Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  “What about this little brown animal?” Gallegher wanted to know. “Is it real or merely a figment?”

  “What is reality?” Joe inquired, thus confusing the issue still further. “I haven’t resolved that yet to my own satisfaction.”

  “Your satisfaction!” Gallegher said. “I wake up with a tenth-power hangover and you can’t get a drink. You tell me fairy stories about little brown animals stealing my liquor. Then you quote moldy philosophical concepts at me. If I pick up that crowbar over there, you’ll neither be nor think, in very short order.”

  Joe gave ground gracefully. “It’s a small creature that moves remarkably fast. So fast it can’t be seen.”

  “How come you see it?”

  “I don’t. I varish it,” said Joe, who had more than the five senses normal to humans.

  “Where is it now?”

  “It went out a while ago.”

  “Well—” Gallegher sought inconclusively for words. “Something must have happened last night.”

  “Naturally,” Joe agreed. “But you turned me off after the ugly man with the ears came in.”

  “I remember that. You were beating your plastic gums . . . what man?”

  “The ugly one. You told your grandfather to take a walk, too, but you couldn’t pry him loose from his bottle.”

  “Grandpa. Uh. Oh. Where’s he?”

  “Maybe he went back to Maine,” Joe suggested. “He kept threatening to do that.”

  “He never leaves till he’s drunk out the cellar,” Gallegher said. He tuned in the audio system and called every room in the house. There was no response. Presently Gallegher got up and made a search. There was no trace of Grandpa.

  He came back to the laboratory, trying to ignore the third dynamo with the big blue eyes, and hopelessly studied the workbench again. Joe, posturing before the mirror, said he thought he believed in the basic philosophy of intellectualism. Still, he added, since obviously Gallegher’s intellect was in abeyance, it might pay to hook up the projector and find out what had happened last night.

  “This made sense. Some time before, realizing that Gallegher sober never remembered the adventures of Gallegher tight, he had installed a visio-audio gadget in the laboratory, cleverly adjusted to turn itself on whenever circumstances warranted it. How the thing worked Gallegher wasn’t quite sure anymore, except that it could run off miraculous blood-alcohol tests on its creator and start recording when the percentage was sufficiently high. At the moment the machine was shrouded in a blanket. Gallegher whipped this off, wheeled over a screen, and watched and listened to what had happened last night.

  Joe stood in a corner, turned off, probably cogitating.

  Grandpa, a wizened little man with a brown face like a bad-tempered nutcracker, sat on a stool cuddling a bottle. Gallegher was removing the liquor-organ mouthpiece from between his lips, having just taken on enough of a load to start the recorder working.

  A slim, middle-aged man with large ears and an eager expression jittered on the edge of his relaxer, watching Gallegher.

  “Claptrap,” Grandpa said in a squeaky voice. “When I was a kid we went out and killed grizzlies with our hands. None of these new-fangled ideas—”

  “Grandpa,” Gallegher said, “shut up. You’re not that old. And you’re a liar anyway.”

  “Reminds me of the time I was out in the woods and a grizzly came at me. I didn’t have a gun. Well, I’ll tell you. I just reached down his mouth—”

  “Your bottle’s empty,” Gallegher said cleverly, and there was a pause while Grandpa, startled, investigated. It wasn’t.

  “You were highly recommended,” said the eager man. “I do hope you can help me. My partner and I are about at the end of our rope.”

  Gallegher looked at him dazedly. “You have a partner? Who’s he? For that matter, who are you?”

  Dead silence fell while the eager man fought with his bafflement. Grandpa lowered his bottle and said: “It wasn’t empty, but it is now, Where’s another?”

  The eager man blinked. “Mr. Gallegher,” he said faintly. “I don’t understand. We’ve been discussing . . .”

  Gallegher said, “I know. I’m sorry. It’s just that I’m no good on technical problems unless I’m . . . ah . . . stimulated. Then I’m a genius. But I’m awfully absent-minded. I’m sure I can solve your problem, but the fact is I’ve forgotten what it is. I suggest you start from the beginning. Who are you and have you given me any money yet?”

  “I’m Jonas Harding,” the eager man said. “I’ve got fifty thousand credits in my pocket, but we haven’t come to any terms yet.”

