Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  “I am.” Havers’ voice was mild.

  “I need help. Can’t use a gun.” He indicated the plastic gadget. “Nice little job, that. Delicate as forceps. But no good for shooting. You know how to handle a gyro-flier?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ve got a job, and maybe you’re the man to help me pull it off. I had one, but he got Salvation last week. Been asking questions around, and you sound like the right man to me. I—”

  “Ssst!” Georgina leaned forward sharply, nodding toward the door.

  The two men turned to look. There was a subtle, siphonlike motion in the crowd as La Boucherie herded his gorgeously dressed group of shimmers into the Jolly Roger. Everyone there went automatically into his act, and Havers could almost feel the instant determination to get what he could that drew every man a little way toward the sightseers before he could stop himself.

  Georgina pushed the black lace veil a little upward, leaving her mouth and chin visible, and an air of indescribable demureness mingled with daring seemed to change the very set of her bones and muscles as she, too, went into her prearranged act. Now she was no longer, the rather commonplace little go-between whom La Boucherie had employed for years, but a pampered and rebellious darling of the upper classes, bored with luxury, tantalizing, dangerous, demure. Georgina could act.

  They watched La Boucherie’s apple-green cloak swinging out from his great shoulders as he led the way toward the bar, the youngsters pressing behind him. Most of the mothers had stayed in the car, scented handkerchiefs pressed unnecessarily to their nostrils in the air-conditioned interior. But several grim duennas paced among the girls, whose fans were at their faces as they shot bright, excited glances around the room. The gallants kept their hands ridiculously on the hilts of their toy swords, and looked fiercely at the synthetic dangers about them.

  La Boucherie was shooting glances around the room under his tufted brows, looking for Georgina. He saw her just as the bartender was handing him a glass, and La Boucherie all but let it slip through his thick lingers when he recognized the heavy-shouldered figure beside her.

  Havers met the fat man’s glare with a sardonic nod, and La Boucherie swore to himself as he felt the tide of angry crimson surge upward into his face. Blood beat heavily at his temples and he cursed Havers all over again for the sudden throb of headache that increased blood pressure meant to a man as heavy as La Boucherie. It was another tiny debt in the long list of big debts and small chalked up against Mart Havers.

  The Leader, Avish, who stood at La Boucherie’s elbow, leaned forward.

  “Anything wrong?”

  La Boucherie started to choke a denial, then suddenly changed his mind. He had been an opportunist all his fifty-five years and here was a chance too fortuitous to miss.

  “That girl,” he said, and the thickness of his voice was convincing, though it sprang from another cause. “Over there in the booth. The one with the veil. I know her. She’s got no business here. She . . . Excuse me . . .”

  HE CONTRIVED as he swung his bulk away from the bar to give Avish an almost inadvertent push in the same direction. It was all that was needed. Even from here Avish could see that Georgina was a pretty thing.

  So the thin-faced Leader was beside him when La Boucherie stood above Georgina’s table and scowled down at her with a rage whose origin she knew, though not a flicker of her eyes toward Havers betrayed it. Havers himself, after that one ironic nod, had taken no notice whatever of La Boucherie’s existence. He sat with his big shoulders hunched and his head sunk between them, staring indifferently into his drink while the two newcomers stood above him, looking at Georgina.

  “Miss Curtis”—La Boucherie’s voice was properly stern—“I’ll take you home immediately.”

  He bent forward to lift her cloak over her shoulders, but. Avish was before him, performing the service with a gallantry that was slightly too familiar, since they had not yet been introduced. It was exactly the reaction La Boucherie had hoped for, and in spite of himself his anger subsided a bit.

  “Not yet, please!”

  Georgina’s voice was petulant. She shot Avish a veiled glance that gave him the courage to brush her bare shoulder lingeringly as he drew up the cloak. Georgina was playing a spoiled and rather daring debutante, ready to invite familiarities and equally ready to resent them to the point of inciting duels. She smiled and then gave Avish a haughty glance.

  “Who is this man?” she demanded of La Boucherie.

