Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  Kari was no ordinary woman—God knew she was not! Perhaps not even human, perhaps not even real at all. It might be that very touch of alienage that had stamped her shining image upon his memory, but he could not put the image aside now. He saw her clearly in the darkness of his captivity and the deeper dark of his loneliness, now that the voices were stilled. Lovely, exotic, with the eyes full of longing and terror—what lies they told!—and that lovely, that dazzling smile.

  Bitterness made a wry taste in his mouth. Either she was one of the Aesir, or she served them. Served them well. A knife in the heart was the only answer he had for her, and he meant to give her that edged answer if he lived. But she was so very lovely . . .

  Slowly the veil of darkness lifted. He saw a face he had seen before—the harsh, seamed features of the burly Earthman in the pit. And beyond him, the slim Martian girl. All motionless, standing like statues beside him . . . beside him! For Stuart was one of them now. He was in the pit, with the other captives.

  Sensation came back slowly. With it came a tingling, a warm vibration along his spine . . . about his throat . . . inside his brain. He could not move, but at the corner of his range of vision flamed a crimsonness—the cloak. He still wore it.

  He wondered if the other captives could see him, if their minds were as active as his in their congealed bodies. Or whether the chill of deathlike silence held their brains along with their frozen limbs.

  A slow, volcanic fury began to glow within him. Kari—traitor and murderess! Was she Aesir? Was she Earth-born? And that black-cloaked, cowled creature . . . which was not real. Another projector of the Aesir, as the giants had been?

  You were sent by the Protectors.

  Memory of Kari’s phrase came back to Stuart now. And with it, as though he had somehow unbarred a locked gate, opened it a mere crack, came a—a whispering.

  Not audible. Faint, faraway, like the shadow of a wind rustling ghosts of autumn leaves, the murmur rose and fell . . . calling him.

  The scarlet cloak moved . . . writhed . . . flowed more closely about him. Fainter grew the voices.

  Stuart strained after them. His soul sprang up . . . reaching toward those friendly, utterly inhuman whispers that came from nowhere.

  A dull lethargy numbed him. The cloak drew tighter . . .

  He ignored it. Deep in the citadel of his mind, he made himself receptive, all his being focused on that—that strange calling from beyond.

  And, suddenly, there were words . . .

  “Derek Stuart. Can you hear us? Answer!”

  His stiff lips could not speak, but his thoughts formed an answer. And, rising and falling as though the frequency of that incredible telepathy pulsed and changed continually, the message came—

  “We have lost. You have lost too, Stuart. But we will stay with you—we must stay now—and perhaps your death will be easier because of that . . .”

  “Who are you?” he thought, oddly awed by the personality he sensed behind that voice that was really two voices.

  “There is little time.” The—sound?—faded into a thin whisper, then grew stronger. “The cloak makes it hard for us to communicate with you. And now we can give you none of our power at all. It is a monstrous thing—a blasphemy such as only the Aesir would create. Half-alive—it makes an artificial synapse between the individual and outside mental contacts. We cannot help you—”

  “Who are you?”

  “We are the Protectors. Listen now, Stuart, for soon you must walk the Long Orbit with the others. We removed some of your memories, so the Aesir could not read your mind and have time to prepare themselves—we hoped we might destroy them this time. But—we have failed again. Now—we give you your memories back.” Like a slowly rising tide, Stuart’s past began to return. He did not question how this was done; he was too busy lifting the veil that had darkened his mind since—since that night at the Singing Star in New Boston. A few drinks with the tiredeyed man, and then darkness—”

  But the curtain was lifting now. He remembered . . .

  HE remembered a tiny, underground room, with armed men—not many of them—staring at him. A voice that said, “You must either join us or die. We dare run no risks. For hundreds of years a tiny band of us has survived, only because the Aesir did not know we existed.”

  “Rebels?” he had asked.

  “Sworn to destroy the Aesir,” the man told him, and an answering glow burned briefly in the eyes of the others.

  Stuart laughed.

