The COMPLEAT Collected SFF Works 1911-1987

by C. L. Moore

  "I challenge you, Ben," I said. "Tonight at nine, in the Park, by the carousel site."

  He laughed at me. He was a tall, heavily muscled man with a thick neck.

  I looked at his throat.

  "Tonight at nine," I repeated.

  He laughed again. "Oh, no, Roger," he said. "Why should I risk my head?"

  "You're a coward."

  "Certainly I'm a coward," he agreed, still grinning, "when there's nothing to gain and everything to lose. Was I a coward last night, when I took Hull's head? I've had my eye on him a long time, Roger. I'll admit I was afraid you'd get him first. Why didn't you, anyway?"

  "It's your head I'm after, Ben."

  "Not tonight," he said. "Not for quite a while. I'm not going back to the Park for a long time; I'll be too busy. You're out of the running, anyhow, Roger. How many heads have you?"

  He knew, damn him, how far ahead of me he was—now. I let the hate show in my face.

  "The Park at nine tonight," I yelled. "The carousel site. Or else I'll know you're afraid."

  "Eat your heart out, Roger," he mocked me. "Tonight I lead a parade. Watch me. Or don't—but you'll be thinking about me. You can't help that."

  "You swine! You rotten, cowardly swine!"

  -

  HE laughed; he derided me, he goaded me, as I had done so many times to others. I did not have to pretend anger. I wanted to reach into the screen and sink my fingers in his throat. The furious rage was good to feel. It was very good. I let it build until it seemed high enough. I let him laugh and enjoy it.

  Then at last I did what I had been planning. At the right moment, when it looked convincing, I let myself lose all control and I smashed my fist into the TV screen. It shattered. Griswold's face flew apart; I liked that. It was very satisfying.

  The connection was broken, of course. But I knew he would check quickly back. I slipped the protective glove from my right hand and called a servant I knew I could trust. (He is a criminal; I protect him. If I die, he will die and he knows it.) He bandaged my unharmed right hand and I told him what to say to the other servants. I knew the word would reach Nelda quickly, in the harem, and I knew that Griswold would hear within an hour.

  I fed my anger. All day, in the gymnasium, I practiced with my trainers, machete and pistol in my left hand only. I made it seem that I was approaching the berserker stage, the killing madness that overcomes us when we feel we have completely failed.

  That kind of failure can have one of two results only. Suicide is the other. You risk nothing then, and you know your body will stand by the Park in its plastic monument. But sometimes the hate turns outward and there is no fear left. Then the Hunter is berserker, and while this makes him very dangerous, he is also good quarry then—he forgets his cunning.

  It was dangerous to me, too, for that kind of forgetfulness is very tempting, the next best thing to oblivion itself.

  Well, I had set the lure for Griswold. But it would take more than a lure to bring him out when he thought he had nothing to gain by such a risk. So I set rumors loose. They were very plausible rumors. I let it be whispered that Black Bill Lindman and Whistler Cowles, as desperate as I at Griswold's triumph over us all, had challenged each other to a meeting in the Park that night. Only one could come out alive, and that one would be master of New York so far as our age-group counted power. (There was, of course, old Murdoch with his fabulous collection accumulated over a lifetime, but it was only among ourselves that the rivalry ran so high.)

  -

  WITH that rumor abroad, I thought Griswold would act. There is no way to check such news. A man seldom announces openly that he is going into the Park. It could even be the truth, for all I knew. And for all Griswold knew, his supremacy was in deadly peril before he had even enjoyed his Triumph. There would be danger, of course, if he went out to defend his victory. Lindman and Cowles are both good Hunters. But Griswold, if he did not suspect my trap, had a chance at one sure victory—myself, Honest Roger Bellamy, waiting in berserker fury at a known rendezvous and with a right hand useless for fighting. Did it seem too obvious? Ah, but you don't know Griswold.

  When it was dark, I put on my hunting clothes. They are bulletproof, black, close-fitting, but very easy with every motion. I blacked my face and hands. I took gun, knife and machete with me, the metal treated so that it would not catch or reflect the light. I like a machete especially—I have strong arms. I was careful not to use my bandaged hand at all, even when I thought no one watched me. And I remembered that I must seem on the verge of berserker rage, because I knew Griswold's spies would be reporting every motion I made.

  I went toward Central Park, the entrance nearest the carousel site. That far Griswold's men could track me, but no farther.

  At the gate I lingered for a moment—do you remember this, Bellamy within me? Do you remember the plastic monuments we passed on the edge of the Park? Falconer and Brennan and the others, forever immortal, standing proud and godlike in the clear, eternal blocks. All passion spent, all fighting done, their glory assured forever. Did you envy them, too, Bellamy?

  I remember how old Falconer's eyes seemed to look through me contemptuously. The number of heads he had taken is engraved on the base of his monument, and he was a very great man.

  "Wait," I thought. "I'll stand in plastic, too. I'll take more heads than even you, Falconer, and the day that I do, it will be the day I can lay this burden down ..."

