Sword of Tomorrow

by Henry Kuttner

  Tiny, glittering, fascinating, the miniature world of glowing rainbows—lived—in Farr’s palm. Amber and shell-white, sapphire and angry scarlet, the colors raced. The designs formed and reformed. And in those colors was a hint of something utterly alien, yet familiar.

  A curious rhythm, exciting as a Ravel piece, touched Court’s nerves with its stimulus. Some mobiles, he remembered, had had a similar fascination to him in his own time.

  Now this one was nearly perfection.

  Chips and facets of honey-gold spun off. Rays of ocean-green, peacock-blue blazed out. Clouds of velvet purple, almost tangible in their richness, bellowed. Ever the colors built and formed and danced. Ever the light and the rhythm moved like life within the little globe.

  The colors died. The sphere went black. “But now I can show you my real worlds, Court, of which that was a mere sample,” Farr’s voice said.

  Court looked up, blinking. His eye: widened with incredulous amazement. For beyond Farr was not the green foliage of the terrace and the rose-pearl vista of Valyra, but the smooth, glass texture of a wall —the wall of a room.

  He was no longer in the terrace. His startled survey told him that. He was in room, bare and unfurnished, with a dim glow coming from the low ceiling.

  “You are in a dungeon of my castle Court,” Farr said, smiling. “It has beer nearly five hours since you first looked into my colored ball. You are a long, long way from Valyra now, and not even Hardony will suspect fat, foolish Farr of holding you a prisoner.”

  CHAPTER VII Sinister Dream World

  Court started forward, the muscles of his legs tensing. Farr shook his head. “You can’t touch me. You’re looking at a projected image now. In the flesh—and a great deal of it there is—I’m many floors above you, in my castle. You, Court, are in a certain chamber I prepared for myself long ago.”

  But Farr’s image, if an image it were, seemed tangibly real. Court reached out a tentative arm, and his hand passed through the fat man’s body without resistance.

  “You believe me now?” Farr asked. “That’s a step in the right direction, anyway.”

  Court glanced behind him, saw a couch, and dropped upon it, watching Farr out of narrowed eyes.

  “I’m a prisoner, then,” he said. “Are you a Deccan?”

  “Farr a Deccan? Fat old Farr, who does nothing but sit in his castle and weave dreams? No, I’m a Lyran by birth. But by choice I’m a cosmopolitan of many worlds. None of them is real.”

  “Why did you bring me here?” Court’s gaze examined the walls. There was no sign of a door in the smooth, unbroken surfaces.

  “Because you interfered with my plans. It wasn’t hard. My air-car was in the palace terrace, and no one could suspect Farr of kidnaping. I brought you here without trouble. Since I don’t approve of killing, you’ll stay here.”

  “Your plans,” Court said. “For example?”

  Farr’s tiny eyes sparkled craftily. “Did you believe what I told you on the palace terrace? Peace at any price? No, Court, no!” And Farr’s gross body seemed to grow taller and harder. “Once I thought so, in the days when I built this castle for my pleasure. It was enough, then, to live in dreams. But I saw a shadow darkening over Lyra, and it darkened even my dreams.”

  “Well?”

  “If war comes, Lyra must be prepared for it. I know that. But I also know something else. The danger is not from Decca. I have certain sources of knowledge. There is an enemy within, and if you build weapons, Court, you will be supplying that enemy.”

  “Who?”

  “It does not matter, since there will be no weapons made.” Farr said.

  * * *

  Court glanced bitterly at Farr. “Fine. When the Deccans come over, you’ll be in a swell fix.”

  “They won’t.”

  “They have weapons.”

  “Do they?” Farr said cryptically. “Well, I know the value of preparedness, and I promise you that if Decca ever plans invasion, you’ll be wakened from your sleep and then you can build your weapons. There’ll be a need for them then, and they won’t be turned to the advantage of a traitor who wants only power and conquest. That, Court, is why I brought you here. You’re in a secret cell, far under my castle, and I have the only key. You will need no food or water because there is energy in the light that you see. You will exist for years in that room, grow old, and die there. But you will not be unhappy, for you will have worlds to live in far lovelier than any on Earth.”

