Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  “Running, running . . . I saw him run. There was a fight.”

  “A fight, Billy? What kind of a fight?”

  “K-k-k-kuk! Too short to see—those big machines. Oh, big, big, but so short!” Immense machines of brief duration. What could they be?

  “Noise. Sometimes. But sometimes silence, and a place where many lives were short—running, running, as they come . . . came . . . will come . . . k-k-k-k-uk! K-K-K-K-KUK!”

  The first symptoms of convulsion began to appear. DuBrose hastily gave another injection and calmed the boy with deft hypnotic suggestion. The racking shudders died. Van Ness lay motionless, breathing shallowly, his eyes closed.

  DuBrose went back to his office. He was in time to meet Cameron tossing some papers on the desk.

  “I’m going home, Ben,” the director said, “A bit of a headache. I couldn’t do much with these problems. Managed a few. Where’s Seth?” He watched DuBrose’s face. “Never mind. I—”

  “Nothing’s wrong, is there?”

  “No,” Cameron said flatly. “I’ll see you later.” He went out, leaving DuBrose to wonder. Had Ridgeley got to the chief again?

  Symptoms: headaches, nervousness, inability to concentrate—

  DuBrose hurriedly leafed through the folders, looking for one in particular. He found it. But the dossier on Dr. Emil Pastor had apparently not been touched. Maybe those other screening charts listing the avocations might—

  Nothing there either. Or wait. Opposite one name there was a lightly penciled check mark.

  Eli Wood, Low Orleans, mathematician; home, 108 Louisiana B-4088; avocation, fairy chess—

  IX.

  None knew him. He was grateful; he felt deep humility because he could walk through the Ways of Low Denver and not be recognized for what he was. The Ways swept past, crowded with warmen, but no one watched the small, quiet figure strolling on the stationary central path. This was the second test, and probably a more difficult one than the first. Destroying the symbols of his past had been dangerously easy. The temptation had been there. Because he knew, now, that all things were hollow, he also knew how easy it would be to prick the world bubble.

  For he could not die. His thought would live on. In the beginning was the Word, and in the end would be the Word, too.

  He had wanted to go home, but this test must come first, and Low Denver had been the nearest cave city. His credentials had enabled him to enter. He had used those credentials just as though he were an ordinary man. And he would go on pretending that, in all humility. Only his thoughts, the thoughts of God, would blaze between the stars, the hollow stars, into the hollow universe that he could destroy—

  That was the test. He must never use the power again. How often the other God must have been tempted to erase the universe He had made! But He had refrained, as Dr. Emil Pastor must refrain.

  He would still call himself Dr. Emil Pastor. That was a part of the program of humility. And he would never die. His body might, but his thought would not.

  All these warmen on the Ways—how grateful they would be if they knew they continued to exist only by the loving-kindness of Dr. Emil Pastor, Well, they would never know. Pride was a snare.

  He didn’t want altars.

  The firmament was an altar revealing the glory of Dr. Emil Pastor.

  An ant crawled out of a crevice and raced toward the Ways. Pastor chased it back to safety. Even an ant—

  How long had he stayed here? Surely there had been time enough. He had passed this test of humility; nothing had tempted him to reveal himself to the war men of Low Denver; he wanted to go home. He hoped his wife would not realize the change. She must always continue to believe that he was Emil-dear, as the children must never guess he was anyone else but Dad. He could play the role. And he felt a surge of tenderness toward them because he knew that they were hollow.

  They could vanish—if he willed it.

  So he must never will it. He would be a kindly god. He believed in the principle of self-determination. It was not his task to interfere.

  Time enough had passed. He stepped on a Way and was borne toward one of the pneumocar stations. In the car, he clutched a strap—the acceleration always did odd things to his stomach—and leaned back, waiting for the brief blackout to pass.

  It passed. Fifteen minutes later he stepped out at a Gateway. A group of uniformed men were standing waiting. At sight of him an almost imperceptible tension touched them. But they were well trained. Not a hand moved toward a pistol.

