Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  A glance at the letter was all Owen needed. He tossed it back across the table, grinning into Stumm’s empurpling face.

  “Ten thousand more, eh?” he inquired of his gasping uncle. “Then why does Metro gay that, in response to your inquiry, they can’t raise their last offer of six months ago, which must be considered final? Uncle Edmund, you’re a liar.”

  Uncle Edmund said in a thick, choked voice, “Peter Owen, do you know what’s going to happen?”

  “I know exactly what’s going to happen,” Owen said smugly. The blue clock was ready in his hand. He made a quick calculation, prepared to dodge the cream-jug if necessary, and moved time backward two minutes . . .

  The bottom dropped out!

  It was like his dream, only worse. He had a dizzy, disorienting feeling that he was swooping off in some hitherto unknown direction while dimensions rocked about him, though actually as he was well aware the room remained unchanged—except that Stumm was behaving very unpleasantly, putting an empty spoon into his mouth, removing it brimmed with oatmeal, depositing the cereal in his bowl and repeating the whole disgusting process.

  And Dr. Krafft, conceivably gone mad with Maxi’s loss, ran backward into the room, collapsed in his chair, and presently began imitating his host’s nasty breakfast habits. Then both the Doctor and Stumm rose and ran backward out of the room, and—and—

  The bottom dropped out faster! There was a wrenching jolt that shook Owen to his very eyeballs, and then he plunged back again in an opposite direction equally cryptic so far as orientation went. Stumm and Dr. Krafft raced into the room again, sprang into their chairs and began gobbling breakfast like starving men. Then Dr. Krafft leaped to his feet—the man couldn’t sit still a minute—and darted out of the room, while C. Edmund Stumm loped up, drew an envelope out of his pocket, and—

  Jolt!”

  Pale with fright, Owen found himself in his chair again, staring at the clock he held as though it had turned into an infuriated cobra. But it made no hostile move. It had turned time back two minutes only. For Stumm was saying:

  “—dragged yourself tardily down to breakfast. Metro. See?”

  Owen looked at the envelope, smiled wanly, and peeped again at the clock in his lap. He felt a cold shudder go through him. An anchor? And being pulled up? What about his dream? What would happen next? Automatically he gripped the arms of the chair. Nothing happened. Perhaps the anchor could only be pulled up while it was moving in time.

  “Well?” Stumm inquired in a voice like vinegar. “Of course if Miss Bishop could top Metro’s offer—”

  OWEN pulled himself together long enough to say firmly, “She won’t. She can’t. It’s the highest price she can Offer, and if you won’t take it she’ll have to find some other property, that’s all. But she can’t pay out money that isn’t on her company’s budget.”

  Stumm seemed taken aback. He turned the envelope over in his hands, like a man who has failed to fill a straight, and at last put it pensively in his pocket. He took up his oatmeal spoon. Owen winced at the sight of it.

  “Well,” Stumm murmured. “Well—Hmm.”

  “She could give you cash on the barrel,” Owen said. “A certified check for the full amount. But she can’t top her last offer, and that’s all there is to it.”

  “Certified check, eh?” the unscrupulous playwright muttered. “So. Well, perhaps I might consider it, after all. At least, it’ll be all in the family, in a manner of speaking. I have a certain obligation to my own flesh and blood.” Owen jumped up. “I’ll phone her,” he said, and dashed toward the door. Before he could reach it the door burst open and Dr. Krafft rushed breathless into the room.

  “Burglary!” Dr. Krafft cried. “I saw it through the library window! Edmund, burglars have robbed you and stolen my dear Maxi!”

  We have been here before.

  We have seen it all. We have not, perhaps, observed Peter Owen fumbling anxiously with the clock in his jacket pocket, waiting for an explosion that would force him to erase the scene yet again. But otherwise, all goes now as it went then, in serial-time, tracks through paratime under the no doubt interested gaze of Wynken, Blinken and Nod.