  “You have courage,” the man said. “You’ll need it. I know why you laugh. But we don’t fight alone. Have you ever heard of the Protectors?”

  “Never.”

  “Few have. They aren’t human, any more than the Aesir are. But they are not evil. They’re humanity’s champions. They have sworn to destroy the Aesir, as we have—and so we serve them.”

  “Who are they, then? What are they?”

  “No man knows,” the other said quietly. “Who—and where—they are is a secret they keep to themselves. But we hear their messages. And once in a lifetime, not oftener, they tell us where we may find some man they have winnowed the planets to discover. In our lifetime, Stuart, you are the man.”

  He gaped at them. “Why? I—”

  “To be a weapon for the Protectors—a champion for mankind. The Protectors are so far beyond humanity they cannot fight our battles in their own forms. They need a—a vessel into which they can pour their power. Or—call it a sword to wield against the Aesir. They have searched the worlds over for a long while now, and you—” The man hesitated, looking narrowly at Stuart. “You are the only vessel they found. You have a great destiny, Derek Stuart.”

  He had scowled at them. “All right, suppose I have. What do they offer?” The man shook his head. “Death—if you’re lucky. No man before you has ever won a battle for the Protectors. You know that—the Aesir still rule! Every chance is against you. In a thousand years no man has won the gamble. But this is greater than you or us, Derek Stuart. Do you think you have any choice?”

  Stuart stared the other man in the eyes. “There’s no chance?”

  The leader smiled. All mankind’s indomitable hope was in the smile.

  “Would the Protectors have spent all their efforts, and ours, to find you if there were no hope? They have mighty and terrible powers. With the right man for their vessel, they could be stronger than the Aesir. No man could stand alone against the Aesir. The Protectors could not stand alone. But together—sword and hand and brain welded into one—yes, Stuart, there’s a chance!”

  “Then why have the others failed?”

  “No one has yet been quite strong enough. Only once in forty years—fifty—is a man born who might, with luck, have the courage and the strength. Look at us here—do you think we would not offer ourselves gladly? Instead, the Protectors guided us to you. If you are willing to let them establish contact with your mind, enter it, possess it—there’s a chance the Aesir can be destroyed. There’s a chance that man’s slavery may be ended!” His voice shook with that mighty hope.

  Stuart glanced around at the ardent, fanatical faces, and something in him took a slow fire from the fire in theirs. A deep and vital purpose, as old as humanity—how many times before in Earth’s history had men of Earth gathered in hidden rooms and sworn vows against tyranny and oppression? How many times before had Earthmen dedicated themselves and their son’s sons, if need be, to the old, old dream that though men may die, mankind must in the end be free?

  Here in this crowded room the torch of freedom still burned, despite the hell of slavery under which the worlds toiled now.

  He hesitated.

  “It won’t be easy, Stuart,” the man warned. “A sword-blade must be hammered on the anvil, heated in flame, before it’s tempered. The Protectors will test you—so that your mind may be toughened to resist the attacks of the Aesir later. You will suffer . . .”

  He had suffered. Those agonizing, nightmare dreams in the forest, the phantoms t
hat had tortured him—other trials he did not want to remember. But there had been no flaw in the blade. In the end—the Protectors had been satisfied, and had entered his mind—maintaining the contact that still held, though thinly now.

  And the voices he heard still whispering within him were the voices of his mentors . . .

  “We took your memories from you. So that the Aesir could not read too much in your mind, and be forewarned. Now that does not matter, and you will be stronger with your memory restored. But when you let the girl clasp the cloak about you—that was failure.”

  “If I could move,” Stuart thought. “If I could rip it off—”

  “It is part of you. We do not know how it can be removed. And while you wear it, we cannot give you our power.”

  Stuart said bitterly. “If you’d given me that power in the first place—”

  “WE did. How do you think you VV survived the first testing by the Aesir? And it is dangerous. We must gauge it carefully, so that we do not transmit too much of our mental energy to you. You are merely human—if we let you draw on a tenth of our power, that would burn you out like a melting wire under a strong current.”

  “So—what now?”

