Collected Short Fiction

by C. M. Kornbluth

“Well—it’s a little hard to describe. But it isn’t really there and it isn’t really not there. You can walk on it and pick it up and things, but—well, it’s a little hard to describe. The kicker is this: half-stuff is there only as long as you—the one who prepared a batch of it, that is—keep the formula going. So if we voted those leeches out of office they’d relax their formula and the half-stuff would vanish and the rest of the buildings and bridges and highways and monuments would fall with a helluva noise and damage. How do you like that?”

  “Efficiency plus,” said Peter. “Where’s this Almarish hang out?”

  “The mayor?” asked his cellmate sourly. “You don’t think he’d be seen in the city, do you? Some disgruntled citizen might sic a flock of vampires on His Honor. He was elected in absentia. I hear he lives around Mal-Tava way.”

  “Where’s that?” asked Peter eagerly.

  “You don’t know? Say, you’re as green as they come! That’s a pretty nasty corner of Ellil—the nastiest anywhere, I guess. It’s a volcanic region, and those lava nymphs are pretty tough molls. Then there’s a dragon ranch down there. The owner got careless and showed up missing one day. The dragons broke out and ran wild; they’re the killingest you could hope to see. Anything else?”

  “No,” said Peter, heavyhearted. “I guess not”

  “That’s good. Because I think we’re going to trial right now.”

  A guard was opening the door, club poised. “His Honor, Judge Balthazar Pike, will see you now,” said the warden. Peter groaned.

  The half-breed demon, his sartorial splendor of the preceding afternoon replaced by judiciary black silk, smiled grimly on the two prisoners. “Mr. Morden,” he said, indicating the erstwhile love-philter manufacturer, “and Mister—er—ah—?”

  “Packer!” exploded the man. “What are you doing here?”

  “Haw!” laughed the judge. “That’s what I was going to ask you. But first we have this matter of Mr. Morden to dispose of. Excuse me a moment? Clerk, read the charges.” A cowed-looking little man picked an index card from a stack and read, “Whereas Mr. Percival Morden of Mahoora has been apprehended in the act of practicing mancy and whereas this Mr. Morden does not possess an approved license for such practice it is directed that His Honor Chief Judge Balthazar Pike declare him guilty of the practice of mancy without a license. Signed, Mayor Almarish. Vote straight Freedom Peace and Progress Reform Party for a clean and efficient administration.” He paused for a moment and looked timidly at the judge, who was cleaning his talons. “That’s it, Your Honor,” he said.

  “Oh—thank you. Now, Morden—guilty or not guilty?”

  “What’s the difference?” asked the manufacturer sourly. “Not guilty, I guess.”

  “Thank you.” The judge took a coin from his pocket. “Heads or tails?” he asked.

  “Tails,” answered Morden. Then, aside to Peter, “It’s magic, of course. You can’t win.”

  The half-breed demon spun the coin dexterously on the judicial bench; it wobbled, slowed, and fell with a tinkle. The judge glanced at it. “Sorry, old man,” he said sympathetically. “You seem to be guilty. Imprisonment for life in an oak tree. You’ll find Merlin de Bleys in there with you. You’ll like him, I rather fancy. Next case,” he called sharply as Morden fell through a trapdoor in the floor.

  Peter advanced before the bar of justice. “Can’t we reason this thing out?” he asked agitatedly. “I mean, I’m a stranger here and if I’ve done anything I’m sorry—”

  “Tut!” exclaimed the demon. He had torn the cuticle of his left index talon, and it was bleeding. He stanched the green liquid with a handkerchief and looked down at the man. “Done anything?” he asked mildly. “Oh—dear me, no! Except for a few trifles like felonious impediment of an officer in the course of his duty, indecent display, seditious publication, high treason and unlawful possession of military and naval secrets—done anything?” His two odd eyes looked reproachfully down on die man.

  Peter felt something flimsy in his hand. Covertly he looked down and saw a slip of blue paper on which was written in green ink: This is Hugo, my other watchdog. Feed him once a day on green vegetables. He does not like tobacco. In haste, Millicent.