  God walked toward them.

  Cameron was dining with Nela. He watched her calm, friendly face and knew that there was no sanctuary even there. As he watched, the flesh might melt from her skull and—

  Music murmured from an audio. Fresh pine-scent filled the room. Cameron picked up a spoon, dropped it again, and reached for a water goblet.

  The water was warm and brackish. The shock to his taste buds was violent. But he managed to set the glass down without spilling more than a few drops.

  “Jitters?” Nela asked.

  “Tired. That’s all.”

  “You were like this last night. You need a furlough, Bob.”

  “Maybe I’ll take one,” Cameron said. “I don’t know—”

  He tried the water again. It was freezingly cold and very sour.

  Abruptly he pushed back his chair. “I’m going to lie down for a bit. It’s all right. Don’t get up. A bad headache is all.”

  Nela knew how he hated fussing. She merely nodded and went on eating. “Call me if you want,” she said, as Cameron went out. “I’ll be around.”

  And then upstairs, in the bed that at first was pleasantly soft and relaxing, and then too soft, so that he kept sinking down and down into a feathery, pneumatic emptiness, with that nausea in his stomach that droppers always gave him—

  He got up and walked around the room. He didn’t look into the mirror. The last time he had done so, his image had made ripples in the glass.

  He walked.

  He was walking in circles. But presently he noticed that he was always facing the same spot, the same picture on the wall. He was on a turntable.

  He stood motionless, and the room tilted. He found a chair, closed his eyes, and tried to shut out all sensory impressions.

  Hallucination or reality.

  If reality, then it was more dangerous. Were Seth and Ben DuBrose involved? Their hints about assassination were palpable red herrings. He might have believed them under other circumstances. But these hallucinations—

  It was difficult to think clearly.

  Perhaps that was the intention. Perhaps he wasn’t intended to think clearly.

  Half-formulated thoughts swam into focus. He had to pretend to believe that these—attacks—were purely subjective. He had to pretend that they were succeeding in their purpose—

  But he knew that the psychic invasion was objective.

  He knew that he was being persecuted. Others might not notice the things that had been happening to him. The persecutors were clever. They were determined to drive him mad—well, why? Because he possessed information of value? Because he was a valuable key man?

  And that argument added up to one thing. Paranoia, with systematized delusions of persecution.

  Cameron got up carefully. He winced. Once again it had happened. And, as usual, the unexpected.

  He went downstairs, walking slowly and awkwardly, his face drawn and gray. Nela caught Vier breath at sight of him.

  “Bob. What’s wrong?”

  “I’m flying to Low Manhattan,” he said through stiff lips. “A doctor there I want to see—Fielding.”

  She came swiftly toward him. Her arms slipped around his neck.

  “Darling, I won’t ask any questions.”

  “Thanks, Nela,” Cameron said. He kissed her.

  Then he went out to the copter, walking unsteadily and remembering the fairy tale of the little mermaid who exchanged her fish-tail for human legs. There had been a price exacted.
Ever after that, the little mermaid walked on sharp knives, no less painful because they were imaginary.

  Wincing at every step, Cameron walked toward the copter’s hangar.

  “I don’t drink,” the mathematician said, “but I’ve some brandy I keep for guests. Or do you prefer Pix? I’ve got some somewhere. I don’t use them either, but—”

  “Never mind,” DuBrose said. “I just want to talk, Mr. Wood.” He laid the portfolio across his knees and stared. Wood sat rather uneasily in a plain relaxer chair, a tall, thin man with old-fashioned non-contact spectacles and a thatch of neatly-combed, mousy hair. The room was meticulously, fussily clean, an odd contrast to Pastor’s cluttered, garish eerie lab.

  “Is it war work, Mr. DuBrose? I’m already working in Low Orleans—”

  “Yes, I know. I’ve investigated. Your record shows you’re extremely capable.”

  “Why—thanks.” Wood said. “I . . . thanks.”

  “This will be confidential. We’re alone here?”

