Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  THE first officer was unperturbed.

  “I’m not the skipper, I’m mate,” Hilton said. “And I can tell you right now that we’re not worth much. Ever hear about discipline?”

  “I was shanghaied!”

  “I know it. That’s the only way we can get a full crew to sign articles on La Cucaracha. I mentioned discipline. We don’t bother much with it here. Just the same, you’d better call me Mister when people are around. Now shut up and relax. Give him a sedative, Bruno.”

  “No! I want to send a spacegram!”

  “We’re in hyper. You can’t. What’s your name?”

  “Saxon. Luther Saxon, I’m one of the consulting engineers on Transmat.”

  “The matter-transmission gang? What were you doing around the space docks?”

  Saxon gulped. “Well—uh—I go out with the technical crews to supervise new installations. We’d just finished a Venusian transmission station. I went out for a few drinks—that was all! A few drinks, and—”

  “You went to the wrong place,” Hilton said, amused. “Some crimp gave you a Mickey. Your name’s on the articles, anyhow, so you’re stuck, unless you jump ship. You can send a message from Fria, but it’d take a thousand years to reach Venus or Earth. Better stick around, and you can ride back with us.”

  “On this crate? It isn’t safe. She’s so old I’ve got the jitters every time I take a deep breath.”

  “Well, stop breathing,” Hilton said curtly. La Cucaracha was an old tramp, of course, but he had shipped on her for a good many years. It was all right for this Transmat man to talk; the Transmat crews never ran any risks.

  “Ever been on a hyper ship before?” he asked.

  “Naturally,” Saxon said. “As a passenger! We have to get to a planet before we can install a transmission station, don’t we?”

  “Uh-huh.” Hilton studied the scowling face on the pillow. “You’re not a passenger now, though.”

  “My leg’s broken.”

  “You got an engineering degree?”

  Saxon hesitated and finally nodded.

  “All right, you’ll be assistant pilot. You won’t have to walk much to do that. The pilot’ll tell you what to do. You can earn your mess that way.”

  Saxon spluttered protests.

  “One thing,” Hilton said. “Better not tell the skipper you’re a Transmat man. He’d hang you over one of the jets. Send him for’rd when he’s fixed up, Bruno.”

  “Yessir,” Bruno said, grinning faintly. An old deep-space man, he didn’t like Transmat either.

  Hilton pulled himself back to the control room. He sat down and watched the white visoscreens. Most of Ts’ss’ many arms were idle. This was routine now.

  “You’re getting an assistant,” Hilton said after a while. “Train him fast. That’ll give us all a break. If that fat-headed Callistan pilot hadn’t jumped on Venus, we’d be set.”

  “This is a short voyage,” Ts’ss said. “It’s a fast hyper flow on this level.”

  “Yeah. This new guy. Don’t tell the skipper, but he’s a Transmat man.”

  Ts’ss laughed a little.

  “That will pass, too,” he said. “We’re an old race, Mr. Hilton. Earthmen are babies compared to the Selenites. Hyper ships are fading out, and eventually Transmat will fade out too, when something else comes.”

  “We won’t fade,” Hilton said, rather surprised to find himself defending the skipper’s philosophy. “Your people haven’t—you Selenites.”

  “Some of us are left, that’s true,” Ts’ss said softly. “Not many. The great days of the Selenite Empire passed very long ago. But there are still a few Selenites left, like me.”

  “You keep going, don’t you? You can’t kill off a—a race.”

  “Not easily. Not at once. But you can, eventually. And you can kill a tradition, too, though it may take a long time. But you know what the end will be.”

  “Oh, shut up,” Hilton said. “You talk too much.”

  Ts’ss bent again above the controls. La Cucaracha fled on through the white hyper flow, riding as smoothly as the day she had been launched.

  BUT when they reached Fria, it would be rough space and high gravity. Hilton grimaced.

  He thought: So what? This is just another voyage. The fate of the universe doesn’t depend on it. Nothing depends on it, except, maybe, whether we make enough profit to have the old lady overhauled. And that won’t matter to me for it’s my last voyage into the Big Night.

  He watched the screens. He could not see it, but he knew that it hung beyond the universal whiteness, in a plane invisible to his eyes. The little sparks of worlds and suns glowed in its immensity, but never brightened it. It was too vast, too implacable. And even the giant suns would be quenched in its ocean, in the end. As everything else would be quenched, as everything moved on the tides of time into that huge darkness.

