Not Den Barlen. He’s honest.”

  “I suppose Hardony suppressed this treaty so the Throne did not see it,” Kassel suggested. “I don’t know what his plans are. Perhaps he intends to depose Irelle.”

  Court stood up. Farr watched him keenly.

  “Wait,” he said. “Let me tell what else we have pieced out. Hardony controls the secret espionage. A spy system is necessary sometimes. But it is like fire. If it gets too large, and out of control, it can destroy. Why is the secret service as large as Den Barlen’s army?”

  “I wonder,” Court said. “Yes, that doesn’t look well.”

  “Preparedness is necessary,” the fat man went on. “But you forget one thing. Men of this time cannot build weapons. Why have no steps been taken to investigate Decca’s intentions? Why has Lyra been practically cut off from Decca for so long? The answer’s clear. Hardony has his immense spy system—with weapons. He’d make sure the weapons stayed in his hands. With it he could conquer a world. In your day that might have been inconceivable. But in this age there are no weapons. The man who brings them into being now has a certain responsibility. Now look. The gates of Decca are wide open for any Lyran to come through. Well, go through them. If you can find a single weapon in Decca, you’ll know that I’m lying.”

  “There are easier ways of checking up.” Court was scowling. Farr leaned forward. “What do you mean?”

  “I know a way to find out the truth,” Court said. “If Hardony’s behind this, if he’s responsible for the wave of propaganda that’s scaring Lyra into war, I’m going to get him.”

  “He’s strong,” Farr warned. “His Espionage Corps is powerful.” Court’s eyes were narrow and deadly. He looked at Kassel.

  “So the ability to create weapons has been bred out of the race! That doesn’t help, Kassel! That doesn’t help a bit and you know it. Nature’s stamped out the effect but not the cause. The source is still here—hereditary desire for power and conquest. There’ll always be people like that, maybe.”

  Kassel was silent, but Farr’s fat face was suddenly ugly and malignant.

  “And men will always rise to fight such killers,” he growled. “Before you leave here, Court, answer me. Are you convinced? Do you intend to build weapons?”

  “Not for Hardony,” Court said. “No.”

  “Don’t underestimate him,” Kassel warned. “You can’t return to Valyra, into his power, without taking some precautions. I’ll go with you. My name carries weight, and perhaps I can assist you.”

  “I’m going alone. I don’t trust either of you, completely. I want an aircar, Farr.”

  “But that’s reckless.”

  “If you want me to trust you, give me an aircar.” The fat man nodded thoughtfully. “All right, Court. We’ll do it that way, if you want. I advise you to be careful, that’s all.” He heaved his great bulk upright. “Follow me.”

  Leaving Kassel staring silently after them, they went through room after room, sparsely furnished, almost ascetic.

  “My luxuries exist in dream-worlds,” Farr murmured.

  He pointed through an archway to a small chamber, the twin of the one far even below, where a heavy couch stood. Near it, on the wall, was a plain silver panel with two levers protruding.

  “A movement of my hands and I create my private worlds, you see,” Farr continued. “That lever has a timing-mechanism attached, so that I may awake again.” He smiled half-maliciously. “The other lever has none, since it controls the guest-chamber beneath the castle. It’s a place to which I could always retire, if I grew too tired of this world, and sleep forever—until I died—in my own universes. Here’s the roof, Court, and here’s the aircar. You know how to handle it?”

  COURT nodded, and stepped over the low side and tested the gear. It vibrated into life against his hand. “Which way is Valyra?”

  “Due north. Good luck. I may see you sooner than you expect.”

  But Court did not hear. The aircar rose into the night, leaving the figure of Farr, on the castle roof, below. The dark structure dwindled. A black wilderness, without landmarks lay below. Above him, only the stars blazed.

  Court looked at the compass and turned north, speeding into full acceleration. Wind cut against his cheeks, cold and chilling. But it could not cool the dull, smouldering blaze that burned within—the question of who had lied, and who had spoken truth.

  The more he considered the possibilities, the more he was convinced of Hardony’s duplicity. It would have been easy for the espionage chief subtly to deluge Lyra with propaganda aimed at war. Irelle trusted Hardony, and, though Barlen did not, Barlen could do nothing, especially since he actually did not suspect treason. All this, of course, was on the assumption that Farr hadn’t lied. The treaty might have been forged. Tor Kassel? Court had no real reason to trust the physician, either.

  Yet, remembering Hardony’s cold smile, his utter, ruthless contempt for mankind, Court felt a conviction that the red fox was the enemy to be faced.

&n
bsp; But, if so, how could Court convince the Throne? Would Hardony have left any evidence to be found? Not likely.

  An hour passed, and another. Court was no nearer a solution when he saw the dim glow of Valyra on the horizon. It was long past midnight, but the rose-and-pearl city still glimmered, with light undarkened. It was never night in Valyra.

  But Valyra, for the most part, slept. Even Den Barlen was asleep, as Court found when he reached the officer’s home. The guard recognized him immediately, and, saluting, took him into an ante-room where, after a few moments, Barlen appeared, clad in a sleeping-robe.

  The giant’s yellow beard was tousled.

  “Court!” he exclaimed. “Where have you been? My men have been scouring the city for you. All the country, for that matter. Are you all right?”

  Court glanced at the guard. “May I talk to you alone, Barlen?”

  “What? Oh—yes, of course. Come in here.” He pulled Court into his bed-chamber. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m not sure,” Court said slowly, choosing his words. “The only thing I do feel certain of is that you’re a loyal man, Barlen.”

  The giant looked at him queerly.

  “What is it?” he asked in a changed voice.

  Court drew out the copy of the Deccan treaty. “Have you ever seen this before?”

  Barlen’s brows grew together as he read. “Signed by the Administrator of Decca. Odd. No, this is new to me. Where’d you get it?”

  “I don’t want to tell you that yet. It came from someone who’s in close touch with Decca, though. There are a few other things to tell you.” Hastily Court sketched his theories. Barlen listened for a while, but presently waved an impatient hand.

  “Keep talking. I’ll get dressed. This may need immediate action.”

  Court had a momentary cold fear. Suppose Barlen, not Hardony, was the traitor? Had he come to the wrong man?

  Barlen’s oath reassured him. “There’ll be no proof where we can get our hands on it. But it sounds like Hardony. It’s a staggering thought, that Decca has no weapons!”