The Best of Henry Kuttner

by Henry Kuttner

  “What?” Munn looked at her. “I thought—”

  The woman froze. “It is not permitted. Tradition is not always wisdom, but I can do nothing about it. To defy the tarkomars is unthinkable and useless. I am sorry.”

  Munn felt a little better after that, somehow. The Venusians weren’t all enemies. The all-powerful tarkomars, jealous of their power, fanatically desirous of preserving the status quo, were responsible for this mess.

  When he got back to the plaza, the others were waiting. Bronson had rigged up a scoreboard, in phonetic Venusian, and had laid out mattock, pick, shovel, wheelbarrow and boards for the Navaho, who stood, a brawny, red-bronze figure, stripped to the waist in the cool wind. A few canal-boats had stopped to watch.

  Munn looked at his watch. “O.K., Redskin. Let’s go. Steve can start—”

  Underhill began to beat a drum. Bronson put figures on the scoreboard: 4:03:00, Venusian Vyring Time. Thirkell went to a nearby camp table, littered with bottles and medical equipment, shook from a vial one of the stimulant pills he had concocted, and gave it to Mike Soaring Eagle. The Indian ate it, heaved up the mattock and went to work.

  That was all.

  A man digging a hole. Just why the spectacle should be so fascinating no one has ever figured out. The principle remains the same, whether it’s a steam shovel scooping out half a ton of earth at a bite, or a sweating, stocky Navaho wielding shovel and pick. The boats grew thicker.

  Mike Soaring Eagle kept working. An hour passed. Another. There were regular, brief rest periods, and Mike kept rotating his tools, to get all his muscles into play. After breaking earth for a while with the mattock, he would shovel it into the wheelbarrow, roll his burden up a plank and dump it on an ever growing pile some distance away. Three hours. Four. Mike knocked off for a brief lunch. Bronson kept track of the time on his scoreboard.

  Thirkell gave the Navaho another pill. “How’re you doing?”

  “Fine. I’m tough enough.”

  “I know, but these stimulants—they’ll help.”

  Underhill was at a typewriter. He had already ground out a tremendous lot of copy, for he had been working since Mike Soaring Eagle started. Bronson had discovered a long-forgotten talent and was juggling makeshift Indian clubs and colored balls. He’d been keeping that up for quite a while, too.

  Captain Rufus Munn was working a sewing machine. He didn’t especially like the task, but it was precision work, and therefore helpful to the plan. All the party except Thirkell was doing something, and the physician was busy administering pills and trying to look like an alchemist.

  Occasionally he visited Munn and Underhill, collected stacks of paper and carefully sewn scraps of cloth, and deposited them in various boxes near the canal, labelled, “Take One.” On the cloth a legend was machine-embroidered in Venusian: “A Souvenir from Earth.” The crowds thickened.

  The Earthmen worked on. Bronson kept juggling, with pauses for refreshment. Eventually he experimented with coin and card tricks. Mike Soaring Eagle kept digging. Munn sewed. Underhill continued to type—and the Venusians read what his flying fingers turned out.

  “Free! Free! Free!” the leaflets said. “Souvenir pillow-case covers from Earth! A free show! Watch the Earthmen demonstrate stamina, dexterity and precision in four separate ways. How long can they keep it up? With the aid of POWER PILLS—indefinitely! Their output is doubled and their precision increased by POWER PILLS—they pep you up! A medical product of Earth that can make any man worth twice his weight in sofals!”

  It went on like that. The old army game—with variations. The Venusians couldn’t resist. Word got around. The mob thickened. How long could the Earthmen keep up the pace?

  They kept it up. Thirkell’s stimulant pills—as well as the complex shots he had given his companions that morning—seemed to be working. Mike Soaring Eagle dug like a beaver. Sweat poured from his shining red-bronze torso. He drank prodigiously and ate salt tablets.

  Munn kept sewing, without missing a stitch. He knew that his products were being scanned closely for signs of sloppy workmanship. Bronson kept juggling and doing coin tricks, never missing. Underhill typed with aching fingers.

  Five hours. Six hours. Even with the rest periods, it was gruelling. They had brought food from the Goodwill, but it wasn’t too palatable. Still, Thirkell had selected it carefully for caloric.