  Owen paid small attention to Krafft arid Stumm. He was focusing inward with some agony of spirit upon what had Just happened to him at the breakfast table. It was all very well to stand outside time, as it were, participating in these scenes like an actor on a stage, able to stop the play and step into the wings whenever he chose But if time was going to behave like a flickering film instead of a solid stage performance, Peter Owen was not the man to meddle with it, What had happened, anyhow? His giddiness was still too fresh to let him think clearly. That swan dive into the unplumbed temporal ocean gave him a chilled feeling around the innards. And yet, his wild speculation about the anchor being hauled up was simply a baseless theoretical supposition—he hoped. Very likely he could turn time back again with no repercussions at all. But might it not be wise to turn it only a few seconds at most, perhaps? And no oftener than he had to?

  He didn’t have to, now. All he really had to do was get Claire here and the contract signed before Chief Egan arrived to touch off the inevitable explosions that seemed to follow him about in Stumm’s presence as lightning followed the cypress. Owen felt sorry for the man, but he couldn’t help him. He couldn’t undo the burglary, and Egan was beyond aid.

  Uncle Edmund’s voice slowly penetrated his thoughts. Uncle Edmund was at the hall telephone, invisible to the eye but extremely audible, making fiery remarks into the mouthpiece. As Owen’s attention returned, Stumm said crisply: “See to it, then. No dawdling, either!” He was heard to jiggle the mechanism impatiently.

  “Hello, hello, operator? Get me the Mayor. What? Then look it up. I’m no city directory. Get me the Mayor, hear me? Life or death.”

  “Want me to handle.it?” Owen asked hopefully, crossing to the door in a well-meaning attempt to divert the course of justice.

  “Pah,” Stumm snorted. “I shall be delighted to handle it myself. Hello? James? This is G. Edmund Stumm. I’ve just summoned the police to my house. Yes. Yes! And I demand that you fire that incompetent bamboozlehead you call a Chief of Police!”

  He went on from there, almost word for word, while Owen wriggled uncomfortably. When Stumm hung up St last, with a look of malevolent smugness, Owen said, “Ah—shall I call Miss Bishop now?”

  “Why not?” Stumm asked, somewhat to his nephew’s surprise. He then linked his arm companionably in Dr. Krafft’s and said above the gentle babble about Maxi, “Come, Doctor, come! We have breakfast to finish.”

  OWEN sighed deeply and called the Las Ondas Hotel.

  “And you mean he’s really going to part with Lady Pantagruel at last?” Claire demanded in a squeaky voice out of the instrument. She sounded much more wakeful how and in a mood of excitement. “Peter darling, you’re a marvel!”

  “You’re another,” Peter told her fondly. With glazed disinterest he watched his uncle emerge from the breakfast “room carrying a cup of coffee and vanish into the pillaged library, closing the door behind him. “You’ll have to hurry, darling,” he told the small voice in the telephone. “You’ve got your lawyer with you?”

  “Everything’s lovely. We’re on our way. Five minutes should do it, dear. I adore you.” The telephone made loving noises at Owen as he laid it down. He stood there in a roseate dream, gazing at it, until a sound from the far end of the hall roused him rudely. It was the doorbell, making most unloving noises.

  Owen groaned and, started toward it. Egan, beyond a doubt.

  Dr. Krafft’s anxious form jumped for the door before. Owen had taken his second step. The aged savant in his bereaved state had evidently been lying in wait. The police chief’s great, pink visage loomed up tremendously over Krafft’s white head.

  “This way, this way,” Krafft said, bustling forward.

  Owen cried, “Wait!” in vain.

  Egan was already trying the library door. He set his huge shou
lder against it as ‘Owen’ called, and the crackle of moisture-swollen wood drowned out his cry. The door flew open, there was a thud, and a howl of berserker, fury.

  CHAPTER VII

  Anchor Is A-Draggin’ !

  DESPITE his dread, Owen had to use the clock again!

  Very, quickly, taking as few chances as he dared, he turned the long hand back a scant two minutes. The hall emptied as by magic. The howl of anger died upon the air. Owen dropped the clock back in his pocket, too intent even to rejoice more than perfunctorily that on this occasion no lurching through time had seized him. His whole interest was in getting to the door before Krafft could open it.

  The bell rang loudly.

  “Come in, come in,” Owen said, jerking the door open. “Yes, yes, hello, Egan. Stand where you are! Don’t move a muscle. Now wait.”