  That was progress. A wave was born and gathered itself and grew—and broke. A newer wave was behind it. And the old one slipped back and was lost forever. A few foam-flecks and bubbles remained, like Ts’ss, remnant of the giant wave of the ancient Selenite Empire.

  The Empire was gone. It had fought and ruled a hundred worlds, in its day. But, in the end, the Big Night had conquered and swallowed it.

  As it would swallow the last hyper ship eventually . . .

  They hit Fria six days later, Earth time. And hit was the word. One of Ts’ss’ chi tin-covered arms was snapped off by the impact, but he didn’t seem to mind. He couldn’t feel pain, and he could grow another limb in a few weeks. The crew, strapped to their landing braces, survived with minor bruises.

  Luther Saxon, the Transmat man, was in the auxiliary pilot’s seat—he had enough specialized engineering training so that he learned the ropes fast—and he acquired a blue bump on his forehead, but that was all. La Cucaracha had come out of hyper with a jolt that strained her fat old carcass to the limit, and the atmosphere and gravity of Fria was the penultimate straw. Seams ripped, a jet went out, and new molten streaks appeared on the white-hot hull.

  The crew had been expecting liberty. There was no time for that. Hilton told off working gangs to relieve each other at six-hour intervals, and he said, rather casually, that Twilight was out of bounds. He knew the crew would ignore that order. There was no way to keep the men aboard, while Twilight sold liquor and even more effective escape mechanisms. Still, there were few women on Fria, and Hilton hoped that enough working stiffs would keep on the job to get La Cucaracha repaired and spaceworthy before the fungus cargo was loaded.

  He knew that Wiggins, the second mate, would do his best. For himself he went with the skipper in search of Christie, the Fria trader. The way led through Twilight, the roofed settlement that was shielded from the hot, diamond-bright glare of the primary. It wasn’t big. But then Fria was an outpost, with a floating population of a few hundred. They came in and out with the ships and the harvest seasons. If necessary, Hilton thought, some of the bums could be shanghaied. Still, it wasn’t too likely that any of the crew would desert. None of them would be paid off till they went back in the Solar System.

  They found Christie in his plasticoid cabin, a fat, bald, sweating man puffing at a huge meerschaum pipe. He looked up, startled, and then resignedly leaned back in his chair and waved them to seats.

  “Hello, Chris,” Danvers said. “What’s new?”

  “Hello, Skipper. Hi, Logger. Have a good trip?”

  “The landing wasn’t so good,” Hilton said.

  “Yeah, I heard about it. Drinks?”

  “Afterward,” Danvers said, though his eyes gleamed. “Let’s clean up the business first. Got a good shipment ready?”

  Christie smoothed one of his fat, glistening cheeks. “Well—you’re a couple of weeks early.”

  “You keep a stockpile.”

  The trader grunted. “Fact is—look, didn’t you get my message? No, I guess there wasn’t time. I sent a spacemail on the Blue Sky last week for you, Skipper.”

&
nbsp; Hilton exchanged glances with Danvers.

  “You sound like bad news, Chris,” he said. “What is it?”

  Christie said uncomfortably, “I can’t help it. You can’t meet competition like Transmat. You can’t afford to pay their prices. You got running expenses on La Cucaracha. Jet fuel costs dough, and—well, Transmat sets up a transmitting station, pays for it, and the job’s done, except for the power outlay. With atomic, what does that amount to?”

  DANVERS was growing red.

  “Is Transmat setting up a station here?” Hilton said hastily.

  “Yeah. I can’t stop ’em. It’ll be ready in a couple of months.”

  “But why? The fungus isn’t worth it. There isn’t enough market. You’re pulling a bluff, Chris. What do you want? A bigger cut?” Christie regarded his meerschaum. “Nope. Remember the ore tests twelve years ago? There’s valuable ores on Fria, Logger. Only it’s got to be refined plenty. Otherwise it’s too bulky for shipment. And the equipment would cost too much to freight by spaceship. It’s big stuff—I mean big.”

  Hilton glanced at Danvers. The skipper was purple now, but his mouth was clamped tightly.