  “Then give me the dough and we’ll come to terms,” Gallegher said with ill-concealed greed. “I need money.”

  “You certainly do,” Grandpa put in, searching for a bottle. “You’re so overdrawn at the bank that they lock the doors when they see you coming. I want a drink.”

  “Try the organ,” Gallegher suggested. “Now, Mr. Harding—”

  “I want a bottle. I don’t trust that dohinkus of yours.”

  Harding, for all his eagerness, could not quite conceal a growing skepticism. “As for the credits,” he said, “I think perhaps we’d better talk a little first. You were very highly recommended, but perhaps this is one of your off days.”

  “Not at all. Still—”

  “Why should I give you the money before we come to terms?” Harding pointed out. “Especially since you’ve forgotten who I am and what I wanted.”

  Gallegher sighed and gave up. “All right. Tell me what you are and who you want. I mean—”

  “I’ll go back home,” Grandpa threatened. “Where’s a bottle?”

  Harding said desperately, “Look, Mr. Gallegher, there’s a limit. I come in here and that robot of yours insults me. Your grandfather insists I have a drink with him. I’m nearly poisoned—”

  “I was weaned on corn likker,” Grandpa muttered. “Young whippersnappers can’t take it.”

  “Then let’s get down to business,” Gallegher said brightly. “I’m beginning to feel good. I’ll just relax here on the couch and you can tell me everything.” He relaxed and sucked idly at the organ’s mouthpiece, which trickled a gin buck. Grandpa cursed.

  “Now,” Gallegher said, “the whole thing, from the beginning.”

  Harding gave a little sigh. “Well—I’m half partner in Adrenals, Incorporated. We run a service. A luxury service, keyed to this day and age. As I told you—”

  “I’ve forgotten it all,” Gallegher murmured. “You should have made a carbon copy. What is it you do? I’ve got a mad picture of you building tiny prefabricated houses on top of kidneys, but I know I must be wrong.”

  “You are,” Harding said shortly. “Here’s your carbon copy. We’re in the adrenal-rousing business. Today man lives a quiet, safe life—”

  “Ha.!” Gallegher interjected bitterly.

  “—what with safety controls and devices, medical advances, and the general structure of social living. Now the adrenal glands serve a vital functional purpose, necessary to the health of the normal man.” Harding had apparently launched into a familiar sales talk. “Ages ago we lived in caves, and when a sabertooth burst out of the jungle, our adrenals, or suprarenals, went into instant action, flooding our systems with adrenalin. There was an immediate explosion of action, either toward fight or flight, and such periodic flooding of the blood stream gave tone to the whole system. Not to mention the psychological advantages. Man is a competitive animal. He’s losing that instinct, but it can be roused by artificial stimulation of the adrenals.”

  “A drink?” Grandpa said hopefully, though he understood practically nothing of Harding’s explanation.

  Harding’s face became shrewder. He leaned forward confidentially.

  “Glamour,” he said. “That’s the answer. We offer adventure. Safe, thrilling, dramatic, exciting, glamorous adventure to the jaded modern man or woman. Not the vicarious, unsatisfactory excitement of television; the real article. Ad
renals, Incorporated, will give you adventure plus, and at the same time improve your health physically and mentally. You must have seen our ads: ‘Are you in a rut? Are you jaded? Take a Hunt—and return refreshed, happy, and healthy, ready to lick the world!’ ”

  “A Hunt?”

  “That’s our most popular service,” Harding said, relapsing into more businesslike tones. “It’s not new, really. A long time ago travel bureaus were advertising thrilling tiger hunts in Mexico—”

  “Ain’t no tigers in Mexico,” Grandpa said. “I been there. I warn you, if you don’t find me a bottle, I’m going right back to Maine.”

  But Gallegher was concentrating on the problem. “I don’t see why you need me, then. I can’t supply tigers for you.”