  There was a stir in the back of the courtroom, and Peter turned to see one of the fire-breathing horrors which had first attacked him in the forest tearing down the aisle, lashing out to right and left, incinerating a troop of officers with one blast of its terrible breath. Balthazar Pike was crawling around under his desk, bawling for more police.

  Peter cried, “You can add one more—possession of a bandur without a license! Sic ’em, Hugo!”

  The monster flashed an affectionate look at him and went on with the good work of clearing the court. The man sprang aside as the trapdoor opened beneath his feet, and whirled on a cop who was trying to swarm over him. With a quick one-two he laid him out and proceeded to the rear of the courtroom, where Hugo was standing off a section of the fire department that was trying to extinguish his throat. Peter snatched an axe from one and mowed away heartily. Resistance melted away in a hurry, and Peter pushed the hair out of his eyes to find that they were alone in the court.

  “Come on, boy,” he said. Whistling cheerily, he left the building, the bandur at his heels, smoking gently. Peter collared a cop—the same one who had first arrested him. “Now,” he snarled, “where do I find water?”

  Stuttering with fright, and with two popping eyes on the bandur, the officer said, “The harbor’s two blocks down the street if you mean—”

  “Never mind what I mean!” growled Peter, luxuriating in his new-found power. He strode off pugnaciously, Hugo following.

  4

  “I beg your pardon—are you looking for water?” asked a tall, dark man over Peter’s shoulder. Hugo growled and let loose a tongue of flame at the stranger’s foot.

  “Shuddup, Hugo,” said Peter. Then, turning to the stranger, “As a matter of fact, I was. Do you—?”

  “I heard about you from them,” said the stranger. “You know. The little people.”

  “Yes,” said Peter. “What do I do now?”

  “Underground railroad,” said the stranger. “Built after the best Civil War model. Neat, speedy and efficient. Transportation at half the usual cost. I hope you weren’t planning to go by magic carpet?”

  “No,” Peter assured him hastily. “I never use them.”

  “That’s great,” said the stranger, swishing his long black cloak. “Those carpet people—stifling industry, I call it. They spread a whispering campaign that our road was unsafe! Can you imagine it?”

  “Unsafe,” scoffed Peter. “I’ll bet they wish their carpets were half as safe as your railroad!”

  “Well,” said the stranger thoughtfully, “perhaps not half as safe . . . No, I wouldn’t say half as safe . . .” He seemed likely to go on indefinitely.

  Peter asked, “Where do I get the Underground?”

  “A little east of here,” said the stranger. He looked about apprehensively. “We’d better not be seen together,” he muttered out of the corner of his mouth. “Meet you over there by the clock tower—you can get it there.”

  “Okay,” said Peter. “But why the secrecy?”

  “We’re really underground,” said the stranger, walking away.

  Peter rejoined him at the corner of the clock tower. With an elaborate display of unconcern the stranger walked off, Peter following at some distance. Soon they were again in the forest that seemed to border the city of Mahoora.

  Once they were past the city-limits sign the stranger turned, smiling. “I guess we’re safe now,” he said. “They could try a raid and drag us back across the line, but they wouldn’t like to play with your bandur, I think. Here’s the station.”

  He pressed a section of bark on a huge tree; silently it slid open like a door. Peter saw a row of steps leading down into blackness. “Sort of spooky,” he said.

  “Not at all! I have the place ghostproofed once a year.”
The stranger led the way, taking out what looked like a five-branched electric torch.

  “What’s that?” asked Peter, fascinated by the weird blue light it shed.

  “Hand of glory,” said the stranger casually. Peter looked closer and shuddered, holding his stomach. Magic, he thought, was probably all right up to the point where it became grave robbery.

  They arrived at a neatly tiled station; Peter was surprised to find that the trains were tiny things. The one pulled up on the tracks was not as high as he was.

  “You’ll have to stoke, of course,” said the stranger.

  “What?” demanded Peter indignantly.

  “Usual arrangement. Are you coming or aren’t you?”

