"Biggie!" he yelled. "What the—"
"Flors!" gasped the unfortunate Mr. Callahan. "Flors! Glup — I can't breathe!"
His face purpled. Pete slapped him on the back, and a cloud of dust rose from the lion skin. Goldenrod-pollen!
"Take it off, Biggie !" Pete's fingers were tearing at the garment. "Peel, quick!"
But it was too late. By the time the skin was thrown out the window, Hercules was suffering the worst effects of allergy. He lay in a corner, gasping and kicking.
Pete's lips tightened. So there had been an intruder last night! Sabotage —that's what it was. Somebody had discovered Bigpig's weakness, and had dusted the lion skin with the fatal goldenrod-pollen.
"Nessus," Pete gritted. "I'll bet he did it. That low-lifed rat!"
A cry came from without. "Hercules! Hasten! We wait!" But Hercules was beyond answering.
He lay prostrate, face swollen to twice its normal size, breathing hoarsely.
He would recover presently—but not for a while. In the meantime he needed rest.
"We'll be along in a few hours," Pete called.
There was silence. Then: "The king's soldiers say that if Hercules doesn't start out in ten minutes they'll come after him."
Manx cursed. For the Hellenes to discover their popular hero stricken by a "curse from the gods" would be fatal. Somehow, Hercules had to ride to the hydra's swamp. And he had to start within ten minutes.
"These things always happen to me," Pete moaned, and slipped off his pillow-slip. He recovered the lion skin and donned it. The pollen didn't effect him, of course, and at a distance he might be mistaken for Hercules. But—
He bent over Bigpig.
"Listen, Biggie. I'm riding to the swamp. As soon as you can make it, come after me and take over. I'll try and stall till you get there. Okay?"
"Glup . . . yeah, sure ... I'll moider da bum."
Pete went out by the back way. The ranch-hands were gathered there, and he explained part of the situation to them. They were ready to help in any way they could.
"Keep me screened from the troopers, see? We can't let 'em get too close. Let's see—where's the nag?"
Hercules' horse, a huge black stallion, was led up, ready. It was equipped with short-sword, javelins, bow and arrows, and a dozen lariats hanging around the saddle. Pete vaulted into place.
"Hightail it, boys," he yelped, setting the example. The fake Hercules and his followers galloped off, while the army of King Eurystheus, caught unprepared, milled in confusion. One small band of troopers broke from the rest and set out in pursuit. Looking back, Pete recognized the standard of Nessus—a golden centaur.
Hard and fast they rode. Perspiration covered them, and hours had passed before they reached the swamp, a low, desolate region of dark pools and quicksand, where a few thick, stunted trees grew. The troop of Nessus had reined in some distance back, unwilling to approach the lair of the monster.
Now the cowboys halted, looking askance at one another. Pete's heart sank. There was no sign of Hercules.
"Well," he said. "Guess I'll ride on a bit. Those Cossacks back there can still see me too plainly. Stick around, fellas."
Somebody handed Pete a chunk of beef. "That'll draw the hydra if you throw it into the water," he was informed.
Manx dropped the meat as though it had been death itself.
"Hey! I'm just going to stall till Hercules gets here. I'm no stand-in stunt man!"
There was no answer. The cowhands sat motionless in their saddles and watched Pete ride on, to halt by a gnarled tree not too close to the water's edge. He sat uneasily for a time, waiting. No Hercules. What a spot!
Pete examined his weapons. Javelins. Bow and arrows. Lots of lariats. A saddlebag containing — what? He investigated. Fireworks. The childish-minded Hercules had stuffed an assorted conglomeration of fireworks into the bag, apparently intending to let them off at some appropriate moment.
"What a slap-happy stumble-bum!" Pete remarked, and then turned into ice.
He hadn't thrown the beef into the water. There was nothing to draw the monster out of the depths. But—The hydra was coming!