  Seven hours. Eight hours. The crowds made the canals impassable. A policeman came along and argued with Thirkell, who told him to see Jorust. Jorust must have put a flea in his ear, for he came back to watch, but not to interfere.

  Nine hours. Ten hours. Ten hours of Herculean effort. The men were exhausted—but they kept going.

  They had made their point by then, though, for a few Venusians approached Thirkell and inquired about the Power Pills. What were they? Did they really make you work faster? How could they buy the—

  The policeman appeared to stand beside Thirkell. “I’ve a message from the medical tarkomar,” he announced. “If you try to sell any of those things, you go to jail.”

  “Wouldn’t think of it,” Thirkell said. “We’re giving away free samples. Here, buddy.” He dug into a sack and tossed the nearest Venusian a Power Pill. “Two days’ work in that instead of your usual one. Come back for more tomorrow. Want one, pal? Here. You, too. Catch.”

  “Wait a minute—” the policeman said.

  “Go get a warrant,” Thirkell told him. “There’s no law against making presents.”

  Jorust appeared with a burly, intolerant-looking Venusian. She introduced the latter as head of the Vyring tarkomars.

  “And I’m here to tell you to stop this,” the Venusian said.

  Thirkell knew what to say. His companions kept on with their work, but he felt them watching and listening.

  “What rule do you invoke?”

  “Why…why, peddling.”

  “I’m not selling anything. This is public domain; we’re putting on a free show.”

  “Those…ah…Power Pills—”

  “Free gifts,” Thirkell said. “Listen, pal. When we gave all our food to you Venusian crooks, did you squawk? No, you took it. And then clamped down. When we asked for our grub back, you just told us that we had no legal recourse; possession is nine points of the law, and we had a perfect right to make free gifts. That’s what we’re doing now—giving presents. So what?”

  Jorust’s eyes were twinkling, but she hooded them swiftly. “I fear he speaks the truth. The law protects him. It is no great harm.”

  Thirkell, watching her, wondered. Had Jorust guessed the right answer? Was she on their side? The tarkomar leader turned dark green, hesitated, swung on his heel and went away. Jorust gave the Earthmen a long, enigmatic look, moved her shoulders and followed.

  “I’m still stiff,” Mike Soaring Eagle said a week later in the Goodwill. “Hungry, too. When do we get grub?”

  Thirkell, at the valve, handed out a Power Pill to a Venusian and came back rubbing his hands and grinning. “Wait. Just wait. What’s going on, skipper?”

  Munn nodded towards Underhill. “Ask the kid. He got back from Vyring a few minutes ago.”

  Underhill chuckled. “There was hell popping. All in a week, too. We’ve certainly struck at the economic base. Every Venusian who labors on a piecework basis wants our pills, so he can speed up his production and make more fals. It’s the competitive instinct—which is universal.”

  “Well?” Bronson asked. “How do the lizard-faced big shots like that?”

  “They don’t like it. It’s hit the economic set-up they’ve had for centuries. Till now, one Venusian would make exactly ten sofals a week—say—by turning out five thousand bottle caps. With the pills Steve made up, he’s turning out eight or ten thousand and making correspondingly more dough. The guy at the next bench says what the hell, and comes to us for a Power Pill for himself. Thus it goes. And the lovely part is that not all the labor is on piecework basis. It can�
�t be. You need tangibles for piecework. Running a weather machine has got to be measured by time—not by how many raindrops you make in a day.”

  Munn nodded. “Jealousy, you mean?”

  Underhill said, “Well, look. A weather-machine operator has been making ten sofals a week, the same as a bottle capper on piecework. Now the bottle capper’s making twenty sofals. The weather-machine man doesn’t see the point. He’s willing to take Power Pills, too, but that won’t step up his production. He asks for a raise. If he gets it, the economy is upset even more. If he doesn’t, other weather-machine operators get together with him and figure it’s unfair discrimination. They get mad at the tarkomars. They strike!”

  Mike Soaring Eagle said, “The tarkomars have forbidden work to any Venusian taking Power Pills.”