  “We have lost again. You have lost, and we are sorry. All we can do is give you an easy death. We possess you now, mentally; if we should withdraw from your brain, you would die instantly. We will do that whenever you ask. For the Aesir will kill you anyhow now, and not pleasantly.”

  “I’m not committing suicide. As long as I live, I can still fight.”

  “We also. This has happened before.

  We have chosen and possessed other champions, and they have failed. We withdrew from their minds before the Aesir . . . killed . . . so that we could survive to try again. To wage another battle. Some day we will win. Some day we shall destroy the Aesir. But we dare not cling to our broken swords, lest we too be broken.”

  “So when the going gets tough you step out!”

  Stuart sensed pity in the strange twin voice. “We must. We fight for the race of man. And the greatest gift we can give you now is quick death.”

  “I don’t want it,” Stuart thought furiously. “I’m going to keep on fighting! Maybe that’s why you’ve always failed before—you were too ready to give up. So I’ll die if you step out of my mind? Well—it’s a lousy bargain!”

  There was no anger, only a stronger overtone of pity in the still voice.

  “What is it you want, Stuart?”

  “Nothing from you! Just let me go on living. I’ll do my own fighting. There’ll be time enough to take a powder when the axe falls. I’m asking you simply this—keep me alive until I’ve had another crack at the Aesir!”

  A pause. “It is dangerous. Dangerous for us. But—”

  “Well?”

  “We will take the risk. But understand—we must leave you if the peril grows too great. And will—inevitably.”

  “Thanks,” Stuart said, and meant it. “One thing. What about Kari? Who is she?”

  “A hundred years ago she was human. Then she was brought here, and the Aesir possessed her—as we possess you. She has grown less human in that time, as the alien grows stronger within her. She has only faint memories of her former life now, and they will vanish soon. Contact with the Aesir is like an infection—she will grow more and more like them. Perhaps, eventually, become one of them.”

  Stuart grimaced. “If the Aesir should withdraw from her—”

  “She would die, yes. Her own life-force has been sapped too far. You and she are kept alive only as long as the bond of possession holds.”

  Nice, Stuart thought. If the Aesir were destroyed, Kari would die with him. And if he faced doom, he too would die, as the Protectors withdrew to avoid sharing his fate.

  Hell—what did he care whether Kari lived or died? It was only the glamor of half-alienage that had drawn him to the girl. A dagger in her throat—

  Besides, he was certainly facing doom now.

  “All I can do—” he said—and stopped abruptly. He was speaking aloud. Patiently the twin voice in his brain waited for him to continue.

  Slowly he flexed his arms. He tilted back his head, staring up at the rim of the pit fifty feet above him. He could see the titan pillars rising toward the roof of that mighty tower, incredibly far above. But there was no sign of life.

  “I can move,” he said. “I—”

  Struck by a new thought, he gripped the folds of the cloak. It was nauseously warm and vibrant. It seemed to move under his hands. He jerked at it, and felt a twinge of agonizing pain along his spine and about his throat, while a white-hot lance stabbed into his skull.

  “If I could get rid of this—you could help me?”

  “We could give you our power, to use against the Aesir. But we do not know how to remove the cloak.”

  “I don’t either,” Stuart growled, and paused as a movement caught his eye. The muscular Earthman near him was stirring.

  He turned slowly. Beyond him the Martian girl swayed her feathery-crested head and lifted supple, slender arms. And the others—all about Stuart they were wakening to motion.

  But no life showed in their dull eyes. No understanding. Only a blind, empty withdrawal.

  They turned, trooped toward the wall of the pit . . . toward an arched opening that was gaping suddenly.

  “The Long Orbit,” said the voice in Stuart’s mind.

  “What’s that?”

  “Death. As the Aesir feed. They feed on the life-force of living organisms.”

  “Is that the only way out?”

  “The only way open to you. Yes.”

  STUART went slowly after the others. O They had crossed the threshold now, and were pacing along a tunnel, lit with cold blue brilliance, that curved very gradually toward the left. Behind him a panel closed.