A ripple broke the surface. A snakelike object twisted up, heading straight for the shore where Pete stood in his stirrups frozen, his hands twisted in the reins. Three more snakes popped up, and the wake of a gigantic bulk swirled into view. The horse went crazy.
Never completely broken, it bucked and sunfished like the wild thing it was. Pete saw himself sailing over the horse's head into the water. He shut his eyes and clung frantically. Something had to give. The girths snapped.
Pete and saddle thumped together on the ground, while the mustang departed for safer climes. Simultaneously a coil wound itself around Mr. Manx's leg.
His hand touched a rope. He managed to get to his knees, and saw a dozen tentacles reaching out of the water toward him. The body of a giant squid was darkly visible under the surface—a sea monster that had been washed into the salt marshes by some freak tidal wave. The grip on Pete's ankle was inexorable. He was being pulled toward the water.
The stunted tree wasn't too far away. Pete whirled the rope around his head and let fly. If he missed
He didn't miss. The lasso settled and tightened over a stumpy, thick limb. Pete was pulled over backward, but managed to wind a coil of the rope about his waist. He took a timber hitch in it. The rope sang with strain.
Pete tried to pull himself free, but could not. Another tentacle curled about his thighs, binding his legs together. He got hold of a javelin and dug it again and again into the cold, slimy flesh, but without result. The baleful eyes of the hydra glared at him unwinkingly through the water.
No use to yell for help. He'd get none. Nessus was probably laughing at the sight of his supposed enemy being devoured by the monster.
Pete started to get mad. Just then he saw the bag of fireworks.
His eyes lit up. Maybe— He had an idea.
Pete had manufactured matches long ago. He had some in his pocket. It was almost impossible to get them out, but at last he managed. Meanwhile the dragging strain was almost cutting him in two.
Roman candles! They were the things. Pete lit a handful and pointed them at the thick, cablelike tentacles. Red fire burst forth, sputtering and flaming angrily.
It worked! Where steel hadn't daunted the monster, fire did. Or, at least, the hydra was surprised. The tentacles drew back from the searing flames, and Pete instantly sprang to his feet and ran like hell. He stopped only when the rope jerked him back.
He looked around. The squid lay with its tentacles waving, its huge body submerged. Out of its reach, Pete was safe. Then, cautiously, he gathered the other lariats.
The first loop he flung settled over a tentacle, but slipped free. The second try was more successful. One by one Pete lassoed the waving arms of the creature, anchoring them to the tree. Whether or not the ropes would hold he couldn't say; he could only wait. And, still clutching a Roman candle, he did.
The ropes drew taut. They sang and snapped—but held. Luckily, Pete had captured all of the squid's tentacles, and on this flat, shelving bottom, the monster could get no purchase grip to make use of its weight and strength.
The ropes held! The hydra was conquered!
Pete turned and yelled. The monster could be slain at leisure now, or simply left to starve to death. Right now he needed his cowboys, so he could get a horse and gallop back to the ranch before the deception was discovered.
The thunder of hoofs came to his ears. He saw Nessus bearing down on him, handsome face twisted in a gloating smile, eyes gleaming. Before Pete could stir, he was picked up bodily and thrown across the saddle in front of the Greek officer. The point of a dagger pricked his back.
"Don't move, Petros Mankos—impostor!" Nessus commanded. "We're going to the king—and I'll show him that it's you, not Hercules, who wears the lion's skin!"
Pete was acutely uncomfortable. The horse's gallop jarred him till he was nearly seasic
k, and sometimes the dagger would slip down painfully, He heard a cry.
"Ride 'im, cowboy!"
He looked back. The mustangs of the cowhands were racing in pursuit, dust rising from their heels. Beyond them, far behind, came the troop of Nessus. Could Pete's would-be rescuers reach him in time?
Nessus laughed and dug his spurs deep. The steed sprang forward with renewed speed. The officer bent low as an arrow whistled past.
"Hey!" Pete yelped. "You'll hit me!"
