Hercules Muscles In

by Henry Kuttner

  Hercules Muscles In

  By Henry Kuttner

  Copyright © 1941 by Henry Kuttner

  This edition published in 2014 by eStar Books, LLC.

  www.estarbooks.com

  ISBN 9781612107448

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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  Hercules Muscles In

  By Henry Kuttner

  Originally published under the pseudonym of Kelvin Kent

  When the Strong Man of Peloponnesos Finds Himself in a Labor Daze, Year-Leaper Pete Proves That a Brain and Brawn Trust Is Mightier Than Zeus!

  A Complete Pete Manx Novelette

  CHAPTER I

  Back to 700 B.C.

  Pete Manx rubbed his bullet head reflectively, put the derby back upon it, and glanced at his companion in the taxicab.

  "You just don't understand, Biggie," he said wearily. "Lots of guys have the same trouble."

  Mr. Bigpig Callahan, one-time bronco-wrangler and currently a wrestler both owned and managed by Pete, looked glum. Or, at least, one supposed he did. It is difficult to detect emotion in a face like a slab of beef, slashed by a lipless gap, dotted by two tiny, glittering eyes, and fringed with bristling red hair and a couple of scalloped objects that were probably ears.

  Bigpig's face had not always been thus. Raised in New York's East Side, he had brawled his way from Jersey to Montana, remaining in the latter place for six years learning how to punch cattle. Pete had a well-founded idea that a cow had once stepped on Big-pig's uncomely face, a process scarcely calculated to improve on nature. At any rate, it was neither a thing of beauty nor a joy forever.

  "Flors," said Mr. Callahan. "Dey, git me."

  Pete translated mentally. Roses, petunias, or tulips to Bigpig came under the classification of flors. But it was only goldenrod that was poison.

  "You're allergic to the things," Pete pointed out. "See? It's like having hayfever."

  "Alloigic, huh? Izzat good or bad?"

  "It's bad. And we get out here. The Doc'll fix you up. He's a smart fella. He found out I was alloi—allergic to time traveling."

  But this was utterly beyond Bigpig's comprehension. He could never have understood the principles of Mayhem's device that had more than once projected Pete Manx back into historical eras and long-past centuries. Once Pete's consciousness had been sent back to Rome to inhabit the body of a citizen of that interesting city; once he had visited Egypt.

  But those days were gone forever for Pete. Every time he had visited an ancient time-sector, he had got into trouble. Right now he was sitting pretty, or had been till lately. He'd given up his job as concessionaire at Coney Island, and instead was managing Bigpig Callahan, Mammoth of the Mat. And Bigpig was good—there was no doubt about that.

  Built like an ox to begin with, his years of wrangling on the range had developed lightning-quick reactions in what Pete hopefully called his brain. The mauler had only two serious faults. He had fallen arches. On another man that might be unimportant, but Big-pig's arches reminded Pete vaguely of the Brooklyn Bridge. His other really dangerous weakness was his allergy.

  Doctor Horatio Mayhem's scrawny figure appeared in the door in response to a ring. The scientist's mild eyes blinked at the callers.

  "Ah. Hello, Pete," he greeted. "Come in."

  They were ushered into Mayhem's laboratory, where wires, rheostats, converters, generators, and tubes made a baffling jigsaw puzzle. Two metal chairs, looking rather deadly, stood in the corner. Pete averted his gaze. He had sat in those chairs more than once, and each time he had been flung back into past centuries. They were part of Mayhem's time machine, that released the ego of the individual and sent it out to possess the body of some inhabitant of an ancient time-sector.

  "This," said Pete, "is Bigpig Callahan." Swiftly he explained the situation, while Bigpig shifted unhappily from one foot to another.

  "So we had a scrap scheduled for last night, Doc. And it was all fixed, only Biggie ran into some goldenrod in a florist's shop. He swelled up fit to bust and we forfeited the purse. He couldn't fight. He couldn't even talk."

  "Allergy, eh?" Mayhem asked.

  "Yeah. The Purple Python was a set-up for Biggie—but he lost the purse. It was winner take all."

  "I'da moidered da bum," Mr. Callahan remarked at random. "I'da thrown him outa da ring."