  The cloak swayed like a great bloodstain behind him, moving in a motion not entirely caused by Stuart’s movements. He tried again to unfasten it, but the clasp at his throat only drew tighter. And the tingling sensation increased along his spine.

  An artificial synapse . . . blocking his nerve-ends so that he could not draw upon the Protectors’ power . . .

  At his left was an alcove in the tunnel wall. It was filled with coagulated light . . . bright with glaring flames . . . flame-hot. Within that white curtain stirred swift movement, like the leaping of fires. Above the recess a symbol was embossed in the stone. The sign of Mercury.

  “Mercury,” said the voice in Stuart’s mind. “The Servant of the Sun. The Swift Messenger. Mercury, that drinks the Sun’s fires and blazes like a star in the sky’s abyss. First in the Long Orbit—Mercury.”

  The crowd of prisoners, dull-eyed, swayed to and fro, a ripple of excitement rustling through them. Abruptly the Martian girl darted forward—

  Was engulfed in the milky flames.

  Stood there, while curdled opalescence veiled her. On her face sheer horror, as—

  “The Aesir feed,” the voice wispered. “They drink the cup of her life . . . to its last dregs.”

  The captives were moving again. Silently Stuart followed them along the tunnel. Now another recess showed in the wall.

  Blue . . . blue, this time, as hazy seas of enchantment . . . misted with fog, with slow shifting movement within it . . .

  “The sign of Venus,” said the voice. “The Clouded World. Planet of life and womb of creation. Ruler of mists and seas—Venus!”

  The Earthman was drawn into the alcove. Stood there, while azure seas washed higher and higher about him. Through that glassy veil his face glared, stiff with alien fear . . .

  The sacrifices went on.

  There was no alcove, no symbol for Earth. The Aesir had forgotten the world that had been their place of birth.

  “Mars! Red star of madness! Ruler of man’s passion, lord of the bloody seas! Where scarlet sands run through Time’s hourglass—Mars, third in the Long Orbit!”

  The crimson glow of a dusty ruby . . . the face of a
Venusian, strained, twisted in agony . . . the hunger of the Aesir . . .

  “The Little Worlds! The Great Belt that girdles the Inner System! The Broken Planet—”

  Tiny goblin lights, dancing and flickering, blue and sapphire and dull orange, wine-red and dawn-yellow—

  The hunger of the Aesir.

  “Jupiter! Titan! Collossus of the Spaceroads! Jupiter, whose mighty hands seize the ships of man and drag them to his boiling heart! The Great One-fifth in the Long Orbit!”

  The hunger of the Aesir.

  “Ringed Saturn light-crowned! Guardian of the outer skies! Saturn—”

  Uranus . . . Neptune . . .

  Pluto.

  The hunger of the Aesir . . .

  Beyond Pluto, dark worlds Stuart had not known. Until finally he was alone. The last of his companions had been drawn into one of the vampire alcoves of the Long Orbit.

  He went on.

  There was another recess in the wall at his left. It was filled with night. Jet blackness, cold and horrible, brimmed it.

  Something like an invisible current dragged him forward, though he fought with all his strength to resist. Instinctively he sent out a desperate call to the Protectors.

  “We cannot aid you. We must leave you . . . you will die instantly.”

  “Wait! Don’t—don’t give up yet! Give me your power—”

  “We cannot. While you wear the cloak.”

  The edge of blackness touched Stuart with a frigid impact. He felt something, avid with horrible hunger, strain forward from of the alcove, reaching for him. The cloak billowed out—

  Sweat stood out on Stuart’s face. For, suddenly, he had seen the way. It might mean death, it would certainly mean frightful agony—but he could go down fighting. If the cloak could not be removed in any other way—perhaps it could be ripped off!

  He gripped the half-living fabric at its bottom, brought this arm behind him—and tore the horror from him!

  STARK, abysmal nerve-shock poured like a current of fire up his spine and into his brain. It was like tearing off his own skin. Sick, blind, gasping dry-throated sobs, Stuart stumbled away from the black alcove, tearing at the cloak. It tried to cling to him—