  “I’m a bachelor. Yes, we’re alone. I gather you’re from Psychometrics, though. That’s rather out of my line.”

  “We have our fingers in a lot of pies.” Watching the man, DuBrose found it difficult to believe how many degrees Wood held and how many papers had been published under his name—some of them advancing remarkable theories of pure mathematics. “Here it is. You’re interested in fairy chess, aren’t you?”

  Wood stared. “Yes. Yes, I am. But—”

  “I’ve got a reason for asking you. I’m not a chess player. Can you give me some idea of what fairy chess is?”

  “Why . . . certainly. You understand this is merely a hobby of mine.” DuBrose thought Wood blushed slightly as he reached for a pile of chessboards and laid them out on a table. “I don’t quite know what you want, Mr. DuBrose—”

  “I want to know what fairy chess is. That about covers it.”

  Some of Wood’s shyness was dissipated. “It’s a variation of ordinary chess, that’s all. About 1930 a number of players got interested in the possibilities offered. They felt there wasn’t enough scope in orthodox chess, with its variation of problems—two-man moves and so on. So fairy chess was created.”

  “And—?”

  “Here’s a regulation board—eight squares by eight. Here are orthodox chessmen, king, queen, knight, bishop, castle, pawn. Knight moves two squares in one direction and one at right angles, or one and two. Castle in straight lines, bishop—diagonally in any direction on a single color.

  The idea, of course, is to checkmate. There’ve been a great many variations, but some themes are simply impossible, on the regulation board, especially certain geometrical themes.”

  “You use a different board?”

  “In fairy chess, you may have men of different powers and boards of different types. Modified space compositions—here’s one.” He showed DuBrose an oblong board, eight squares by four.

  “Here’s another, nine by five; here’s a larger one, sixteen by sixteen. And here are fairy chessmen.” DuBrose stared at unfamiliar pieces. “The grasshopper. The nightrider—though that’s merely an extension of knight’s move. Here’s the blocker, which can block but never capture. Here’s an imitator.”

  “What does that do?”

  “When any man moves, the imitator must move for the same number of squares in a parallel direction. It’s rather difficult to explain unless you’re familiar with chess principles, I’m afraid.”

  “Well—I gather it’s chess, with a new set of rules.”

  “Variable rules,” Wood said, and DuBrose leaned forward sharply. “You may invent your own men and assign them arbitrary powers. You may design your own boards. And you can have rule games.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Here’s one.” Wood set up a few pieces. “Let’s say, on this, that black never plays a longer move than his previous move. A one-rule game.”

  DuBrose studied the board. “Wait a moment. Doesn’t that presuppose a certain arrangement of men?”

  Wood smiled, pleased. “You might make a good player. Yes, you’d automatically have to assume that black’s longest move is always available to begin with. Here’s another. Black helps white mate in two moves. Oh, there are plenty of problems, the castling mutation, the camel-hopper, the actuated revolving center, checkless chess, the cylinder board—the variations are endless. You can have irreal men. The possibilities are endless.”

  “Assigning these arbitrary values—wouldn’t that bother a man who’d been trained with orthodox chess?”

  “There’s been a minor war since 1930,” Wood said. “The orthodox players, some of them, call fairy a bastard and unacceptable form. Still, we have enough fairy chess players to hold tournaments once in a while.”

  A thoroughly elastic mind . . . one that isn’t bound too much by familiar values . . . a man who makes up rules of his own.

  Jackpot!

  But DuBrose kept his fingers crossed as he opened the portfolio.

  Three hours later Eli Wood pushed his spectacles up on his forehead and laid down a curve-stemmed pipe. “It’s fascinating,” he said. “Most extraordinary thing I’ve ever encountered.”

  “But it’s possible? You can accept—”

  “I’ve been accepting ridiculous things all my life,” Wood said. “I’ve seen some peculiar things.”

  He didn’t elucidate. “So your equation is founded on the variability of truths.”

  “It’s far over my head. But—several sets of truth.”