  “And still the Venusians ask us for Power Pills. So what? How can you prove a man’s been swallowing them? His production steps up, sure, but the tarkomars can’t clamp down on everybody with a good turnout. They tried that, and a lot of guys who never tried the Power Pills got mad. They were fast workers, that was all.”

  “The demonstration we put on was a good idea,” Thirkell said. “It was convincing. I’ve had to cut down the strength of the pills—we’re running low—but the power of suggestion helps us.”

  Underhill grinned. “So the base—the man-hour unit—had gone cockeyed. One little monkey wrench, thrown where it’ll do the most good. It’s spreading, too. Not only Vyring. The news is going all over Venus, and the workers in the other cities are asking why half of Vyring’s laborers should get better pay. That’s where the equal standard of exchange helps us—one monetary system all over Venus. Nothing has ever been off par here for centuries. Now—”

  Munn said, “Now the system’s toppling. It’s a natural fault in a perfectly integrated, rigid set-up. For want of a nail the tarkomars are losing their grip. They’ve forgotten how to adjust.”

  “It’ll spread,” Underhill said confidently. “It’ll spread. Steve, here comes another customer.”

  Underhill was wrong. Jorust and the Vyring tarkomar leader came in. “May you be worthy of your ancestors’ names,” Munn said politely. “Drag up a chair and have a drink. We’ve still got a few bulbs of beer left.”

  Jorust obeyed, but the Venusian rocked on his feet and glowered. The woman said, “Malsi is distressed. These Power Pills are causing trouble.”

  “I don’t know why,” Munn said. “They increase production, don’t they?”

  Malsi grimaced. “This is a trick! A stratagem! You are abusing our hospitality!”

  “What hospitality?” Bronson wanted to know.

  “You threatened the system,” Malsi plunged on doggedly. “On Venus there is no change. There must be none.”

  “Why not?” Underhill asked. “There’s only one real reason, and you know it. Any advances might upset the tarkomars—threaten the power they hold. You racketeers have had the whip hand for centuries. You’ve suppressed inventions, kept Venus in a backwater, tried to drive initiative out of the race, just so you could stay on top. It can’t be done. Changes happen; they always do. If we hadn’t come, there’d have been an internal explosion eventually.”

  Malsi glared at him. “You will stop making these Power Pills.”

  “Point of law,” Thirkell said softly. “Show precedent.”

  Jorust said, “The right of free gift is one of the oldest on Venus. That law could be changed, Malsi, but I don’t think the people would like it.”

  Munn grinned. “No. They wouldn’t. That would be the tipoff. Venusians have learned it’s possible to make more money. Take that chance away from them, and the tarkomars won’t be the benevolent rulers any more.”

  Malsi turned darker green. “We have power—”

  “Jorust, you’re an administrator. Are we protected by your laws?” Underhill asked.

  She moved her shoulders. “Yes, you are. The laws are sacrosanct. Perhaps because they have always been designed to protect the tarkomars.”

  Malsi swung towards her. “Are you siding with the Earthmen?”

  “Why, of course not, Malsi. I’m merely upholding the law, according to my oath of office. Without prejudice—that’s it, isn’t it?”

  Munn said, “We’ll stop making the Power Pills if you like, but I warn you that it’s only a respite. You can’t halt progress.”

  Malsi seemed unconvinced. “You’ll stop?”

  “Sure. If you pay us.”

  “We cannot pay you,” Malsi said stubbornly. “You belong to no tarkomar. It would be illegal.”

  Jorust murmured, “You might give them a free gift of—say—ten thousand sofals.”

  “Ten thousand!” Malsi yelped. “Ridiculous!”

  “So it is,” Underhill said. “Fifty thousand is more like it. We can live well for a year on that.”

  “No.”

  A Venusian came to the valve, peeped in and said: “I made twice as many difals today. May I have another Power Pill?” He saw Malsi and vanished with a small shriek.

  Munn shrugged. “Suit yourself. Pay up, or we go on handing out Power Pills—and you’ll have to adjust a rigid social economy. I don’t think you can do it.”

  Jorust touched Malsi’s arm. “There is no other way.”

  “I—” The Venusian by now was almost black with impotent rage. “All right,” he capitulated, spitting the words between his teeth. “I won’t forget this, Jorust.”