  “The Mexican tiger was really a member of me cat family. Puma, I think. We’ve got special reservations all over the world—expensive to set up and maintain—and there we have our Hunts, with every detail carefully planned in advance. The danger must be minimized—in fact, eliminated. But there must be an illusion of danger or there’s no thrill for the customer. We’ve tried conditioning animals so they’ll stop short of hurting anyone, but . . . ah . . . that isn’t too successful. We lost several customers, I’m sorry to say. This is an enormous investment, and we’ve got to recoup. But we’ve found we can’t use tigers, or, in fact, any of the large carnivora. It simply isn’t safe. But there must be that illusion of danger! The trouble is, we’re degenerating into a trapshooting club. And there’s no personal danger involved in trapshooting.”

  Grandpa said: “Want some fun, eh? Come on up to Maine with me and I’ll show you some real hunting. We still got bear back in the mountains.”

  Gallegher said: “I’m beginning to see. But that personal angle—I wonder! What is the definition of danger, anyhow?”

  “Danger’s when something’s trying to git you,” Grandpa pointed out.

  “The unknown—the strange—is dangerous too, simply because we don’t understand it. That’s why ghost stories have always been popular. A roar in the dark is more frightening than a tiger in the daylight.”

  Harding nodded. “I see your point. But there’s another factor. The game mustn’t be made too easy. It’s a cinch to outwit a rabbit. And, naturally, we have to supply our customers with the most modern weapons.”

  “Why?”

  “Safety precautions. The trouble is, with those weapons and scanners and scent-analyzers, any fool can track down and kill an animal. There’s no thrill involved unless the animal’s a man-eating tiger, and that’s a little too thrilling for our underwriters!”

  “So what do you want?”

  “I’m not sure,” Harding said slowly. “A new animal, perhaps. One that fulfills the requirements of Adrenals, Incorporated. But I’m not sure what the answer is, or I wouldn’t be asking you.”

  Gallegher said: “You don’t make new animals out of thin air.”

  “Where do you get them?”

  “I wonder. Other planets? Other time-sectors? Other probability-worlds? I got hold of some funny animals once—Lybblas—by tuning in on a future time-era on Mars, but they wouldn’t have filled the bill.”

  “Other planets, then?”

  Gallegher got up and strolled to his workbench. He began to piece together stray cogs and tubes. “I’m getting a thought. The latent factors inherent in the human brain—My latent factors are rousing to life. Let me see. Perhaps—”

  Under his hands a gadget grew. Gallagher remained preoccupied. Presently he cursed, tossed the device aside, and settled back to the liquor-organ. Grandpa had already tried it, but choked on his first sip of a gin buck. He threatened to go back home and take Harding with him and show him some real hunting.

  Gallegher pushed the old gentleman off the couch. “Now look, Mr. Harding,” he said. “I’ll have this for you tomorrow. I’ve got some thinking to do—”

  “Drinking, you mean,” Harding said, taking out a bundle of credits. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Mr. Gallegher. You never work except under pressure. You’ve got to have a deadline, or you won’t do a thing. Well—do you see this? Fifty thousand credits.” He glanced at his wrist watch. “I’m giving you one hour. If you don’t solve my problem by then, the deal’s off.”

  Gallegher started up from the couch as though he had been bitten. “That’s ridiculous. An hour isn’t time enough—”

  Harding said obdurately: “I’m a methodical man. I know enough about you to realize that you’re not. I can find other specialists and technicians, you know. One hour! Or I go out that door and take these fifty thousand credits with me!”

  Gallegher eyed the money greedily. He took a quick drink, cursed quietly, and went back to his gadget. This time he kept working on it.

  After a while a light shot up from the worktable and hit Gallegher in the eye. He staggered back, yelping.

  “Are you all right?” Harding asked, jumping up.

  “Sure,” Gallegher growled, cutting a switch. “I think I’m getting it. That light . . . ouch. I’ve sunburned my eyeballs.” He blinked back tears. Then he went over to the liquor-organ.

  After a hearty swig, he nodded at Harding. “I’m getting on the trail of what you want. I don’t know how long it will take, though.” He winced. “Grandpa. Did you change the setting on this thing?”

  “I dunno. I pushed some buttons.”

  “I thought so. This isn’t a gin buck. Wheeooo!”

  “Got a wallop, has it?” Grandpa said, getting interested and coming over to try the liquor-organ again.

