The Best of C.L. Moore & Henry Kuttner

by Henry Kuttner

  Quetzalcoatl kicked angrily at a pebble beside his shiny steel toe.

  “I must make you understand,” he said. He looked at the unlighted cigarette dangling from Miguel’s lips. Suddenly he raised his hand, and a white-hot ray shot from a ring on his finger and kindled the end of the cigarette. Miguel jerked away, startled. Then he inhaled the smoke and nodded. The white-hot ray disappeared.

  “Muchas gracias, señor,” Miguel said.

  Quetzalcoatl’s colorless lips pressed together thinly. “Miguel,” he said, “could a norteamericano do that?”

  “Quién sabe?”

  “No one living on your planet could do that, and you know it.” Miguel shrugged.

  “Do you see that cactus over there?” Quetzalcoatl demanded. “I could destroy it in two seconds.”

  “I have no doubt of it, señor.”

  “I could, for that matter, destroy this whole planet.”

  “Yes, I have heard of the atomic bombs,” Miguel said politely. “Why, then, do you trouble to interfere with a quiet private little argument between Fernandez and me, over a small water hole of no importance to anybody but—”

  A bullet sang past.

  Quetzalcoatl rubbed the ring on his finger with an angry gesture.

  “Because the world is going to stop fighting,” he said ominously. “If it doesn’t we will destroy it. There is no reason at all why men should not live together in peace and brotherhood.”

  “There is one reason, señor.”

  “What is that?”

  “Fernandez,” Miguel said.

  “I will destroy you both if you do not stop fighting.”

  “El señor is a great peacemaker,” Miguel said courteously. “I will gladly stop fighting if you will tell me how to avoid being killed when I do.”

  “Fernandez will stop fighting too.”

  Miguel removed his somewhat battered sombrero, reached for a stick, and carefully raised the hat above the rock. There was a nasty crack. The hat jumped away, and Miguel caught it as it fell.

  “Very well,” he said. “Since you insist, señor, I will stop fighting. But I will not come out from behind this rock. I am perfectly willing to stop fighting. But it seems to me that you demand I do something which you do not tell me how to do. You could as well require that I fly through the air like your machine of flight.”

  Quetzalcoatl frowned more deeply. Finally he said, “Miguel, tell me how this fight started.”

  “Fernandez wishes to kill me and enslave my family.”

  “Why should he want to do that?”

  “Because he is evil,” Miguel said.

  “How do you know he is evil?”

  “Because,” Miguel pointed out logically, “he wishes to kill me and enslave my family.”

  There was a pause. A road runner darted past and paused to peck at the gleaming barrel of Miguel’s rifle. Miguel sighed.

  “There is a skin of good wine not twenty feet away—” he began, but Quetzalcoatl interrupted him.

  “What was it you said about the water rights?”

  “Oh, that,” Miguel said. “This is a poor country, señor. Water is precious here. We have had a dry year and there is no longer water enough for two families. The water hole is mine. Fernandez wishes to kill me and enslave—”

  “Are there no courts of law in your country?”

  “For such as us?” Miguel demanded, and smiled politely.

  “Has Fernandez a family too?” Quetzalcoatl asked.

  “Yes, the poors,” Miguel said. “He beats them when they do not work until they drop.”

  “Do you beat your family?”

  “Only when they need it,” Miguel said, surprised. “My wife is very fat and lazy. And my oldest, Chico, talks back. It is my duty to beat them when they need it, for their own good. It is also my duty to protect our water rights, since the evil Fernandez is determined to kill me and—”

  Quetzalcoatl said impatiently, “This is a waste of time. Let me consider.” He rubbed the ring on his finger again. He looked around. The road runner had found a more appetizing morsel than the rifle. He was now to be seen trotting away with the writhing tail of a lizard dangling from his beak.

  Overhead the sun was hot in a clear blue sky. The dry air smelled of mesquite. Below, in the valley, the flying saucer’s perfection of shape and texture looked incongruous and unreal.

  “Wait here,” Quetzalcoatl said at last. “I will talk to Fernandez. When I call, come to my machine of flight. Fernandez and I will meet you there presently.”