  Court’s throat felt dry. “I think you’re insane, Farr,” he said.

  The fat man chuckled. “That’s a matter of viewpoint. A madman’s worlds may be a great deal more satisfying than one he did not create himself. You, Court, will have the opportunity of being a creator.”

  “Maybe.”

  “You cannot help yourself. The energy will draw from your mind, and build pictures—that will live. Pictures in which you will live. You’ll be happy. You can forget Lyra and the Throne and such folly.

  They will not matter.”

  “You cannot reach me. I’m doing you a great favor—letting you share such dreams as only one man has ever had before. So farewell.” The figure of Farr grew misty. The small eyes blinked at Court. “Ah —a word of advice. Lie on the couch. You’ll find it softer than the floor.”

  Court said something profane. But Farr was gone; the bare walls threw back the light starkly. Light that—the fat man had said would be food and drink to the prisoner.

  The devil with that!

  Court stood up, his mouth tight, his fingers working. He took a step forward, a grin of sheer fury twisting his face. To get his hands on Farr’s gross throat would be a pleasure.

  He took a deep breath. There was nothing to be accomplished by beating his head against the walls, much as he felt inclined to do so. He examined those walls, foot by foot, finding no trace of any jointure. The door was well-concealed.

  He was drowsy!

  Panic gripped him. He shook his head savagely, blinking, fighting down the sleep that seemed to pour like warm golden sand from the hidden lights overhead. He began to walk back and forth, jolting steps that assumed a definite rhythm.

  Back and forth, back and forth. He was still awake.

  He was sitting on the couch, sinking back!

  He sprang up, but his legs could not support him. He was thigh-deep in the warm sand that shifted and moved slowly around him, sending him swaying back to a reclining position on the couch. Blood dripped from Court’s lips as his teeth clamped down. The momentary agony rose to a pitch beyond pain, transmuted into a keen pleasure….

  He sank back.

  Beneath him the solidness of the couch seemed to give way. The sliding golden sands buried him. He dropped down, through a glowing sheen of warm light, while the surrounding curtains of sand changed into a pattern of ferns—fronds—frost-crystals—

  He was standing in a forest of glass.

  The air held a clarity that was like a picture of Rousseau, and like Rousseau’s work, too, were the vivid plants that surrounded him. They were ferns, intricate and patterned, and they were of pure, transparent crystal.

  He touched a glittering frond, and it dazzled into vibration. And it sang.

  * * *

  Pizzicato the high tinkle of crystaline notes rang out. Through the glass forest the music whispered.

  And the forest replied.

  In a million tones, pure as light itself, the forest rustled and shook into blazing movement. The sound thrilled through Court’s flesh. He was a part of the bright jungle, vibrating with it—

  Something touched his feet, warm and gentle. He looked down. From nowhere a blue, liquid pool was flowing, rising like the tears of Niobe about him.

  He remembered—the blue sea! The blue sea that had cradled him during his long voyage through time!

  Once before he had fought free of that hypnotic azure deep, and now its touch roused anger and terror within him. The blue stillness that had once meant peace now meant the
oblivion of death to Court.

  He lunged forward—crashed into the crystal forest.

  It was fragile, that white wonderland. The intricate branches and fronds crackled and broke as he pushed through them. The crystal song was a discordance, a tinkling cry of protest. Beneath his feet gritty stuff crunched and crackled. A dazzle of whirlwind, a glassy, motion spun before his eyes, pinwheeling into a blinding nebula of light and roaring sound—

  It was gone.

  There was gray void.

  Something leaped into being in that enormous nothingness. A block, asymmetrical, oddly angled, bright yellow.

  It grew.

  It rose into a tower. Ochre protuberances sprang from it, monstrous growths like fungi. From its base a strip of amber unrolled like a carpet, racing to Court’s feet.