  "Sure," Pete soothed his fighter. "Just relax, Biggie. Don't bother us." Bigpig wandered away in a vague manner, while Mayhem and Manx went on talking.

  "Some people are allergic to goldenrod pollen, of course," the doctor nodded. "But—"

  "It hits Bigpig bad. His throat swells up so he can hardly breathe. Now look, Doc, you're smart. Can you cure Biggie so he won't be allergic any more?"

  Instead of answering, Mayhem yelped sharply. He sprang forward, making frantic gestures.

  "Stop! Don't do that! The current's turned on—"

  "My feet hoit," explained Bigpig, and sank down in one of the metal chairs.

  Electricity crackled. Mr. Callahan looked surprised, and then an expression of utter calm flooded his face. He ceased to breathe, and relaxed, to all appearances a large, uncomely, and repugnant corpse.

  "Biggie!" Pete cried desperately. "Look out!"

  Mayhem shut off the current, but he was too late. Bigpig Callahan was no longer among those present. Pete Manx clawed at the wrestler's shoulder.

  "Wake up, you bird-brained dope! You can't do this to me! It ain't legal—"

  The scientist drew Pete back.

  "He isn't dead. He's just been sent into a past era."

  "Oh ... oh, yeah. That's right. Well, what are we waiting for? Bring him back, Doc, will you?"

  Mayhem hesitated.

  "I'm afraid I can't, just yet. I was making some adjustments on my machine, and I'd dismantled part of the apparatus. The device only works one way now. Never mind, though," the doctor consoled. "I'll be able to wake your friend up in a week or so, maybe."

  Pete writhed in anguish. "Where is he now?"

  "Urn—let's see." Mayhem referred to various gauges. "Beyond 700 B. C. Maybe 800 B. C."

  "Huh," said Pete unhappily. "Back to the dinosaurs, huh?"

  "Oh, no. Ancient Greece—Peloponnesos—is where he's gone, I think. There was a culture there, you know."

  Pete went off on a tangent.

  "That dumb ox! All my dough tied up in him, and he goes visiting Greeks. He'll get in trouble. He's too dopey to keep out of it." A great inward struggle seemed to be taking place within Mr. Manx's soul, but at last virtue triumphed. "Doc!" Pete said suddenly. "I gotta look after that monkey. I know how this time racket works. Can you send me back to Greece too?"

  Mayhem nodded.

  "Yes. But I can't return you to our present time-sector for some time, until I've finished my repairs—"

  "I'll get along. I can take care of myself—but Biggie can't. Okay. Shoot the works, Doc." And Pete seated himself in the second of the two chairs.

  Mayhem went to the instrument board and pulled a lever. Pete was surprised to discover that
it was the Fourth of July. His head had become a Roman candle.

  Sssss—swish!

  Pete Manx stopped breathing and relaxed. He was on his way to 700 B. C.!

  CHAPTER II

  Strong Man Fills Strong-Box

  Pete opened his eyes to sunlight and a face. The face was unprepossessing, decorated with a bristling black beard and an assortment of scars. The man was wearing armor, and a plume waved from his bronze helmet.

  He leaned over Pete and jabbed the prostrate man in the stomach with a spear.

  "Hey!" said Mr. Manx. "Don't do that. It ain't friendly."

  "No runaway slave can make a fool out of one of the King's Guard," the soldier growled, and used the spear again. Pete scrambled hurriedly to his feet, staring around.

  He was in the midst of a fairly big city. This was seemingly the main stem, for a number of chariots were rolling past, filled with people heading for a masquerade. They wore an assortment of tunics, togas, pillow-slips, and armor, or so it seemed to Pete. He yelped and dodged the spear.

  "Slave?" Pete said aggrievedly. "Where in Hellene am I?"

  "In the city of Tiryns, of course, in the Peloponnesos, as if you didn't know," said the soldier. "And I was taking you to the king for judgment when you pretended sunstroke and fell down. Come along!"