  “As you say, señor,” Miguel agreed. His eyes strayed.

  “And do not touch your rifle,” Quetzalcoatl added with great firmness.

  “Why, no, señor,” Miguel said. He waited until the tall man had gone. Then he crawled cautiously across the dry ground until he had recaptured his rifle. After that, with a little searching, he found his machete. Only then did he turn to the skin of wine. He was very thirsty indeed. But he did not drink heavily. He put a full clip in the rifle, leaned against a rock, and sipped a little from time to time from the wineskin as he waited.

  In the meantime the stranger, ignoring fresh bullets that occasionally splashed blue from his steely person, approached Fernandez’ hiding place. The sound of shots stopped. A long time passed, and finally the tall form reappeared and waved to Miguel.

  “Yo voy, señor,” Miguel shouted agreeably. He put his rifle conveniently on the rock and rose very cautiously, ready to duck at the first hostile move. There was no such move.

  Fernandez appeared beside the stranger. Immediately Miguel bent down, seized his rifle and lifted it for a snap shot.

  Something thin and hissing burned across the valley. The rifle turned red-hot in Miguel’s grasp. He squealed and dropped it, and the next moment his mind went perfectly blank.

  “I die with honor,” he thought, and then thought no more.

  …When he woke, he was standing under the shadow of the great flying saucer. Quetzalcoatl was lowering his hand from before Miguel’s face. Sunlight sparkled on the tall man’s ring. Miguel shook his head dizzily.

  “I live?” he inquired.

  But Quetzalcoatl paid no attention. He had turned to Fernandez, who was standing beside him, and was making gestures before Fernandez’ masklike face. A light flashed from Quetzalcoatl’s ring into Fernandez’ glassy eyes. Fernandez shook his head and muttered thickly. Miguel looked for his rifle or machete, but they were gone. He slipped his hand into his shirt, but his good little knife had vanished too.

  He met Fernandez’ eyes.

  “We are both doomed, Don Fernandez,” he said. “This señor Quetzalcoatl will kill us both. In a way I am sorry that you will go to hell and I to heaven, for we shall not meet again.”

  “You are mistaken,” Fernandez replied, vainly searching for his own knife. “You will never see heaven. Nor is this tall norteamericano named Quetzalcoatl. For his own lying purposes he has assumed the name of Cortés.”

  “You will tell lies to the devil himself,” Miguel said.

  “Be quiet, both of you,” Quetzalcoatl (or Cortés) said sharply. “You have seen a little of my power. Now listen to me. My race has assumed the high duty of seeing that the entire solar system lives in peace. We are a very advanced race, with power such as you do not yet dream of. We have solved problems which your people have no answer for, and it is now our duty to apply our power for the good of all. If you wish to keep on living, you will stop fighting immediately and forever, and from now on live in peace and brotherhood. Do you understand me?”

  “That is all I have ever wished,” Fernandez said, shocked. “But this offspring of a goat wishes to kill me.”

  “There will be no more killing,” Quetzalcoatl said. “You will live in brotherhood, or you will die.”

  Miguel and Fernandez looked at each other and then at Quetzalcoatl.

  “The señor is a great peacemaker,” Miguel murmured. “I have said it before. The way you mention is surely the b
est way of all to insure peace. But to us it is not so simple. To live in peace is good. Very well, señor. Tell us how.”

  “Simply stop fighting,” Quetzalcoatl said impatiently.

  “Now that is easy to say,” Fernandez pointed out. “But life here in Sonora is not a simple business. Perhaps it is where you come from—”

  “Naturally,” Miguel put in. “In los estados unidos everyone is rich.”

  “—but it is not simple with us. Perhaps in your country, señor, the snake does not eat the rat, and the bird eat the snake. Perhaps in your country there is food and water for all, and a man need not fight to keep his family alive. Here it is not so simple.”

  Miguel nodded. “We shall certainly all be brothers some day,” he agreed. “We try to do as the good God commands us. It is not easy, but little by little we learn to be better. It would be very fine if we could all become brothers at a word of magic, such as you command us. Unfortunately—” he shrugged.