  “But—hold on, Chris. How can Transmat get around that? By sending the crude ores to Earth in their gadgets?”

  “The way I heard it,” Christie said, “is that they’re going to send the refining machines here and set ‘em up right on Fria. All they need for that is one of their transmitters. The field can be expanded to take almost anything, you know. Shucks you could move a planet that way if you had the power! They’ll do the refining here and transmit the refined ores back Earthside.”

  “So they want ores,” Danvers said softly. “They don’t want the fungus, do they?”

  Christie nodded. “It looks like they do. I had an offer. A big one. I can’t afford to turn it down, and you can’t afford to meet it, Skipper. You know that as well as I do. Thirteen bucks a pound.”

  Danvers snorted. Hilton whistled.

  “No, we can’t meet that,” he said. “But how can they afford to pay it?”

  “Quantity. They channel everything through their transmitters. They set one up on a world, and there’s a door right to Earth—or any planet they name. One job won’t net them much of a profit, but a million jobs—and they take everything! So what can I do, Logger?”

  Hilton shrugged. The captain stood up abruptly.

  Christie stared at his pipe.

  “Look, Skipper. Why not try the Orion Secondaries? I heard there was a bumper crop of bluewood gum there.”

  “I heard that a month ago,” Danvers said. “So did everybody else. It’s cleaned out by now. Besides, the old lady won’t stand a trip like that. I’ve got to get an overhaul fast, and a good one, back in the System.”

  There was a silence. Christie was sweating harder than ever. “What about that drink?” he suggested. “We can maybe figure a way.”

  “I can still pay for my own drinks,” Danvers lashed out. He swung around and was gone.

  “Jehoshaphat, Logger!” Christie said. “What could I do?”

  “It’s not your fault, Chris,” Hilton said. “I’ll see you later, unless—anyhow, I’d better get after the skipper. Looks like he’s heading for Twilight.”

  He followed Danvers, but already he had lost hope.

  CHAPTER III

  Danvers Lays the Course

  TWO days later the skipper was still drunk.

  In the half-dusk of Twilight, Hilton went into a huge, cool bam where immense fans kept the hot air in circulation, and found Danvers, as usual, at a back table, a glass in bis hand. He was talking to a tiny-headed Canopian, one of that retrovolved race that is only a few degrees above the moron level. The Canopian looked as though he was covered with black plush, and his red eyes glowed startlingly through the fur. He, too, had a glass.

  Hilton walked over to the two. “Skipper,” he said.

  “Blow,” Danvers said. “I’m talking to this guy.”

  Hilton looked hard at the Canopian and jerked his thumb. The redeyed shadow picked up his glass and moved away quickly. Hilton sat down.

  “We’re ready to jet off,” he said.

  Danvers blinked at him blearily. “You interrupted me, mister. I’m busy.”

  “Buy a case and finish your binge aboard,” Hilton said. “If we don’t jet soon, the crew will jump.”

  “Let ’em.”

  “Okay. Then who’ll work La Cucaracha back to Earth?”

  “If we go back to Earth, the old lady will land on the junkpile,” Danvers said furiously. “The ITC won’t authorize another voyage without a rebuilding job.”

  “You can borrow dough.”

  “Ha!”

  Hilton let out his breath with a sharp, angry sound. “Are you sober enough to understand me? Then listen. I’ve talked Saxon around.” Who’s Saxon?”

  “He was shanghaied on Venus. Well—he’s a Transmat engineer.” Hilton went on quickly before the skipper could speak. “That was a mistake. The crimp’s mistake and ours. Transmat stands behind its men. Saxon looked up the Transmat crew on Fria, and their superintendent paid me a visit. We’re in for trouble. A damage suit. But there’s one way out. No hyper ship’s due to hit Fria for months and the matter transmitter won’t be finished within two months. And it seems Transmat has a shortage of engineers. If we can get Saxon back to Venus or Earth fast, he’ll cover. There’ll be no suit.”

  “Maybe he’ll cover. But what about Transmat?”

  “If Saxon won’t sign a complaint, what can they do?” Hilton shrugged. “It’s our only out now.”

  Danvers’ brown-splotched fingers played with his glass.

  “A Transmat man,” he muttered. “Ah-h. So we go back Earthside. What then? We’re stuck.” He looked under his drooping lids at Hilton. “I mean I’m stuck. I forgot you’re jumping after this voyage.”