  “Not at all,” Gallegher said, walking on his knees toward the audio-sonic recorder. “What’s this? A spy, huh? We know how to deal with spies in this house, you dirty traitor.” So saying, he rose to his feet, seized a blanket, and threw it over the projector.

  At that point the screen, naturally enough, was blank.

  “I cleverly outwit myself every time,” Gallegher remarked, rising to switch off the projector. “I go to the trouble of building that recorder and then blindfold it just when matters get interesting. I know less than I did before, because there are more unknown factors now.”

  “Men can know the nature of things,” Joe murmured.

  “An important concept,” Gallegher admitted. “The Greeks found it out quite a while ago, though. Pretty soon, if you keep on thinking hard, you’ll come up with the bright discovery that two and two are four.”

  “Be quiet, you ugly man,” Joe said. “I’m getting into abstractions now. Answer the door and leave me alone.”

  “The door? Why? The bell isn’t singing.”

  “It will,” Joe pointed out. “There it goes.”

  “Visitors at this time of the morning,” Gallegher sighed.“Maybe it’s Grandpa, though.” He pushed a button, studied the doorplate screen, and failed to recognize the lantern-jawed, bushy-browed face. “All right,” he said. “Come in. Follow the guide-line.” Then he turned to the liquor-organ thirstily before remembering his current Tantalus proclivities.

  The lantern-jawed man came into the room. Gallegher said: “Hurry up. I’m being followed by a little brown animal that drinks all my liquor. I’ve several other troubles, too, but the little brown animal’s the worst. If I don’t get a drink, I’ll die. So tell me what you want and leave me alone to work out my problems. I don’t owe you money, do I?”

  “That depends,” said the newcomer, with a strong Scots accent. “My name is Murdoch Mackenzie, and I assume you’re Mr. Gallegher. You look untrustworthy. Where is my partner and the fifty thousand credits he had with him?”

  Gallegher pondered. “Your partner, eh? I wonder if you mean Jonas Harding?”

  “That’s the lad. My partner in Adrenals, Incorporated.”

  “I haven’t seen him—”

  With his usual felicity, Joe remarked, “The ugly man with the big ears. How hideous he was.”

  “Vurra true,” Mackenzie nodded. “I note you’re using the past tense, or rather that great clanking machin
e of yours is. Have you perhaps murdered my partner and disposed of his body with one of your scientific gadgets?”

  “Now look—” Gallegher said. “What’s the idea? Have I got the mark of Cain on my forehead or something? Why should you jump to a conclusion like that? You’re crazy.”

  Mackenzie rubbed his long jaw and studied Gallegher from under his bushy gray brows. “It would be no great loss, I know,” he admitted. “Jonas is little help in the business. Too methodical. But he had fifty thousand credits on his person when he came here last night. There is also the question of the body. The insurance is perfectly enormous. Between ourselves, Mr. Gallegher, I would not hold it against you if you had murdered my unfortunate partner and pocketed the fifty thousand. In fact, I would be willing to consider letting you escape with . . . say . . . ten thousand, provided you gave me the rest. But not unless you provided me with legal evidence of Jonas’s death, so my underwriters would be satisfied.”

  “Logic,” Joe said admiringly. “Beautiful logic. It’s amazing that such logic should come from such an opaque horror.”

  “I would look far more horrible, my friend, if I had a transparent skin like you,” Mackenzie said, “if the anatomy charts are accurate. But we were discussing the matter of my partner’s body.”

  Gallegher said wildly: “This is fantastic. You’re probably laying yourself open to compounding a felony or something.”

  “Then you admit the charge.”

  “Of course not! You’re entirely too sure of yourself, Mr. Mackenzie. I’ll bet you killed Harding yourself and you’re trying to frame me for it. How do you know he’s dead?”

  “Now that calls for some explanation, I admit,” Mackenzie said. “Jonas was a methodical man. Vurra. I have never known him to miss an appointment for any reason whatsoever. He had appointments last night, and more this morning. One with me. Moreover, he had fifty thousand credits on him when he came here to see you last night.”

  “How do you know he got here?”

  “I brought him, in my aircab. I let him out at your door. I saw him go in.”