  “Of course—but it seems strange,” complained Peter, climbing into the engine. Hugo climbed into the coal car and curled up, emitting short smoky bursts of flame, which caused the stranger to keep glancing at him in fear for his fuel.

  “What’s in the rest of the train?” asked Peter.

  “Freight. This is the through cannonball to Mal-Tava. I have a special shipment for Almarish. Books and things, furniture, a few cases of liquor—you know?”

  “Yes. Any other passengers?”

  “Not this month. I haven’t much trouble with them. They’re usually knights and things out to kill sorcerers like Almarish. They take their horses along or send them ahead by carpet. Do you plan to kill Almarish?”

  Peter choked. “Yes,” he finally said. “What’s it to you?”

  “Nothing—I take your money and leave you where you want to go. A tradesman can’t afford opinions. Let’s get up some steam, eh?”

  Amateurishly Peter shoveled coal into the little furnace while the stranger in the black cloak juggled with steam valves and levers. “Don’t be worried,” he advised Peter. “You’ll get the hang of things after a while.” He glanced at a watch. “Here we go,” he said, yanking the whistle cord.

  The train started off into its tunnel, sliding smoothly and almost silently along, the only noise being from the driving rods. “Why doesn’t it clack against the rails?” asked Peter.

  “Levitation. Didn’t you notice? We’re an inch off the track. Simple, really.”

  “Then why have a track?” asked Peter.

  The stranger smiled and said, “Without—” then stopped abruptly and looked concerned and baffled. And that was all the answer Peter got.

  “Wake up,” shouted the stranger, nudging Peter. “We’re in the war zone!”

  “Zasso?” asked Peter, blinking. He had been napping after hours of steady travel. “What war zone?”

  “Trolls—you know.”

  “No, I don’t!” snapped Peter. “What side are we on?”

  “Depends on who stops us,” said the stranger, speeding the engine. They were out of the tunnel now, Peter saw, speeding along a couple of inches above the floor of an immense dim cave. Ahead, the glittering double strand of the track stretched into the distance.

  “Oh—oh!” muttered the cloaked stranger. “Trouble ahead!”

  Peter saw a vague, stirring crowd before them. “Those trolls?” he asked.

  “Yep,” answered the engineer resignedly, slowing the train. “What do you want?” he asked a solid-looking little man in a ragged uniform.

  “To get the hell out of here,” said the little man. He was about three feet tall, Peter saw.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “The lousy Insurgents licked us,” said the troll. “Will you let us on the train before they cut us down?”

  “First,” said the engineer methodically, “there isn’t room. Second, I have to keep friends with the party in power. Third, you know very well that you can’t be killed.”

  “What if we are immortal?” asked the troll agitatedly. “Would you like to live forever scattered in little pieces?”

  “Second,” said Peter abruptly, “you can get out of it as best you can.” He was speaking to the engineer. “And first, you can dump all the freight you have for Almarish. He won’t want it anyway when I’m through with him.”

  “That right?” asked the troll.

  “Not by me!” exploded the engineer. “Now get your gang off the track before I plough them under!”

  “Hugo,” whispered Peter. With a lazy growl the bandur scorched the nape of the engineer’s neck.

  “All right,” said the engineer. “All right. Use force—all right.” Then, to the leader of the trolls, “You tell your men they can unload the freight and get as comfortable as they can.”

  “Wait!” interjected Peter. “Inasmuch as I got you out of this scrape—I think—would you be willing to help me out in a little affair of honor with Almarish?”

  “Sure!” said the troll. “Anything at all. You know, for a surface-dweller you’re not half bad.” With which he began to spread the good news among his army.

  Later, when they were all together in the cab, taking turns with the shovel, the troll introduced himself as General Skaldberg of the Third Loyalist Army. They were steaming ahead again at full speed.

  The end of the cavern was in sight when another swarm of trolls blocked the path. “Go through them!” ordered Peter coldly.

  “For pity’s sake,” pleaded the stranger. “Think of what this will do to my franchise!”

  “That’s your worry,” said the general. “You fix it up with the Insurgents. We gave you the franchise anyway—they have no right of search.”