  “You must not use force to solve your problems,” Quetzalcoatl said with great firmness. “Force is evil. You will make peace now.”

  “Or else you will destroy us,” Miguel said. He shrugged again and met Fernandez’ eyes. “Very well, señor. You have an argument I do not care to resist. Al fin, I agree. What must we do?”

  Quetzalcoatl turned to Fernandez.

  “I too, señor,” the latter said, with a sigh. “You are, no doubt, right. Let us have peace.”

  “You will take hands,” Quetzalcoatl said, his eyes gleaming. “You will swear brotherhood.”

  Miguel held out his hand. Fernandez took it firmly and the two men grinned at each other.

  “You see?” Quetzalcoatl said, giving them his austere smile. “It is not hard at all. Now you are friends. Stay friends.”

  He turned away and walked toward the flying saucer. A door opened smoothly in the sleek hull. On the threshold Quetzalcoatl turned.

  “Remember,” he said. “I shall be watching.”

  “Without a doubt,” Fernandez said. “Adiós, señor.”

  “Vaya con Dios,” Miguel added.

  The smooth surface of the hull closed after Quetzalcoatl. A moment later the flying saucer lifted smoothly and rose until it was a hundred feet above the ground. Then it shot off to the north like a sudden flash of lightning and was gone.

  “As I thought,” Miguel said. “He was from los estados unidos.” Fernandez shrugged.

  “There was a moment when I thought he might tell us something sensible,” he said. “No doubt he had great wisdom. Truly, life is not easy.”

  “Oh, it is easy enough for him,” Miguel said. “But he does not live in Sonora. We, however, do. Fortunately, I and my family have a good water hole to rely on. For those without one, life is indeed hard.”

  “It is a very poor water hole,” Fernandez said. “Such as it is, however, it is mine.” He was rolling a cigarette as he spoke. He handed it to Miguel and rolled another for himself. The two men smoked for a while in silence. Then, still silent, they parted.

  Miguel went back to the wineskin on the hill. He took a long drink, grunted with pleasure, and looked around him. His knife, machete and rifle were carelessly flung down not far away. He recovered them and made sure he had a full clip.

  Then he peered cautiously around the rock barricade. A bullet splashed on the stone near his face. He returned the shot.

  After that, there was silence for a while. Miguel sat back and took another drink. His eye was caught by a road runner scuttling past, with the tail of a lizard dangling from his beak. It was probably the same road runner as before, and perhaps the same lizard, slowly progressing toward digestion.

  Miguel called softly, “Señor Bird! It is wrong to eat lizards. It is very wrong.”

  The road runner cocked a beady eye at him and ran on.

  Miguel raised and aimed his rifle.

  “Stop eating lizards, Señor Bird. Stop, or I must kill you.”

  The road runner ran on across the rifle sights.

  “Don’t you understand how to stop?” Miguel called gently. “Must I explain how?”

  The road runner paused. The tail of the lizard disappeared completely.

  “Oh, very well,” Miguel said. “When I find out how a road runner can stop eating lizards and still live, then I will tell you, amigo. But until then, go with God.”

  He turned and aimed the rifle across the valley again.

  Endowment Policy

  When Denny Holt checked in at the telephone box, there was a call for him. Denny wasn’t enthusiastic. On a rainy night like this it was easy to pick up fares, and now he’d have to edge his cab uptown to Columbus Circle.

  “Nuts,” he said into the mouthpiece. “Why me? Send one of the other boys; the guy won’t know the difference. I’m way down in the Village.”

  “He wants you, Holt. Asked for you by name and number. Probably a friend of yours. He’ll be at the monument—black overcoat and a cane.”

  “Who is he?”

  “How should I know? He didn’t say. Now get going.”

  Holt disconsolately hung up and went back to his cab. Water trickled from the visor of his cap; rain streaked the windshield. Through the dimout he could see faintly lighted doorways and hear jukebox music. It was a good night to be indoors. Holt considered the advisability of dropping into the Cellar for a quick rye. Oh, well. He meshed the gears and headed up Greenwich Avenue, feeling low.