  Just inside the gate, in the deep shadows, I slipped the bandage from my right hand. I drew my black knife and, close against the wall, I began to work my way rapidly toward the little gate which is nearest Griswold's mansion. I had, of course, no intention of going anywhere near the carousel site. Griswold would be in a hurry to get to me and out again, and he might not stop to think. Griswold was not a thinker. I gambled on his taking the closest route.

  I waited, feeling very solitary and liking the solitude. It was hard to stay angry. The trees whispered in the darkness. The moon was rising from the Atlantic beyond Long Island. I thought of it shining on the Sound and on the city. It would rise like this long after I was dead. It would glitter on the plastic of my monument and bathe my face with cold light long after you and I, Bellamy, are at peace, our long war with each other ended.

  -

  THEN I heard Griswold coming. I tried to empty my mind of everything except killing. It was for this that my body and mind had been trained so painfully ever since I was six years old. I breathed deeply a few times. As always, the deep, shrinking fear tried to rise in me, fear, and something more. Something within me—is it you, Bellamy?—that says I do not really want to kill.

  Then Griswold came into sight, and the familiar, hungry hatred made everything all right again.

  I do not remember very much about the fight. It all seemed to happen within a single timeless interval, though I suppose it went on for quite a long while. It was a hard, fast, skillful fight. We both wore bulletproof clothing, but we were both wounded before we got close enough to try for each other's heads with steel. He favored a saber, which was longer than my machete. Still, it was an even battle. We had to fight fast, because the noise might draw other Hunters, if there were any in the Park tonight.

  But in the end I killed him.

  I took his head. The Moon was not yet clear of the high buildings on the other side of the Park and the night was young.

  I summoned a taxi. Within minutes, I was back in my mansion, with my trophy. Before I would let the surgeons treat me, I saw to it that the head was taken to the laboratory for a quick treatment, a very quick preparation. And I sent out orders for a midnight Triumph.

  While I lay on the table and the surgeons washed and dressed my wounds, the news was flashing through the city already. My servants were in Griswold's mansion, transferring his collections to my reception hall, setting up extra cases that would hold all my trophies, all True Jonathan Hull's and all of Griswold's, too. I would be the most powerful man in New York, under such masters as o
ld Murdoch and one or two more. All my age-group and the one above it would be wild with envy and hate. I thought of Lindman and Cowles and laughed with triumph.

  I thought it was triumph—then.

  -

  I STAND now at the head of the staircase, looking down at the lights and the brilliance, the row upon row of trophies, my wives in all their jewels. Servants are moving to the great bronze doors to swing them ponderously open. What will be revealed? The throng of guests, the great Hunters coming to give homage to a greater Hunter? Or—suppose no one has come to my Triumph, after all?

  The bronze doors are beginning to open. And I'm afraid. The fear that never leaves a Hunter, except in his last and greatest Triumph, is with me now. Suppose, while I stalked Griswold tonight, some other Hunter ambushed even bigger game—what if, for example, someone has taken old Murdoch's head? Then someone else would be having a Triumph in New York tonight, a greater Triumph than mine!

  The fear is choking me. I've failed. Some other Hunter has beaten me. I'm no good ...

  No. Listen. Listen to them shouting my name! Look, look at them pouring in through the opened doors, all the great Hunters and their jewel-flashing women, thronging in to fill the bright hall beneath me. I feared too soon. I was the only Hunter in the Park tonight, after all. So I have won, and this is my Triumph.

  There's Lindman. There's Cowles. I can read their expressions very, very easily. They can't wait to get me alone tonight and challenge me to a duel in the Park.

  They all raise their arms toward me in salute. They shout my name.

  I beckon to a servant. He hands me the filled glass that is ready. Now I look down at the Hunters of New York—I look down from the height of my Triumph—and I raise my glass to them.

  I drink.

  Hunters, you cannot rob me now.

  I shall stand proud in plastic, godlike in the eternal block that holds me, all passion spent, all fighting done, my glory assured forever.

  The poison works quickly.

  This is the real Triumph!

  The End

  OR ELSE

  Amazing Stories - August-September 1953

  with Henry Kuttner

  The reformers' main trouble is a blind spot when it comes to simple pragmatism. They know how to save the world, to save mankind from destruction, to save ten dollars a week against a rainy day. What they lack is actual experience. No man can expect to know how hard it is to save money when he's never had to fight like the devil to get his hands on a dime.

  That's why Miguel wasn't impressed by all the fine talk this big-shot gringo was handing out. Anybody can swear off water when he's not dry as an old bone. Sort of "He laughs at scars who never felt a wound." But Miguel was no idiot. He knew you can't argue with a man who intends to kill you, if necessary, to save your life!

  -

  MIGUEL and Fernández were shooting inaccurately at each other across the valley when the flying saucer landed. They wasted a few bullets on the strange airship. The pilot appeared and began to walk across the valley and up the slope toward Miguel, who lay in the uncertain shade of a cholla, swearing and working the bolt of his rifle as rapidly as he could. His aim, never good, grew worse as the stranger approached. Finally, at the last minute, Miguel dropped his rifle, seized the machete beside him, and sprang to his feet.

