Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  Trost said coldly, adjusting his glasses, “It seems that the Earth and Moon have been destroyed. Apparently by this fleet.” His keen eyes were a smouldering blaze.

  “It’s impossible!” Heffley whispered. “A planet—annihilated! Nothing left—”

  “We saw it,” Trost said with finality. “Terry, what’re you doing?”

  Shawn was wrenching at the controls. “We’re going after those ships,” he said, an angry grin on his dark face. “You’re right, Pete. Earth has been destroyed. We’ve no weapon capable of such a thing, but races on other planets—well, they might have developed atomic control to a point where this could be done. Some sort of ultra-ionization, perhaps.” The Eagle flashed back in its course. On the vision screen the golden fleet grew smaller. Shawn increased the speed.

  But it was useless. He was soon outdistanced. Not till the alien spaceships had vanished from the telescopic screen, lost in the immensity of space, did Shawn turn from the controls, scowling. He shrugged silently.

  Not until then did the five fully realize the significance of what had happened. A thousand things flooded into their minds—memories of their lives on Earth, people they had known and loved, hopes and plans and ideals, now vanished utterly, gone as the planet had gone. Heffley said,

  “We should have been destroyed with the Earth.” His meagre face was twisted.

  “God, it—it’s impossible.”

  “The man without a country had nothing on us,” said Trost, smiling sourly.

  “Look—you mean the whole Earth’s gone? “Flynn inquired, gripping Shawn’s arm with a steeltrap grip. “Frisco too? You don’t mean—”

  “Frisco, New York, Timbuctoo—the whole planet, Hooker,” Shawn said. He glanced at the girl, who was dabbing futilely at her eyes with a lacy wisp of linen. “The question is—what now?”

  It was Trost who voiced the thought in the minds of all. Polishing his glasses, he said precisely, “There are five of us. The sole representatives of Earth’s civilization. We might, of course, run and hide, perhaps find some planet that would shelter us. And there would always be the chance that this golden fleet would seek us out and kill us, too. No, many people I knew and loved have died with the Earth. Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord—but I vote we have a cut at a little vengeance ourselves. “His flippant words were belied by the bitter rage in his cold eyes.

  “He’s right!” Flynn snarled. “By God, we’ve got our guns! And we can use ’em.”

  Heffley said nothing, but he flooded in agreement. Shawn said, “I suppose you all know this is suicide. We may destroy a few of the golden ships, but—”

  “At least we’ll have done that,” Trost murmured, and Heffley added,

  “Whoever those aliens are, the fact that they have power doesn’t necessarily mean that they’re a great deal more intelligent than we are. We’ve a heritage behind us, Terry—the heritage of thousands of years of civilization. We may be more successful than you think.”

  SHAWN turned to the girl. “What’s your vote, Lorna?”

  She stood up, a slim, vibrant figure, her alabaster body scarcely vailed by her tattered clothing. “We’ll fight! If we can find those golden ships—”

  “I doubt if they came from beyond the System,” Trost hazarded. “Even their speed wouldn’t bridge the interstellar distances. It’s my guess, judging from their direction, that they’re headed for Mars, or else Saturn. Jupiter’s on the other side of the Sun; so are the other great planets, except Pluto.”

  “We’ll head for Mars, then,” Shawn said. “But we don’t want to land unprepared. “Check over the arsenal, Pete. There’s no telling what kind of mortals we may encounter. Maybe they’ll be peaceable and maybe they won’t.”

  Trost nodded and went out, Flynn lumbering at his heels. Shawn relinquished the controls to Heffley. He glanced at the girl.

  “Maybe I can find some clothes,” he grunted. “Not much left of yours. Come along.”

  In a locker he discovered a khaki shirt and trousers and handed them to Lorna. But at the door he turned, involuntarily, at a rustle of movement. The girl had slipped off the tattered remnant of her dress and was nude save for filmy under-things. The pale cones of her breasts swayed as she bent over, slipping a slim foot into the trousers.