  “But Peter!” Dr. Krafft said anxiously, bustling toward him. “Your uncle is waiting for the gentleman.”

  “I know, doctor. But wait. Please let me handle this.”

  Dr. Krafft shrugged and subsided, turning to follow Owen’s fixed stare. The three of them stood for about forty seconds, pinning the closed library door with expectant eyes. Then footsteps sounded from inside it, the knob rattled, the door groaned rebelliously on its swollen jamb, and C. Edmund Stumm staggered through as it flew open at last. He cast an angry glance at his audience down the hall and strode away, clutching his notebook.

  “Now the coast is clear,” Owen said with relief. “Come on. But be careful, Egan. Please be careful! Look out for that lamp.”

  Peering down at his guide curiously, the police chief followed him down the hall. Owen’s nervousness increased to the point where Egan had begun to give him long, pensive looks by the time they reached the ravaged cabinet which was their goal.

  “Tell me what happened, Pete,” Egan suggested, rubbing his chin thoughtfully as he gazed upon the wreckage. Owen was about to answer, though he was getting pretty tired of this recital, when a thin, high, intermittent squeal from the hall penetrated his awareness.

  “Oh, gosh!” he said abruptly. “Excuse me!” And he dashed out of the room.

  The squeal came from the telephone, which now hung by its cord in midair. Owen snatched it up; gabbling, “Hello? Hello?”

  “Peter!” It was Claire’s voice, sounding angry. “Are you all right?”

  “Sure. What happened?”

  “That’s what I want to know! You get me out of bed in the dawn and drag me down here to Las Ondas and then when you finally condescend to phone me, you just say, “It’s Peter,” and walk calmly away. I won’t stand for rudeness, Peter! I—oh, I’m going to hang up before I say something I shouldn’t!” And she did.

  “Oh!” Owen cried in heartfelt tones, as he realized what had happened. By turning back the clock to prevent Egan from assaulting Uncle Edmund, he had automatically erased nearly all his conversation with Claire. So naturally he hadn’t told her to hurry on out to the house.

  Dithering gently, Owen called the Las Ondas Hotel again. While measured ringing still sounded over the wire, the voice of C. Edmund Stumm began to shout furiously somewhere behind him. The name of Egan figured prominently in the tirade.

  “I’ll kill myself!” Owen threatened wildly. He snatched for his pocket too harried even to think now of possible menace inherent in the clock which was also an anchor. Estimating rapidly, he set back the minutes.

  The house was quiet. The phone was on its cradle in the wall-niche. Taking a deep breath, he picked it up and gave the number of the hotel. When Claire came to the telephone at last, Owen was ready for her.

  “Claire!” he said frantically. “I love you madly! Don’t hang up again! Wait for me, please! I may hate to do something vitally important, before I finish talking. But please wait!”

  “Is that you, Peter?” Claire asked. “Of course I’ll wait. What is it, darling?”

  He told her again how fast he wanted her to come to the Stumm house. He said a quick good-by and sprinted furiously toward the front door, reaching it just as the bell sounded yet again.

  This time his nonchalance was such that Egan got the impression that burglaries were so commonplace the only natural response was that of utter boredom. He got Egan safely into the library. He got Uncle Edmund out arid comfortably settled under an umbrella on the patio with his notes. He was trying not to think of all those little knots of quarreling Egans and Stumms whom he had left jettisoned in time behind him, and when the doorbell rang again—he was with Egan in the library at the moment—Owen could only stand there looking in bewilderment at the police chief, who was wiping fingerprint powder off the cabinet frame. He was trying to figure out how Egan could be in the library and at the front door at the same time, and what would happen when the two Egans met.

  IT took considerable effort to pull himself together, remember that just now he was not backspacing in time, and that other people than Egan might conceivably ring the doorbell. Then he went out and admitted Claire and her attorney. Since you must have seen Claire Bishop’s, latest film, there is little point in describing her here. Then as now she had the same angelic fluff of yellow, curls and the same jaunty swing to her walk. The lawyer looked like a man who had bridged the gap between humanity and the judicial servo-mechanism. He was perfectly bloodless and colorless, and for a mouth he had merely a slot through which judgments emerged at intervals from the differential analyzer inside his head. By comparison, Claire was so warmly human that Owen could scarcely bear it.