  “Certainly. Several sets.” Wood searched for his spectacles, found them, and pulled them down into place. He blinked at DuBrose through the lenses. “If mutually contradictory truths exist, that proves they’re not contradictory—unless,” he added mildly, “they are, of course. That’s possible, too. It’s simply fairy chess, applied to the macrocosm.”

  “If I remember right, part of the equation says that a free-falling body drops at the rate of five hundred feet a second. Later on the body is dropping at nine inches a second.”

  “Black never plays a longer move than his previous move. Remember? That’s the rule in this part of the equation, I’d say.”

  “Presupposing a certain arrangement of men.”

  “Which would be the constant factor. I don’t know what it is; this will take a great deal of study.”

  “You can nullify gravity, then—”

  “Some themes are impossible on a regulation board. Set up the equivalent of a board in which the rule is—no gravity—and you’ve got it.”

  A macrocosmic board, one of the conditions of which is that the earth doesn’t revolve. Within the limits of that board—it doesn’t. Nevertheless it doesn’t move. Galileo was wrong.

  “Can you solve this equation?”

  “I can try. It’ll be a fascinating problem.”

  There was more to discuss, but finally DuBrose was satisfied. He left, having secured Wood’s promise to consider the problem top priority. At the door DuBrose, troubled by doubt, turned.

  “You’re not—bothered—by the idea of variable truths?”

  “My dear man,” the mathematician said mildly. “In this world?” He chuckled, bowed, and let the door panel slide shut.

  DuBrose went back to Low Chicago.

  X.

  Two visor calls were waiting. DuBrose turned on the playback attachment. The Secretary of War should have come first, but he listened to Nela Cameron instead.

  “Ben. I tried to get Seth, but he’s out. I’m worried about Bob. He’s gone to New York to see a Dr. Fielding. He’s . . . I don’t know. It’s probably something at the office. Call me if there’s anything I should know, will you? That’s all.”

  Dr. Fielding. DuBrose knew him; a psychiatrist. Mm-m.

  The Secretary of War said that there had been an inexcusable mistake. Dr. Emil Pastor had been located leaving Low Denver. He had been wounded—but not killed.

  Result: that whole group of intercepter guards had disappeared. There
was no trace of Pastor. He couldn’t get far. Kalender had ordered double precautions. Pastor must be killed on sight without mercy.

  Any suggestions?

  DuBrose could think of none. Kalender had muffed the job. Anything could happen now.

  He left messages and headed for Low Manhattan. No use calling Dr. Fielding. It might be better if Cameron had left before DuBrose arrived. That way, DuBrose might get some valuable information from the psychiatrist.

  Very definitely, something was wrong with the chief.

  Flying southeast, DuBrose thought of Eli Wood. Could the mathematician solve the equation? A man trained to the variables of fairy chess—well, the very fact that Wood had taken up fairy chess showed the elasticity of his mind. DuBrose remembered that Pastor had composed unorthodox stories of his own on the Fairyland gadgets. Why hadn’t the War Office given Wood the equation already?

  The answer was obvious. Only the top-flight men had been selected to solve the equation. Wood was competent enough, but his record lacked the brilliance necessary to impress the brass hats.

  And he didn’t, after all, have one of the Bib Jobs.

  Would the mathematician go mad, like the others?

  No use putting all the eggs in one basket. There might be other technicians who played fairy chess—or the equivalent.

  The copter roared toward the nearest Gateway to Low Manhattan. DuBrose tried to visualize Seth.

  “Something’s wrong with the chief.”

  “Has he got wind of what’s going on, Ben?”

  “I don’t know. I wish you weren’t dead. If I could only be sure what’s the best thing to do—”

  “You’ve got Eli Wood on the job. That’s something. As for the chief, he may be the Civilian Director of Psychonamics, but he’s got a colloid in his head. You’re a psychotechnician. Get busy.”

  “I’ll try. But I’m walking six tightropes at once—”

  Only one God has ever died . . .