  “Maybe,” muttered the engineer. He closed his eyes as they went slapping into the band of trolls under full steam. When it was all over and they were again tearing through the tunnel, he looked up. “How many?” he asked brokenly.

  “Only three,” said the general regretfully. “Why didn’t you do a good job while you were at it?”

  “You should have had your men fire from the freight cars,” said the engineer coldly.

  “Too bad I didn’t think of it. Could you turn back and take them in a surprise attack?”

  The engineer cursed violently, giving no direct answer. But for the next half hour he muttered to himself distantly, groaning “Franchise!” over and over again.

  “How much farther before we get to Mal-Tava?” asked Peter glumly.

  “Very soon now,” said the troll. “I was there once. Very broken terrain—fine for guerrilla work.”

  “Got any ideas on how to handle the business of Almarish?”

  The general scratched his head. “As I remember,” he said slowly, “I once thought it was a pushover for some of Clausewitz’s ideas. It’s a funny tactical problem—practically no fortifications within the citadel—everything lumped outside in a wall of steel. Of course Almarish probably has a lot on the ball personally. All kinds of direct magic at his fingertips. And that’s where I get off with my men. We trolls don’t even pretend to know the fine points of thaumaturgy. Mostly straight military stuff with us.”

  “So I have to face him alone?”

  “More or less,” said the general. “I have a couple of guys that majored in Military Divination at Ellil Tech Prep. They can probably give you a complete layout of the citadel, but they won’t be responsible for illusions, multiplex apparitions or anything else Almarish might decide to throw in the way. My personal advice to you is—be skeptical.”

  “Yes?” asked Peter miserably.

  “Exactly,” said Skaldberg. “The real difficulty in handling arcane warfare is in knowing what’s there and what ain’t. Have you any way of sneaking in a confederate? Not a spy, exactly—we military men don’t approve of spying—but a sort of—ah—one-man intelligence unit.”

  “I have already,” said Peter diffidently. “She’s a sorceress, but not much good, I think. Has a blast finger, though.”

  “Very good,” grunted Skaldberg. “Very good indeed. God, how we could have used her against the Insurgents! The hounds had us in a sort of peninsular spot—with only one weak line of supply and communication between us and the main force—and I was holding a hill agains
t a grand piquet of flying carpets that were hurling thunderbolts at our munitions supply. But their sights were away off and they only got a few of our snipers. God, what a blast finger would have done to those bloody carpets!”

  The engineer showed signs of interest. “You’re right!” he snapped. “Blow ’em out of the sky—menace to life and limb! I have a bill pending at the All Ellil Conference on Communication and Transportation—would you be interested?”

  “No,” grunted the general. The engineer, swishing his long black cloak, returned to his throttle, muttering about injunctions and fair play.

  5

  “Easy, now!” whispered the general.

  “Yessir,” answered a troll, going through obvious mental strain while his hand, seemingly of its own volition, scrawled lines and symbols on a sheet of paper. Peter was watching, fascinated and mystified, as the specialist in military divination was doing his stuff.

  “There!” said the troll, relaxing. He looked at the paper curiously and signed it: Borgenssen, Capt.

  “Well?” asked General Skaldberg excitedly. “What was it like?”

  The captain groaned. “You should see for yourself, sir!” he said despondently. “Their air force is flying dragons and their infantry’s a kind of Kraken squad. What they’re doing out of water I don’t know.”

  “Okay,” said the general. He studied the drawing. “How about their mobility?”

  “They haven’t got any and they don’t need any,” complained the diviner. “They just sit there waiting for you—in a solid ring. And the air force has a couple of auxiliary rocs that pick up the Krakens and drop them behind your forces. Pincer stuff—very bad.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that!” thundered the general. “Get out of my office!” The captain saluted and stumbled out of the little cave which the general had chosen to designate as GHQ. His men were “barracked” on the bare rock outside. Volcanoes rumbled and spat in the distance. There came one rolling crash that stood Peter’s hair on end.

  “Think that was for us?” he asked nervously.

  “Nope—I picked this spot for lava drainage. I have a hundred men erecting a shutoff at the only exposed point.