  “I’m not jumping. I sign for one voyage at a time. What do you want me to do, anyhow?”

  “Do what you like. Run out on the old lady. You’re no deep-space man.” Danvers spat.

  “I know when I’m licked,” Hilton said. “The smart thing then is to fight in your own weight, when you’re outclassed on points, not wait for the knockout. You’ve had engineering training. You could get on with Transmat, too.”

  For a second Hilton thought the skipper was going to throw the glass at him. Then Danvers dropped back in his chair, trying to force a smile.

  “I shouldn’t blow my top over that,” he said, with effort. “It’s the truth.”

  “Yeah. Well—are you coming?”

  “The old lady’s ready to jet off?” Danvers said. “I’ll come, then. Have a drink with me first.”

  “We haven’t time.”

  With drunken dignity Danvers stood up. “Don’t get too big for your boots, mister. The voyage isn’t over yet. I said have a drink! That’s an order.”

  “Okay, okay!” Hilton said. “One drink. Then we go?”

  “Sure.”

  Hilton gulped the liquor without tasting it. Rather too late, he felt the stinging ache on his tongue. But before he could spring to his feet, the great dim room folded down upon him like a collapsing umbrella, and he lost consciousness with the bitter realization that he had been Mickeyed like the rawest greenhorn. But the skipper had poured that drink . . .

  THE dreams were confusing. He was fighting something, but he didn’t know what. Sometimes it changed its shape, and sometimes it wasn’t there at all, but it was always enormous and terribly powerful.

  He wasn’t always the same, either. Sometimes he was the wide-eyed kid who had shipped on Starhopper, twenty-five years ago, to take his first jump into the Big Night. Then he was a little older, in a bos’n’s berth, his eye on a master’s ticket, studying, through the white, unchangeable days and nights of hyperspace, the intricate logarithms a skilled pilot must know.

  He seemed to walk on a treadmill toward a goal that slid away, never quite within reach. But he didn’t know wh
at that goal was. It shone like success. Maybe it was success. But the treadmill had started moving before he’d really got started. In the Big Night a disembodied voice was crying thinly:

  “You’re in the wrong game, Logger. Thirty years ago you’d have a future in hyper ships. Not any more. There’s a new wave coming up. Get out, or drown.”

  A red-eyed shadow leaned over him. Hilton fought out of his dream. Awkwardly he jerked up his arm and knocked away the glass at his lips. The Canopian let out a shrill, harsh cry. The liquid that had been in the glass was coalescing in midair into a shining sphere.

  The glass floated—and the Canopian floated too. They were in hyper. A few lightweight straps held Hilton to his bunk, but this was his own cabin, he saw. Dizzy, drugged weakness swept into his brain.

  The Canopian struck a wall, pushed strongly, and the recoil shot him toward Hilton. The mate ripped free from the restraining straps. He reached out and gathered in a handful of furry black plush. The Canopian clawed at his eyes.

  “Captain!” he screamed. “Captain Danvers!”

  Pain gouged Hilton’s cheek as his opponent’s talons drew blood. Hilton roared with fury. He shot a blow at the Canopian’s jaw, but now they were floating free, and the punch did no harm. In midair they grappled, the Canopian incessantly screaming in that thin, insane shrilling.

  The door handle clicked twice. There was a voice outside—Wiggins, the second. A deep thudding came. Hilton, still weak, tried to keep the Canopian away with jolting blows. Then the door crashed open, and Wiggins pulled himself in.

  “Dzann!” he said. “Stop it!” He drew a jet-pistol and leveled it at the Canopian.

  On the threshold was a little group. Hilton saw Saxon, the Transmat man, gaping there, and other crew members, hesitating, unsure. Then, suddenly, Captain Danvers’ face appeared behind the others, twisted, strained with tension.

  The Canopian had retreated to a corner and was making mewing, frightened noises.

  “What happened, Mr. Hilton?” Wiggins said. “Did this tomcat jump you?”

  Hilton was so used to wearing deep-space armor that till now he had scarcely realized its presence. His helmet was hooded back, like that of Wiggins and the rest. He pulled a weight from his belt and threw it aside; the reaction pushed him toward a wall where he gripped a brace.