  Shawn was trembling a little, his muscles weak as water. The girl was a vision of loveliness, rousing all the passion in him. He stared fascinated at her supple form, took a half-step forward, as she drew the trousers up over the lucious swell of her hips. Then, compressing his lips, Shawn drew back, his palms moist with sweat. Silently he turned and went out, rejoining Heffley in the control room. There Lorna rejoined them presently, a boyishly slender figure in the masculine garments, auburn hair cascading about her shoulders.

  The Engle flashed on, driving relentlessly toward the red star that was Mars. Shawn’s face was grim as he stood beside Heffley, one hand unconsciously gripping the cold butt of his automatic. Nevertheless, he could not keep his thoughts on the destruction of Earth; the girl beside him compelled a quickening beat of his pulse, and more than once Shawn’s eyes rested on the soft curve of her cheek, veiled by the auburn curls . . .

  Steadily, surely, with a swiftness which its occupants could understand only through their sight, the ship hurtled through space.

  CHAPTER III

  RED WORLD OF FEAR

  A CITY of domes and towers and minarets lay in the midst of a sandy plain of angry scarlet, and the Eagle sped through the thin air envelope of Mars toward it. Shawn, however, was cautious. He grounded his spaceship several miles from the metropolis, safely hidden behind a low ridge.

  Heffley was testing the air. “It’s okay,” he said. “No harmful gases. A little short on oxygen, but we can breathe it.”

  “What the plan?” Lorna asked. Shawn shook his head.

  “We’ll make it as we go along. If the golden fleet came from Mars, we’ve reached our destination. If not—” He pointed up. “We’ll search further. Pete, come along with me. We’ll scout around. The rest of you, stay in the ship.”

  Trost, heavily armed, opened the space lock. Shawn followed him out, pausing to say, “We’ll be back before sunset.”

  “What if you’re not?” Lorna asked him.

  He touched his automatic, grinning wryly. “We will. Don’t worry.”

  With a nod he passed through the lock and clambered down the rope ladder after Trost. The astronomer’s precise, handsome face, with the familiar hornrimmed glasses, seemed incongruous above the garments of rough khaki, against the alien background of an unfamiliar, desolate world. Without speaking the two men started in the direction of the city they had seen from the air.

  The desert was not all sand. Grotesque rock formations, eroded by eons of wind, ground and chiseled by sand-grains, were all around them. Water apparently had played little part in shaping Mars—at least, not for many centuries. The air was curiously dry, and more than once the two drank from the canteens they had brought along.

  They were crossing a barren, reddish waste when abruptly Shawn gripped Trost’s arm, halted him.

  “Hold on, Pete. There’s something—”

  “Eh?” Trost peered through his glasses. “Good Lord!”

  To their ears came a harsh, very loud scratching sound, like coarse sandpaper being rubbed together, and it seemed to come from underground. The sands heaved in turmoil, and thrusting up from the depths came a bristling, rounded surface.

  At first Shawn scarcely realized the incredible size of the thing. It was huge as an elephant, rising inexorably out of the ground, and in a moment he saw the entire frightful shape. Only an alien age on a rotting world could have spawned such a horror.

  For it was a worm-thing, a monster with a coiling, sinuous body as thick and round as a barrel, dirty gray in color, and covered with thick bristling bunches of coarse black hair. The head was heavily furred, and it had no features, save for a gaping round aperture with a sharp, horny rim, large enough to swallow a
man at a gulp.

  Shawn’s throat was dry; he stood unmoving as the monster glided forward. Trost croaked something, and the sound broke the spell that held Shawn. He flung up his rifle—a powerful magazine repeater—and squeezed the trigger, bracing himself against the recoil.

  The bullet crashed into the monster’s hide, opening a gaping, hideous wound from which a burst of yellowish ichor poured. But the worm-thing only came forward more swiftly, in silence save for the harsh rasping.

  Shawn leaped aside, trying to see the creature’s eyes. Apparently it had none, hunting by scent or by vibration. A wall of pulsing, bristle-haired flesh went past him, not a foot distant from the muzzle of his gun as he thrust it forward and fired again. The sound of a shot told Shawn that Trost was also trying to kill the horror.