  Pedestrians were difficult to avoid these days; New Yorkers never paid any attention to traffic signals, anyway, and the dimout made the streets dark, shadowy canyons. Holt drove uptown, ignoring cries of “Taxi.” The street was wet and slippery. His tires weren’t too good, either.

  The damp cold seeped into Holt’s bones. The rattling in the engine wasn’t comforting. Some time soon the old bus would break down completely. After that—well, it was easy to get jobs, but Holt had an aversion to hard work. Defense factories—hm-m-m-m.

  Brooding, he swung slowly around the traffic circle at Columbus, keeping an eye open for his fare. There he was—the only figure standing motionless in the rain. Other pedestrians were scuttling across the street in a hurry, dodging the trolleys and automobiles.

  Holt pulled in and opened the door. The man came forward. He had a cane but no umbrella, and water glistened on his dark overcoat. A shapeless slouch hat shielded his head, and keen dark eyes peered sharply at Holt.

  The man was old—rather surprisingly old. His features were obscured by wrinkles and folds of sagging, tallowy skin.

  “Dennis Holt?” he asked harshly.

  “That’s me, buddy. Hop in and dry off.”

  The old man complied. Holt said, “Where to?”

  “Eh? Go through the park.”

  “Up to Harlem?”

  “Why—yes, yes.”

  Shrugging, Holt turned the taxicab into Central Park. A screwball. And nobody he’d ever seen before. In the rear mirror he stole a glance at his fare. The man was intently examining Holt’s photograph and number on the card. Apparently satisfied, he leaned back and took a copy of the Times from his pocket.

  “Want the light, mister?” Holt asked.

  “The light? Yes, thank you.” But he did not use it for long. A glance at the paper satisfied him, and the man settled back, switched off the panel lamp and studied his wristwatch.

  “What time is it?” he inquired.

  “Seven, about.”

  “Seven. And this is January 10, 1943.”

  Holt didn’t answer. His fare turned and peered out of the rear window. He kept doing that. After a time he leaned forward and spoke to Holt again.

  “Would you like to earn a thousand dollars?”

  “Are you joking?”

  “This is no joke,” the man said, and Holt realized abruptly that his accent was odd—a soft slurring of consonants, as in Castilian Spanish. “I have the money—your current currency. There is some danger involved, so I will not be overpaying you.”

  Holt ke
pt his eyes straight ahead. “Yeah?”

  “I need a bodyguard, that is all. Some men are trying to abduct or even kill me.”

  “Count me out,” Holt said. “I’ll drive you to the police station. That’s what you need, mister.”

  Something fell softly on the front seat. Looking down, Holt felt his back tighten. Driving with one hand, he picked up the bundle of banknotes and thumbed through them. A thousand bucks—one grand.

  They smelled musty.

  The old man said, “Believe me, Denny, it is your help I need. I can’t tell you the story—you’d think me insane—but I’ll pay you that amount for your services tonight.”

  “Including murder?” Holt hazarded. “Where do you get off calling me Denny? I never saw you before in my life.”

  “I have investigated you—I know a great deal about you. That’s why I chose you for this task. And nothing illegal is involved. If you have reason to think differently, you are free to withdraw at any time, keeping the money.”

  Holt thought that over. It sounded fishy but enticing. Anyhow, it gave him an out. And a thousand bucks—

  “Well, spill it. What am I supposed to do?”

  The old man said, “I am trying to evade certain enemies of mine. I need your help for that. You are young and strong.”

  “Somebody’s trying to rub you out?”

  “Rub me…oh. I don’t think it will come to that. Murder is frowned upon, except as a last resort. But they have followed me here; I saw them. I believe I shook them off my trail. No cabs are following us—”

  “Wrong,” Holt said.

  There was a silence. The old man looked out the rear window again. Holt grinned crookedly. “If you’re trying to duck, Central Park isn’t the place. I can lose your friends in traffic easier. O.K., mister, I’m taking the job. But I got the privilege of stepping out if I don’t like the smell.”

  “Very well, Denny.”

  Holt cut left at the level of Seventy-second. “You know me, but I don’t know you. What’s the angle, checking up on me? You a detective?”