  “But I must administer the laws,” the woman said. “Why, Malsi! The rule of the tarkomars has always been unswerving honesty.”

  Malsi didn’t answer. He scribbled a credit check for fifty thousand sofals, validated it and gave the tag to Munn. After that he sent a parting glare around the cabin and stamped out.

  “Well!” Bronson said. “Fifty grand! Tonight we eat!”

  “May you be worthy of your fathers’ names,” Jorust murmured. At the valve she turned. “I’m afraid you’ve upset Malsi.”

  “Too bad,” Munn said hypocritically.

  Jorust moved her shoulders slightly. “Yes. You’ve upset Malsi. And Malsi represents the tarkomars—”

  “What can he do about it?” Underhill asked.

  “Nothing. The laws won’t let him. But—it’s nice to know the tarkomars aren’t infallible. I think the word will get around.”

  Jorust winked gravely at Munn and departed, looking as innocent as a cat, and as potentially dangerous.

  “Well!” Munn said. “What does that mean? The end of the tarkomar’s rule, maybe?”

  “Maybe,” Bronson said. “I don’t give a damn. I’m hungry and I want a beefsteak-mushroom. Where can we cash a check for fifty grand?”

  Cold War

  Chapter 1. Last of the Pughs

  I’ll never have a cold in the haid again without I think of little Junior Pugh. Now there was a re​pulsive brat if ever I saw one. Built like a little gorilla, he was. Fat, pasty face, mean look, eyes so close together you could poke ’em both out at once with one finger. His paw thought the world of him though. Maybe that was natural, seeing as how little Junior was the image of his pappy.

  “The last of the Pughs,” the old man used to say stickin’ his chest out and beamin’ down at the little gorilla. “Finest little lad that ever stepped.”

  It made my blood run cold sometimes to look at the two of ’em together. Kinda sad, now, to think back to those happy days when I didn’t know either of ’em. You may not believe it but them two Pughs, father and son, between ’em came within that much of conquerin’ the world.

  Us Hogbens is quiet folks. We like to keep our heads down and lead quiet lives in our own litde valley, where nobody comes near with-outen we say so. Our neighbors and the folks in the village are used to us by now. They know we try hard not to act conspicuous. They make allowances.

  If Paw gets drunk, like last week, and flies down the middle of Main Street in his red underwear most people make out they
don’t notice, so’s not to embarrass Maw. They know he’d walk like a decent Christian if he was sober.

  The thing that druv Paw to drink that time was Little Sam, which is our baby we keep in a tank down-cellar, startin’ to teethe again. First time since the War Between the States. We’d figgered he was through teething, but with Little Sam you never can tell. He was mighty restless, too.

  A perfesser we keep in a bottle told us once Little Sam e-mitted subsonic somethings when he yells but that’s just his way of talking. Don’t mean a thing. It makes your nerves twiddle, that’s all. Paw can’t stand it. This time it even woke up Grandpaw in the attic and he hadn’t stirred since Christmas. First thing after he got his eyes open he bust out madder’n a wet hen at Paw.

  “I see ye, wittold knave that ye are!” he howled. “Flying again, is it? Oh, sic a reowfule sigte! I’ll ground ye, ywis!” There was a far-away thump.

  “You made me fall a good ten feet!” Paw hollered from away down the valley. “It ain’t fair. I could of busted something!”

  “Ye’ll bust us all, with your dronken carelessness,” Grandpaw said. “Flying in full sight of the neighbors! People get burned at the stake for less. You want mankind to find out all about us? Now shut up and let me tend to Baby.”

  Grandpaw can always quiet the baby if nobody else can. This time he sung him a little song in Sanskrit and after a bit they was snoring a duet.

  I was fixing up a dingus for Maw to sour up some cream for sour-cream biscuits. I didn’t have much to work with but an old sled and some pieces of wire but I didn’t need much. I was trying to point the top end of the wire north-northeast when I seen a pair of checked pants rush by in the woods.

  It was Uncle Lem. I could hear him thinking. “It ain’t me!” he was saying, real loud, inside his haid. “Git back to yer work, Saunk. I ain’t within a mile of you. Yer Uncle Lem’s a fine old feller and never tells lies. Think I’d fool ye, Saunkie boy?”