  “I won’t introduce you to a respectable man in a place like this,” La Boucherie told her sternly. “You’re-lucky I haven’t sent for your father. Now get up and come with me.” Submissively she rose.

  “Oh, come now, La Boucherie,” Avish said, trying to make his harsh voice cajoling. “There’s no harm done, is there? If you’ll introduce me to Miss Curtis I’d be very grateful. Perhaps she’d even let me escort her home. It would spare you to your other guests, and I’ve seen the Slag before.”

  Mart Havers, eyes stubbornly lowered through all this, watched the colored reflections of the people around him moving in his glass. He knew what would happen. He had seen Georgina in action before. He had even played a part like this himself on occasion, for though he had no such talent for impersonation as Georgina’s, La Boucherie had seen to it that his training included the social graces and he could pass as one of the upper classes himself when he cared to.

  Above him there were polite flourishes and protests. Then Georgina swirled her ruffled skirts and moved away in a cloud of perfume on Avish’s arm. The moment they were out of earshot La Boucherie let his breath out in a soft, explosive snort and gave his temper its freedom. He kept his voice down, for he knew eyes were upon him from the crowded bar, but his words were violent.

  CHAPTER V

  Rebellion

  WITH his shoulders hunched a little, Havers let the storm beat unheeded upon him. Pusher Dingle’s eyes widened as he listened. Clearly he expected Havers to spring at the other man’s throat. But Mart only sat there, his face expressionless, his heavy brows meeting in a sullen scowl, while La Boucherie’s soft-voiced, hotly worded fury spent itself in a torrent of blistering phrases.

  Years of danger had instilled instinctive caution in both men, though, so the nearest La Boucherie came to saying anything revealing was his curt order for Havers to get back where he belonged.

  “Not for a while yet,” Mart said, speaking for the first time since La Boucherie had begun his tirade. He knew the right weapon to use against the older man—casualness that he didn’t feel in the least.

  La Boucherie opened his mouth and closed it again. He swept his cloak around him with an angry motion of his arm and a swirl of bright colors.

  “Now,” he said. “I mean—‘now’.”

  Havers signaled the waiter and got a refilled glass. La Boucherie’s brows met. He had noticed Mart’s nearly empty wallet.

  And Havers had seen La Boucherie’s glance. Driven by a vital desire to assert his independence, he grinned across the table.

  “I know,” he said. “I’m nearly broke. But I’ve got a job coming up that ought to pay off. Eh, Pusher?”

  Pusher Dingle’s eyes flickered warningly. La Boucherie studied the little man.

  “Oh, no,” he said. “I can guess what sort of a job that would be. That’s out.”

  Mart Havers had never been classified as expendable. He was the only Freeman, outside of La Boucherie himself, with Leader potentiality and all that it denoted.

  The two men’s glances clashed. It was a struggle no less violent because it was necessarily concealed. Then, deliberately, Havers’ turned his shoulder to La Boucherie.

  “I’ll see you later,” he said. “I’ve got to discuss this job.”

  Again Pusher’s eyes flickered.

  A muscle twitched at the corner of La Boucherie’s tight mouth. He was no fool. He knew that at last he was facing what he had dreaded for years—open rebellion. And he knew that he had been maneuvered into
a spot where he could not use the pressure he usually did. Mart was in a mood to ignore him completely, to risk his neck deliberately, simply to spite his mentor.

  Again the blood pounded in La Boucherie’s temples. With a tremendous effort he forced his anger down. He turned to Pusher Dingle, studying the man. At last he nodded, apparently satisfied.

  Under the shield of his cloak his thick hands made quick motions. A bundle of banknotes, torn in half, changed hands. The transaction was invisible except to the three men concerned. Pusher concealed the money deftly.

  “A thousand,” La Boucherie said softly. “No good until you get the other halves of the bills.” He patted his pocket. “That’s an earnest. I can pay you more than you could make otherwise, and there’ll be no risk. Meet me in an hour at Twilight House. Code word ‘Golconda.’ That means both of you.”

  He didn’t wait for an answer. He knew Pusher Dingle’s type well enough to be sure of him. And he thought he knew Havers thoroughly, too. Without a word he turned, cape flaring, and went back to his party . . .