But the cowboys didn't care about that. As long as Hercules' reputation went untarnished, they'd be satisfied--; if they had to kill both Nessus and Pete to accomplish their ends. Their wails went up to the blue sky.
"Yippee! Ride 'im, cowboy! Yipee!"
In another moment, Pete knew, the arrows would find their mark. Nessus, grimly silent, drove the horse on. His dagger did not stir from the captive's back. Pete noticed, abruptly, that he held something in his hand. The Roman candle. . .
Somehow he got the matches out of his pocket without attracting Nessus' attention. How he lit the fuse he never knew, in that gusting wind. Arrows were singing viciously past him. The dust-clouds choked him. The thunder of hoofs deafened him. He lit the candle and aimed it
Swish! In front of the horse's nose a spurt of raving fire blasted! The horrified animal tried to turn inside out and start running the other way. It only succeeded in doing a somersault. But that was effective enough. Pete felt himself flying through the air, and fell heavily atop a body that whooped hoarsely once and was silent.
He got up dizzily from Nessus' prostrate form. The officer was out cold.
The cowhands came riding up. One of them extended a hand, and helped Pete vault to the saddle behind him. "Ride 'im, cowboy!"
They fled toward the ranch, hopelessly outdistancing the troop. Pete breathed again. Nessus' story would never be believed now. Hercules' reputation was safe—even enhanced. For the son of Zeus had slain the hydra!
Bang!
* * * * *
"Hello, Pete," said Doctor Mayhem. "How are you feeling ?"
"Wh-what?" Mr. Manx stared around at the laboratory. Greece had vanished.
The cowboys were gone. He was back in New York.
"I finally succeeded in repairing the machine," Dr. Mayhem said. "I brought back your wrestler friend, Bigpig, first."
Pete staggered erect.
"Where is he?"
"I sent him to the hospital. He had a bad case of—well, he must have run into some goldenrod. But he'll come around in a day or so. What happened, anyhow, Pete?"
It was a long story, but at last it was finished, to Mayhem's intense satisfaction. He had been hanging on every word.
"Hercules, eh? That clears up so many mysteries. The man-eating birds —ostriches, you say? And the hydra was a squid? Amazing. Even the shirt of Nessus that was supposed to have killed Hercules—" Doctor Mayhem seemed amused.
"Yeah." Pete glanced at the door. "It seems to me I came here with the idea of asking you if you could cure Bigpig. That was quite a while ago, but I'd still like to know."
"I'm afraid not." The scientist's voice was regretful.
Manx sighed. "I guess I'll just have to keep him away from goldenrod, if I expect him to stay in condition for more fights, then," he said.
Mayhem slapped his hand to his forehead.
"Oh, I forget, Pete. Your friend told me to tell you he was finished with the wrestling profession. He said that when he got out of the hospital he was going back to Montana."
There was silence for two minutes. At length Pete drew himself together and made for the door.
"See you later, Doc," he said. "I've got something important to attend to, right away."
"You have? What?"
Mr. Manx's grin was enough to frighten babies.
"Oh, nothing much," he shrugged, as he closed the door behind him. "I just want to send Biggie some—flowers!"
About the Author
Henry Kuttner (1915-1958) was an American author who was known for his literary prose and worked in close collaboration with his wife, C. L. Moore. Their work together spanned the 1940s and 1950s and most of the work was credited to pseudonyms, mainly Lewis Padgett and Lawrence O'Donnell. It has been stated that their collaboration was so intensive that, after a story was completed, it was often impossible for either Kuttner or Moore to recall who had written which portions. Among Kuttner's most popular work were the Gallegher stories, published under the Padgett name, about a man who invented hi-tech solutions to client problems (including an insufferably egomaniacal robot) when he was stinking drunk, only to be completely unable to remember exactly what he had built or why after sobering up.
In 2007, New Line Cinema released a feature film loosely based on the Lewis Padgett short story "Mimsy Were the Borogoves" under the title The Last Mimzy.
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