  Pete obeyed. There was nothing else he could do. He was, he decided, talking Greek, for his memory-center connected with speech had automatically hitched itself to the brain of the body he was inhabiting. Mayhem had once explained all this very carefully. The miserable luck that pursued Manx whenever he took a time tour had struck again. So he was a runaway slave this time. Pete swore softly at his ill fate. Glancing down, he suppressed a shout, a short, sharp cry of dismay. He seemed to be clad only in an inadequate pillow-slip.

  "Oh-oh," Pete murmured. "First thing I gotta find myself a pair of pants—"

  Haled through Tiryns at the point of a spear, he found himself wondering about Bigpig Callahan. He had not the slightest idea what Biggie would look like in his Hellenic incarnation.

  They reached the palace. It was a dump, compared to the White House, Pete thought. They entered, presently finding themselves in the throne room, a big, chilly place with a raised dais at one end. It was filled with a motley throng, but Pete's eyes were riveted to the throne and the man who sat upon it.

  The king was a husky old man with a long gray beard and a vicious gleam in his eye. Beside him stood a dapper, handsome officer in gilded armor, who occasionally leaned forward to whisper in the ruler's ear.

  Before the dais stood a very giant of a man—a brawny figure clad in a dilapidated lion skin and nothing else. Mild blue eyes searched the room in a dazed manner.

  Pete's captor dragged him into a corner. "We'll have to wait," he muttered. "Hercules is in trouble again, and I'll wager Nessus is responsible."

  "Huh?" The guard turned away, scowling, but a friendlier soldier nearby answered Pete. "Nessus is the officer standing beside the throne. He used to be the city's chief hero, till Hercules came. But nobody looks at him now."

  The name of the man in the lion-skin was vaguely familiar.

  "Hercules, eh?" Pete said. "What's his racket?"

  Animation showed in the other's face. "You must be a stranger, not to know of Hercules. He's under bond to the throne, and King Eurystheus makes him do dirty jobs like cleaning the stables, but Hercules is a hero indeed. He killed Geryon—a human monster with three bodies—and brought his herd of red cattle to the king. And he slew the lion of Nemea—that's the skin he's wearing."

  "A Frank Buck, huh?"'

  "I know not the name. He captured the man-eating horses of Diomedes, too. They're penned up now, of course, and malefactors are fed to them. Eurystheus doesn't like Hercules; he's afraid of his growing popularity with the people. But he doesn't dare kill him outright. He just gives him harder and harder tasks to perform.

  Nessus bent toward the king and whispered again. Eurystheus smiled and stroked his beard. He stared at Hercules.

  "It has come to our knowledge," the king rumbled, "that you struck a costermonger and dislocated his jaw. What was his offense?"

  "Gosh," Hercules said plaintively, "he stepped on my corns. He was tryin' to sell me some goldenrod an' I can't stand the stuff. An' he wouldn't go away. I don't get this set-up, anyway—"

  "Yipee!" The involuntary cry burst from Pete's lips. The guard made a frantic clutch as his captive sprang forward. A spear whizzed past Mr. Manx's head, and a soldier shouted, "An assassin! Slay him!"

  But Pete wasn't heading toward the king. He was embracing Hercules. "Biggie! It's you!" Pete gurgled at the lion-skinned man.

  "Hey—you sound like Pete !" Hercules said. "What'sa idea of this whacky get-up, anyhow? What—"

  Pete scrambled to safety behind the hero's brawny legs as a soldier approached, waving a spear. But King Eurystheus lifted a hand.

  "A friend of yours, Hercules? Who is this helot?"

  "Manx is the name, your honor—"

  "Silence!" Pete's guard bellowed. He bowed low before the king. "A runaway slave, your majesty. I caught him and brought him back for judgment."

  "I see." Eurystheus scrabbled in his beard. "Well, throw him to the man-eating horses. We can't have such goings-on in Tiryns. It's bad enough with the imperial treasury running at a deficit and the people objecting to our taxes, without slaves getting above themselves. To the man-eaters with him."

  Two soldiers grabbed Pete, who clung frantically to Bigpig's pillarlike legs.

  "Make 'em go 'way," Manx babbled. "Soak 'em, Biggie—quick!"

  Mr. Callahan hesitated, scratched his head thoughtfully, and then swung immense arms. The soldiers described an irregular orbit across the room, ending up by folding around an impassive pillar. They slid down gently to the floor.