  IT coiled and turned swiftly, came pouring over the sands with incredible speed. The gaping, horn-rimmed beak bore down on Shawn. Sick fear dragged at his stomach. He fired point-blank down the creature’s throat and sprang away just in time, feeling a sidelong blow against his leg that sent him sprawling. Frantically he rolled over and over, leaping erect to face the worm.

  But the monster was writhing in thrashing agony, all its hideous body knotting and twisting, a shrill knife-edged hiss blasting from its beak. Trost was beckoning near by, and Shawn hastily ran toward the astronomer.

  “Come on, Terry! We’d better scram!” Trost blinked through the dirt that smeared his glasses, still perched precariously on his nose.

  Shawn nodded, and together they circled the valley that the thrashings of the monster had hollowed out.

  “Did you hear a shot a while ago, while we were shooting at that thing?” Trost asked. “I had a hunch it came from the Eagle, but it might have come from your gun.”

  “I heard a shot,” Shawn said. “I thought you fired it.”

  “No. My rifle jammed. Do you suppose—”

  They stared at each other. Shawn said, “It may have meant nothing.”

  “Maybe. But we’d better get back to the Eagle. It won’t pay to take any chances.”

  Shawn nodded. They began to retrace their steps, giving the place of the worm-thing a wide berth. The dry air of Mars parched their throats, made the baked, hot landscape swing dizzily about them. They dared not travel too fast; the lack of sufficient oxygen would have been a serious, perhaps a deadly, handicap. So it was some time before they reached the spaceship.

  The rope ladder still dangled from the open port. Shawn shouted as they came to it.

  “Sam! Hello, there!”

  Dead silence answered. Shawn glanced around, stiffened as he saw footmarks on the dry ground. Silently he pointed them out to Trost.

  The astronomer nodded, glanced up inquiringly at the porthole. “What d’you think, Terry?”

  “Stay down here. Keep me covered, “Shawn whispered, and went up the rope ladder, an automatic in his hand. He reached the space lock, peered in. Nothing. With a wave at Trost he climbed aboard and opened the inner door.

  Simultaneously a flash of steel gleamed ; something raced toward his throat, a corkscrew-twisted swordblade, wielded by a half-naked, brawny giant whose face, Shawn saw with a shock of surprise, was a white, passionless skull. Instinct saved Shawn—that, and the fact that he had been expecting an attack. He flung himself aside, felt his shirt rip as the point tore through it. Pain stung his side.

  Before his attacker could recover, Shawn fired. With a harsh scream of agony the man stumbled and went down, clawing at his chest where a red stream spouted forth. Shawn had no time for him; a gnarled, broad-shouldered warrior, with the same hideous skull face, was swinging his sword. He flung it with deadly accuracy.

  Shawn ducked, heard the steel clash against the wall. Before he could fire the man was upon him, great hands digging into the Earthman’s throat.

  The impetus of his body sent Shawn crashing back. His head slammed against metal, and suddenly he went sick and dizzy. Choking for breath, clawing vainly at the frightful face looming above him, he realized that he had dropped his automatic.

  His muscles felt weak as water. He tried to thrust at the killer’s eyes, but the man rolled his head aside, shouting laughter. A black pit was opening beneath Shawn; the skull-face of the Martian was dwindling, growing smaller and smaller . . .

  A gun bellowed; the grinding fingers in Shawn’s throat relaxed. The warm stickiness of blood was hot on his cheek. Fighting back his dizziness, he staggered up, freeing himself from the Martian’s dying grip.

  TROST stood nearby, smiling coldly, an automatic smoking in his hand.

  “Any more of ’em, d’you think, Terry? “he asked.

  Breathing in great gasps, Shawn shook his head. “Dunno. Maybe—”

  “No!”

  Trost whirled, his gun thrusting forward. The Martian Shawn had shot, through the chest was propped half upright against the inner door of the space-lock. The skull-face stared blindly.

  “No—more of us!” the man gasped. “Droom curse you! We captured the others—so easily—we thought—”

  Shawn bent over the dying man. “Where are they?”

  “In Kathor—by now.”

  “The city near here?”

  The Martian nodded, thrust up a clawing hand at Shawn—and died. His body tumbled limply forward.

  “Terry,” Trost said. “He wasn’t speaking English, was he?”