  Twilight House had been an apartment building ten years ago. Its ornate plastic rooms and corridors were unchanged physically, but the life that went on inside them bore little likeness to the respectable family life for which the building had been designed. There were private rooms here for every purpose for which men might require privacy. The proprietors of Twilight House asked no questions. A man paid for his space, was assigned a code word and thereafter might give the code to as many as the room would accommodate, if he chose.

  “Golconda,” admitted Havers and Pusher, to a dim cubicle on the third floor. Red rocket-flare pulsed rhythmically through its one window from some experimental work going on down at the field. High walls and barbed wire shut out the curious, but that intermittent glow could not be concealed, speaking silently as it did of the forbidden spaceways and the worlds just outside mankind’s reach.

  La Boucherie sat waiting impatiently in the red glow.

  “Sit down, sit down,” he said. “I haven’t any time to waste. You, Dingle—you’ve got a Sherlock. Don’t argue. I’ve been making inquiries. How good are you with it?”

  Pusher Dingle glanced at Havers, who shrugged.

  “I’m good,” Pusher said, after a moment’s hesitation. “You’ve got to be good to operate a Sherlock. There aren’t any half-way men with that gadget.”

  HE WAS right, of course. The tiny specialized robots were hard to procure and even harder to handle, since the control apparatus was extremely complicated.

  “All right, you’re good.” La Boucherie nodded. “I know what you’ve been using your Sherlock for. Penny ante stuff. I can put you onto something that’ll make it worth your while to drop everything else.” He flapped his handful of torn bills. “This could be just a start, if you’ll work for me. How about it?”

  “Doing what?”

  “A frame, to start with. Perfectly safe.”

  “I’ll give it a try.”

  “Good.” La-Boucherie nodded briskly. He did not seem to be aware that Havers was in the room. I’ll give you the whole stews? You’ve got a good reputation around town. I’ve been checking. The man I’m after is a Leader. Avish . . . No—wait! I told you it’s perfectly safe. We’re covered, as long as we’re careful. Now, here’s the story.”

  He did not glance at Havers, but Mart knew the story was directed at him, not Pusher. He listened with reluctant interest, hidden behind his usual sullen mask.

  “Avish got drunk and talked too much in the wrong places. Avish is an engineer, not top circle, but good in his field. He invented a stabilizer recently, something they’ve been needing. Too many spaceships have cracked up for lack of a good one. Well, Avish found out last week that the administration was planning to offer a big reward for a stabilizer, he decided to wait.

  “That’s an anti-social act, enough to get him demoted, and he’s been suspected of shady deals before. If the government learns he is holding back his invention to cash in on the reward, it will be pretty bad for Avish. I could make this a straight shake-down, but I’d like a little more information first. I’ll tell you what to look for. Incidentally, it won’t mean anything to you, so-don’t try any tricks. And Avish himself hasn’t enough money to make a doublecross worth your while, either. I’ve got more than he has. This is a private matter. Now, how about it?”

  “All right with me. Who’s going to plant the Sherlock?”

  “I am.” Mart Havers’ voice startled them, he had been so long silent. Now he crossed his legs, the chair creaking as he moved. “I’ll plant it. I’m in on this too, remember.”

  La Boucherie looked at him, the veins in his thick neck congesting. His temples gave a sudden throb with the ache he was coming to associate with Mart Havers and anger.

  “All right, Mart,” he said with hatred in his voice, but softly. “AH right! Go. And I hope you fail. I hope they kill you.”

  * * * * *

  The sleek muscles of the great black horse moved rhythmically against Havers’ thighs. He rode arrogantly erect in the inlaid saddle, feet firm in silver stirrups, a scarlet cloak tossing behind him, caught by the blast of cold wind that blew down Reno’s wide avenues. The hoofs rang like bells on the pavement as the horse cantered on, black mane flying.

  Far to the east was the Slag. Not even the distant glow of red could be seen from Reno. For almost two weeks Havers and Georgina had been here, and the plan was working well. Tonight might spell the finish.