  "Die then," he said, and swung the blade. The steel blazed in the hot Mexican sun. The machete rebounded elastically from the stranger's neck and flew high in the air, while Miguel's arm tingled as though from an electric shock. A bullet came from across the valley, making the kind of sound a wasp's sting might make if you were hearing it instead of feeling it. Miguel dropped and rolled into the shelter of a large rock. Another bullet shrieked thinly, and a brief blue flash sparkled on the stranger's left shoulder.

  "Estoy perdido," Miguel said, giving himself up for lost. Flat on his stomach, he lifted his head and snarled at his enemy.

  The stranger, however, made no inimical moves. Moreover, he seemed to be unarmed. Miguel's sharp eyes searched him. The man was unusually dressed. He wore a cap made of short, shiny blue feathers. Under it his face was hard, ascetic and intolerant. He was very thin, and nearly seven feet tall. But he did seem to be unarmed. That gave Miguel courage. He wondered where his machete had fallen. He did not see it, but his rifle was only a few feet away.

  The stranger came up and stood above Miguel.

  "Stand up," he said. "Let us talk."

  He spoke excellent Spanish, except that his voice seemed to be coming from inside Miguel's head.

  "I will not stand up," Miguel said. "If I stand up, Fernández will shoot me. He is a very bad shot, but I would be a fool to take such a chance. Besides, this is very unfair. How much is Fernández paying you?"

  The stranger looked austerely at Miguel.

  "Do you know where I came from?" he asked.

  "I don't care a centavo where you came from," Miguel said, wiping sweat from his forehead. He glanced toward a nearby rock where he had cached a goatskin of wine. "From los estados unidos, no doubt, you and your machine of flight. The Mexican government will hear of this."

  "Does the Mexican government approve of murder?"

  "This is a private matter," Miguel said. "A matter of water rights, which are very important. Besides, it is self-defense. That cabrón across the valley is trying to kill me. And you are his hired assassin. God will punish you both." A new thought came to him. "How much will you take to kill Fernández?" he inquired. "I will give you three pesos and a fine kid."

  "There will be no more fighting at all," the stranger said. "Do you hear that?"

  "Then go and tell Fernández," Miguel said. "Inform him that the water rights are mine. I will gladly allow him to go in peace." His neck ached from staring up at the tall man. He moved a little, and a bullet shrieked through the still, hot air and dug with a vicious splash into a nearby cactus.

  The stranger smoothed the blue feathers on his head. "First I will finish talking with you. Listen to me, Miguel."

  "How do you know my name?" Miguel demanded, rolling over and sitting up cautiously behind the rock. "It is as I thought. Fernández has hired you to assassinate me."

  "I know your name because I can read your mind a little. Not much, because it is so cloudy."

  "Your mother was a dog," Miguel said.

  The stranger's nostrils pinched together slightly, but he ignored the remark. "I come from another world," he said. "My name is—" In Miguel's mind it sounded like Quetzalcoatl.

  "Quetzalcoatl?" Miguel repeated, with fine irony. "Oh, I have no doubt of that. And mine is Saint Peter, who has the keys to Heaven."

  Quetzalcoatl's thin, pale face flushed slightly, but his voice was determinedly calm. "Listen, Miguel. Look at my lips. They are not moving. I am speaking inside your head, by telepathy, and you translate my thoughts into words that have meaning to you. Evidently my name is too difficult for you. Your own mind has translated it as Quetzalcoatl. That is not my real name at all."

  "De veras," Miguel said. "It is not your name at all, and you do not come from another world. I would not believe a norteamericano if he swore on the bones often thousand highly placed saints."

  -

  Quetzalcoatl's long, austere face flushed again.

  "I am here to give orders," he said. "Not to bandy words with—Look here, Miguel. Why do you suppose you couldn't kill me with your machete? Why can't bullets touch me?"

  "Why does your machine of flight fly?" Miguel riposted. He took out a sack of tobacco and began to roll a cigarette. He squinted around the rock. "Fernández is probably trying to creep up on me. I had better get my rifle."

  "Leave it alone," Quetzalcoatl said. "Fernández will not harm you."

  Miguel laughed harshly.

  "And you must not harm him," Quetzalcoatl added firmly.

  "I will, then, turn the other cheek," Miguel said, "so that he can shoot me through the side of my head. I will believe Fernández wishes peace, Señor Quetzal
coatl, when I see him walking across the valley with his hands over his head. Even then I will not let him come close, because of the knife he wears down his back."

  Quetzalcoatl smoothed his blue steel feathers again. His bony face was frowning. "You must stop fighting forever, both of you," he said. "My race polices the universe and our responsibility is to bring peace to every planet we visit."

  "It is as I thought," Miguel said with satisfaction. "You come from los estados unidos. Why do you not bring peace to your own country? I have seen los señores Humphrey Bogart and Edward Robinson in las películas. Why, all over Nueva York gangsters shoot at each other from one skyscraper to another. And what do you do about it? You dance all over the place with la señora Betty Grable. Ah yes, I understand very well. First you will bring peace, and then you will take our oil and our precious minerals."

  -

  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 quite private little argument between Fernández and me, over a small water hole of no importance to anybody but—"

  A bullet sang past.