  Dots of light grew with enormous speed into rolling spheres, angry orange, shaded with pale gray. They spun into a goblin dance, receding, plunging forward, spinning into infinite distances and returning.

  Cubes and polyhedrons mounted jerkily like trees.

  The amber carpet whipped back, carrying Court with it. He was drawn into the center of the devil-dance.

  The abstracts toppled toward him, disintegrating as they fell. They vanished. Overhead a scarlet bowl flamed down like a falling sky, bellowing with enormous thunders.

  A world self-conceived and self-realized. Some distantly untouched part of Court thought, “I’m visualizing all this. It’s been recessive in my brain. And Farr’s diabolical machines are making it real to me.”

  It was horribly real, and most horrible was the exhilaration that rose within Court. He began to see meaning in the geometrical dance, began to perceive what lay behind the symbolism of abstract cubism that was animate and articulate. A yellow coil rose into a spiral, shrilling a high-pitched note that blended with the deep bass of a shapeless purple blotch that curved and writhed like an amoeba.

  He felt himself moving in time with the—the things.

  Yellow shrieked into red—red sang into orange—orange murmured into green. The humming chord that was an emerald triangle faded into blue—

  Into blue that lapped and rose—beckoning—drawing him down into an abyss where there was no time.…

  Into the blue sea of eternity!

  He struck out at tower and angled globe, saw them give way and disintegrate beneath his blows. As they crashed down the blackness of infinity folded in from above, eating up color and sound.

  He stood alone in the dark.

  A dark that was unbroken—but not quite. He sensed, rather than saw, a variation of shades—of faint hints of shapes….

  Light came.

  * * *

  Lushly rich, flaming with tropical color, an Arabian Nights’ jungle hemmed him in. A chain of suns was strung like a necklace across a sky more sensuously deep than any sky on earth. It was brighter than earthly forests was this jungle.

  Flamboyant, it—flaunted. The deep green of great banners of leaves was veined with the purple blood of those plants. The flowers were cupped blossoms that might have grown in Solomon’s gardens —brighter than color!

  They were brighter than any artist could conceive, but they were not paint. Chalices of shining silver dripped liquid gold that foamed on the richness of the earth. A seed dropped here would sprout into pure wonder. Behind the barred shadows of the trees—shadows deep and velvety—paced the sleek forms of tigers, yellow and black. Their eyes watched Court. Their bodies moved like sliding water through the blazing, shocking richness of that mad jungle.

  A world self-conceived….

  He saw the first hint of blue water this time, and sprang away from it. The burnished shield of flower dipped down, pouring burning nectar upon him. Lovely feminine forms, white as snow, bent toward him. One had red-gold hair, a face of dazzling beauty. It was Irelle!

  The bright tigers faded like the phantoms they were. All but one. Court was astride it, feeling the smooth muscles bunch and ripple under his thighs as the great beast crouched and plunged upward.

  Cold winds dried the sweat on his cheeks. One hand tight in a furry fold of skin, he flung up the other to guard his eyes from flames that lashed out at him.

  He was riding through fire—riding on steed that roared its excitement in deep tones of bell-like clarity. Like a huge gong the tiger’s cry rang out, and Court, caught in the spell of racing motion and power, shouted too.

  On they raced—and the blue sea loomed ahead.

  Court leaped from of the tiger’s back. He fell through whirling winds that slowed and were gone, leaving a chill barrenness—an empty gray world.

  A grayness on which a broken line laboriously crawled and elongated.

  Another line, thin, black, came to meet it. A few others drifted by.

  Nothing, now, but the grayness and the scatter of lines, meaningless, and yet—Court watched.

  The purest essence of linear art, perhaps. A few lines, symbolic of rhythm and pattern—a pattern basic that artists may seek all their lives and never find.

  For a long time Court stood motionless, watching the silent, unchanging scene. The blue sea welled up again.

  In the next vision there was neither color nor sound, nothing that any of Court’s five senses could assimilate. Yet this was the strangest world of all, and the one that held Court longest. He knew it, with some curious inner vision of his mind, and the intoxication of swooping motion through space and time held him.