  With his heart in his mouth and one hand in his pocket on the clock, Owen shuffled the characters in his personal drama into position. Egan and his aides were evicted to look for footprints: on the terrace. Uncle Edmund was all-but carried in on a pillow and settled with elaborate solicitude at his library-desk. Claire and the lawyer were marshaled into place. Looking from Claire to her legal robot to Uncle Edmund, Owen could not help feeling she was between the devil and the deep. The attorney certainly seemed deep. His photoelectric eyes scanned, the room, his mind rapidly charted a curve on a graph, and he waited in ticking silence.

  Perhaps the horrid efficiency of the man cowed Uncle Edmund. Somehow the contract was unfolded on the desk in an incredibly short time. Stumm’s natural procrastination failed before the lawyer’s geared promptness. Owen had an odd impression that the lawyer had actually printed the contract before his very eyes, through some strange photo-engraving process, though this of course was not the case. Owen exchanged calflike stares with Claire, the triumph of man over machine.

  “Well—” Uncle Edmund said, trapped into honesty. “I suppose—ah—” He picked up his pen and fiddled with an imaginary thread in its point. He shot a glance at Claire. “Naturally I had a much taller woman in mind for Lady Pantagruel,” he said offensively.

  Claire drew a deep breath. Owen’s hand clamped painfully on hers and she let the breath out again wordlessly.

  “Of course I’ve had a better offer,” Uncle Edmund said, a liar to the last.

  The attorney glanced at his watch, accurate to the microsecond. Uncle Edmund gave it a nervous look and put the point of his pen to the dotted line. He traced a large, ostentatious C—

  The telephone at his elbow rang loudly.

  Owen hurled himself forward. “I’ll take it, I’ll take it!” he gabbled. “Pay no attention, Uncle Edmund. Go right ahead and sign. Yes, yes, hello?”

  The attorney regarded the phone with some mild interest, as though he too, in his younger days, had been a telephone switchboard.

  There was some confusion at the other end of the wire. A plaintive voice kept saying that Los Angeles was calling. But a deeper voice drowned it out, demanding to speak to Chief Egan.

  “It’s for Egan,” Owen told his waiting uncle, who was gazing coldly at him, eyebrows raised, pen divorced from the lines it had just been tracing. Owen stepped to the broken French door, trying to still the wild beating of his heart, and shouted for the police chief. A voice, replied from the edge of t
he terrace and Egan came lumbering toward the door. Just in time Owen diverted him to another entrance. “You can take it on the hall extension,” he said rapidly. “A phone call, I mean. For you. That way, over there.”

  Stumm had pressed his hand to his forehead. Owen gazed at him with thumping heart.

  “Well?” Claire said in a voice that for acid matched Stumm’s best efforts. But she fell silent at an admonitory glance from the attorney.

  “My nerves,” Stumm said faintly, and made the mistake of meeting the lawyer’s cold, judicial eye. A coward, like all bullies, he took up the pen again. He gazed from face to face around the room, apparently trying to find some excuse for what could prove a profitable delay. But Claire had been well schooled. She might never have heard of Shostakovich. Owen held his breath as Uncle Edmund traced the initial E of his middle name.

  The sound of pen on paper scratched loud in the silence.

  “You dirty, double-crossing yellow rat!”

  INCREDIBLY, it was Chief Egan’s voice that thundered horribly through the room. Uncle Edmund’s pen clattered to the desk from nerveless fingers. Chairs scraped and creaked as all present jerked around incredulously to stare at the open doorway, blocked now by the vast blue bulk of the Chief. That there might be no doubt whom he was addressing, Egan shot out a mighty arm, pointed straight at Uncle Edmund, and going even more crimson in the face than before, bellowed:

  “You sneaking, chiseling little skunk! Get me fired, will you? That’s a low-down, dirty trick!”

  Owen moaned pitifully and leaped to his feet.

  “Oh, no, no, not now!” he cried, springing forward distractedly. “Egan, wait!”

  But Egan was beyond appeal. Brushing Owen aside, he strode forward toward the desk, pushing back his cuff with horrible intent to free the great pink mallet of his fist,