  "Sedition!" Nessus cried, his thin, handsome face alight with malice. "Slay them both!"

  "Hey, wait a minute," Biggie roared, suddenly getting the idea. "Pete's a pal of mine. You can't push him around."

  There was a silence. Eurystheus leaned toward Nessus.

  "I can't order Hercules killed," he whispered. "The people won't stand for it."

  "Well, kill the slave," said Nessus, with what Pete thought an unnecessary enthusiasm.

  But Biggie folded his arms and scowled.

  "Pete's my pal. If anybody lays a finger on him—"

  There was a silence. It was a deadlock, and no one realized this as well as Mr. Manx. From his experience with kings and Pharaohs, he knew how important it was for regents to keep face, and his mind was working furiously in an attempt to find an out. Maybe there was a way

  "Now wait a minute, your majesty," he said, gulping. "I got an idea we can settle this out of court. You said the treasury was running in the red. Suppose I show you a way to clean up plenty—"

  "Kill him!" Nessus snapped, but the king leaned forward interestedly.

  "Eh? Are you talking about—"

  "Money," Pete said enticingly. "Gold. Dinero. The long green."

  Eurystheus shushed Nessus with a lifted hand.

  "He may know where some treasure is hidden. Come forward, slave. I shall hear from you."

  Pete glanced around.

  "This has gotta be a private audience. Just you and me and—uh—Hercules here."

  There was a little wrangle about this, but presently the courtroom was cleared. Nessus, however, remained, glaring at Pete and Hercules with vicious eyes.

  "Now," said Eurystheus, "speak up, or my torturers will make you. Where is this treasure buried?"

  By this time Pete had had time to consider possible angles. Somehow his mind had gone blank. What Tiryns needed was some up-to-date racket that would pay dividends—but what? Not knowing much about the culture and life of the Hellenic city, it was impossible to say. Pete cast back to what he had seen during his progress toward the palace. Chariots . . .

  "Who owns all these two-wheel jalopies around here?" he asked.

&n
bsp; "Don't change the subject," the king growled. "About this treasure—"

  "It's on the main stem, just waiting to be picked up," Pete said hurriedly. "Your transportation system's lousy. No subways, no El's, no buses. It'd be tough to make those here in Tiryns, sure, but you've got a ready-made business here with these chariots. It's too hot to walk. What Tiryns needs are taxis. . . ."

  It took an hour to explain the situation to Eurystheus, but Pete's glib tongue finally convinced the king.

  "But I gotta get something out of it, King," he argued. "I'll fix up the whole business for you—take care of all the angles—but you gotta give me a franchise on the main stem. Only my cabs can run there. No competition. We can keep the fares up that way."

  "A franchise?" The king pondered. "Well, you say you'll give me fifty per cent of all the profits. How long will this arrangement keep up?"

  Nessus whispered in the royal ear. Eurystheus smiled and turned to Hercules.

  "You vouch for this slave? Good. Then he is safe for your lifetime, Hercules. We are merciful. The franchise is valid as long as you live."

  And, despite Pete's objections, so it was arranged.

  When Manx started something, he finished it. He got a moneylender to put up a small amount of gold, with Hercules' famous lion-skin as security, and with this as a basis, took an option on a few dozen cheap chariots. Creating taximeters was not too great a problem, once Pete understood the monetary exchange of the city. Cogged gears, connected with the chariot wheels, caused various dials to revolve, indicating the fare.

  "You gotta put on a front," Pete explained to the wide-eyed Biggie. "Help me splash on some of this gilt paint." It wasn't long before the chariots were finished. Nobody would have recognized them.

  They gleamed like gold, and had striped awnings to protect the occupants from the heat of the sun. On the backs were stenciled glaring red signs:

  PETROS MANKOS CABS

  Six Can Ride for the Price of One

  Why Walk? Ride in Cool Comfort

  Pete had purposely bought small, light chariots, for he saw no reason to incur the expense of purchasing and caring for horses. Instead, it was easy, with a little labor, to transform the conveyances into rickshaws, which could be drawn easily by the drivers themselves.