  After that came other visions.

  Free mind, in a world self-conceived!

  In that ultimate vast freedom, unbound by the fetters of flesh, he sensed at last—something alive. It drew away from him, but he followed it.

  He was no longer completely human. Yet the bonds that held him to his own earth were strong. The psychic forces that could prison a Lyran forever could not quite render Court helpless. He was of a different breed from the Lyrans, of a race that had always fought for survival, and perhaps, too, after his age-long sleep, there was a part of his mind that could not be touched now—something that the blue sea had never given up.

  So, in that incredible space-time beyond life, he thrust out at the fleeing life.

  He recognized it.

  He knew—Farr.

  Unimaginable meeting, in a plane of pure mentality! But the living part of Farr was there, and Court thrust out at it savagely.

  Thrust out—and gripped it. Held it helpless— and bent it to his will.

  Though it struggled, Court was the stronger. At last he knew he had succeeded. He fought free of the inconceivable cosmos that surrounded him, battled doggedly toward a warmth and a familiarity he sensed still existed. He could not fail—not now.

  Fast! He must go fast!

  Into the vortex he went spinning, down and down, faster and faster, smaller and smaller, diminishing from that cosmically unfettered mind into something small and limited and familiar….

  He dropped into a room with bare walls, a tiny room where a tiny figure lay, fettered by its pitifully few senses, leaving beyond him a greater glory than he had ever known before and which he would never know again.

  And so Ethan Court awakened!

  CHAPTER VIII Traitor To His Trust

  A door was open in the wall. and on its threshold Farr stood, a metal key in his hand, life slowly coming back to his dulled eyes. He swayed forward and back like a dummy figure, shaking his head dazedly.

  Court stood up, his knees watery. He staggered forward and wrenched the key from Farr’s fingers, slipping it into his pocket.

  That roused the fat man. He made no attempt to recover the key. Instead he stared at Court half-blindly.

  “By the—by the gods! You’re awake! What kind of a man are you?”

  “I’ve been waiting to get my hand on your throat, Farr,” Court said. But he made no move, waiting for strength to return to his muscles.

  Farr touched his forehead gropingly. “I did not think such a thing was possible. You—you drew me from my dr
eams and made me open the door of your prison!”

  “All right,” Court said, “Hypnotism.” He knew that was not the full answer.

  “I don’t understand. What did you do?”

  “We were both dreaming,” Court said. “And we met somewhere. Let it go at that.” Farr’s fat body seemed to shrink. “I was a fool. I should not have gone into the dream-worlds where you could reach me. But how could I know the power of your will?”

  “You couldn’t. Which was lucky for me. And mighty unlucky for you, Farr.” Court took a step forward.

  “Wait!”

  “How long was I unconscious?”

  “Not long. A few hours.” Court felt relief. He had thought his visions had lasted much longer—days or even weeks. He gripped Farr’s soft forearm.

  “We’re going back to Valyra now, both of us. You as hostage. If any of your men try funny business, it’ll be too bad for you. Valyra needs you now. I’ve got some ideas about these dream-creators of yours. It’s just possible they could be adapted as weapons.”

  At that Farr tried to wrench free, his eyes widening.

  “No, Court! No! I was foolish. I know that now. I should have told you the truth in the beginning, but I felt it would be impossible to convince you.”

  “What truth?”

  “I have no choice. You must believe me, Court. You didn’t know my motives for bringing you here.”

  “Well?”

  “I wanted to stop you from building weapons, so much is true,” Farr said. “But my reasons weren’t selfish. I’m a leader of the Underground Group.”

  “Peace at any price, eh? Peace while the Deccans invade and conquer?”

  “No! Decca wants peace, for reasons I can show you. Decca is not secretly arming. If it were. I’d have acted in an entirely different way. I’d have given you every assistance in weapon-making. But here’s the truth, Court, something I’ve found out only after much espionage through my group. There is a man in Lyra who wants to seize control of the country, and then make war. He is the enemy. Decca really has no weapons. They can’t conceive them any more than we can.”