  Havers’ heavy-featured face with its thick black bars of eyebrows looked sullen, almost brutal, as he rode along wrapped in his secret thoughts. On the slowly sliding paveways, each speed-level rimmed with luminous rails, men and women moved, types strange to Havers, though he had seen such people all his life. Their motives were alien to Kim. But their emotions . . . A wry smile twisted his lips. Emotions were a common denominator.

  His masquerade had gone unchallenged so far, his forged credentials showing him to be a visiting Guardsman on leave, giving him entree into the social circles he sought. Why, indeed, should there be any suspicion of his bona fides? The administration, did not know that any disaffection existed. Or if they did, they were careful not to reveal that knowledge. The status quo was their god now. At any cost it must be preserved and defended. No intimation must ever be made that change was conceivable, or that any man alive desired it.

  All through the mounting levels of the Government that necessity alone held sway. From the plodding workmen and serving classes up through the circles of wealth and aristocracy and into the high, level of the Leaders themselves Cromwellian perfectionism held all minds hypnotized in its grip, like a culture preserved in amber for all time to come, frozen, motionless, fearing change as they feared death itself.

  AND above the Leaders . . . Havers let his sullen glance lift to the high white tower overtopping all Reno, where the Government chambers housed their secrets, where the Leaders lived and worked and ruled.

  Who gave the orders to the Leaders? No one knew. There must somewhere be a head man. The Cromwellians functioned too perfectly not to operate by a well-coordinated plan handed down by a man or a group as well-coordinated. Was it a man, or a council who really ruled the world?

  Havers doubted if even all the Leaders knew the answer to that. Orders came and they obeyed them. It was enough, in this obedient culture. No one risked blinding himself in attempts to peer at the sun. Accept benefices and ask nothing. Whoever the top man might be, he never made mistakes. He was infallible. No wonder the lesser men asked no questions.

  It was this attitude that La Boucherie and the Freemen had so hated twenty-five years ago that they had risked everything to combat it—and lost. It was this attitude they were laboriously building up the power to fight again. Except, it seemed to Havers that La Boucherie had changed. Even in recent years the change was clear, and it must, have been going on imperceptibly from those first days when the Freemen saw their hopes dashed in a single terrible day, and d
isbanded and went into hiding.

  Bitterness was La Boucherie’s keynote now. Bitterness and hatred. There were unexplained mysteries to his background that Havers sometimes wondered about. Once he had been a Leader, or in training for Leadership. Whatever it was that had happened, and when it happened, no one knew now. But La Boucherie had been cast out of the sacrosanct ranks to become the bitterest enemy Cromwellianism had today.

  A billow of blue cloak caught Havers’ eye. He let the unpleasant thoughts slide for a moment out of his mind as he watched the horseman ahead swing down from his saddle and stride into a neon-circled doorway from which laughter and clinking glasses sounded.

  A Weather Patrolman—a Storm Smasher in the popular cant. Whatever remained to the world of real excitement and romance centered in the Storm Smashers now. They herded the great air masses down from the Pole and fought the typhoons and the cloudbursts high in the stratosphere, jockeying their jet-planes among streaming vapors up where the sky was black at mid-day, to insure controlled weather for the Cromwellian world. It was difficult and dangerous work, and Havers looked after the swaggering blue figure with frank admiration.

  It made him feel futile and resentful when he thought of such work as that. He had so consistent a pattern of failure behind him. His mind was keen enough, but purpose was not in it. And the dark miasma of La Boucherie’s hatred stifled whatever interest he might have been able to rouse to artificial life. He felt the cloud of his own defeatism close about him again as he shook “the reins and cantered on.

  In a way he was grateful for the immediate necessity of action, even such trivial action as helping Georgina swindle the cheating Avish. Without a fixed purpose he would have felt doubly out of place here in Reno. The social culture of these people could not touch him.

  Superficially he responded to the flashing glamour of the life, the stylized and romanticized etiquette that ruled most activities, the patterned conversation, the massive lines of the city itself. But he was not himself a part of this world. As always, he remained a masquerader, in exile from life and the world.