  The glances of the two men locked. Shawn nodded slowly. “You had the same idea, eh? We didn’t really hear that guy. It sounded inside my brain, somehow—”

  “Thought transference,” Trost finished. “That may help—our being able to understand them.”

  “Probably they can understand us, too.” Shawn bent, fumbled at the pale skull of one of the dead Martians. It came away in his hand. “Mask. I thought so. That’ll help. Pete, we’ll change clothes with ’em. If we can get into the city without exciting suspicion, we may be able to find out what’s happened to Heffley and the others.”

  Trost was already stripping, and Shawn followed his example. They donned flexible greenish kirtles of some leathery hide, adjusted the strange cork-screw-bladed swords at their sides.

  “I think I’ll carry my mask for a while,” Trost said, eying with distaste the blood that smeared it. He wiped it away as well as he could.

  “Wonder if we dare take a gun,” Shawn ruminated. “No place to put it, though. Damn!” He compromised by strapping an automatic to his thigh beneath the skirt-like garment, and Trost did the same.

  “Now for the city. What did he call it—Kathor? Come on, Pete.”

  Not even the angry light of a wan, reddish sun could brighten the ebon gloom of Kathor’s towers and minarets, rising sheer from the pathless wilderness. Shawn expected trouble at the gate he could see ahead, but there was surprisingly little difficulty about entering the city. He could not help wondering whether it might not be much harder to get out.

  Soldiers guarded the portal, but after a brief glance at the skull-masks of the two Earthmen they lowered their swords. As they went on Shawn whispered, “I’ve a hunch only big shots are permitted to wear these things. Priests, maybe.”

  “Do you notice how human they all look?” Trost whispered back. “It confirms the Arrhenius spore theory—that the spores of life float from planet to planet. Probably the Martians evolved from the same original stock we did.” Men and women, scantily garbed, hurried through the streets; occasionally armed men, manifestly soldiers, lounged past. Once Shawn saw a man with a skull-mask hurrying swiftly into a doorway. He touched Trost’s arm.

  “Come along. That guy may know something.”

  They followed the priest—for, as Shawn learned later, that was the status of those who wore the skull-mask—and found themselves in what seemed to be a tavern, filled with the stench of oil and liquors. A few stools were scattered about, and a dozen men stood here and there, drinking from wooden cups. The priest was nowhere in sight.

  SHAWN found a seat in a corner, and Trost sank down
beside him. Presently a fat, moon-faced man appeared and thrust wooden cups into their hands, hurrying away without a word. The jaws of the mask were hinged, Shawn found, and he sipped the liquor.

  It was bitterly potent, unpleasant in taste. He held it to his lips for a moment, and then lowered the cup, his eyes searching for the priest who had entered the tavern. A curtained doorway in the far wall indicated a possible exit.

  Abruptly he stiffened. From the street something was shambling in—a gross, furry caricature of mankind, a thing neither beast nor human, but partaking of the features of each. Large as a man, its brutal, apish face held a gleam of intelligence far above that of a brute. Its naked body was covered with white hair. Yellow fangs gleamed in a gaping mouth, and reddish little eyes searched the room, malevolent inquiry in their depths.

  “Look out, Terry,” Trost said softly. “I don’t—”

  The beast-man shambled forward, lowering white-furred brows over its small eyes. A deep growl rose in its throat.

  Through the room a breath of fear whispered. Men paused, frozen, silently eying the monster. Now Shawn saw that in the doorway stood a skull-faced priest, and behind him a dozen armed guards. His hand crept down to the automatic strapped to his thigh.

  Without warning the beast-man sprang, bellowing rage. The foul stench of its breath was blown into Shawn’s face. Its long arms stretched out toward him, the taloned, anthropoid fingers flexing.

  Even at that moment Shawn realized that to use his gun would mean betrayal. Garbed as a Martian, he might bluff this out—but he dared not shoot the creature. He touched his sword hilt.

  The beast-man’s head swung from Shawn toward the group at the door, slowly, with meaning. The priest’s thoughts were clear as though he had spoken.

  “Those are the men, Yalang! Take them!”

  The leader of the soldiers followed the beast-man to the table. Cold black eyes looked at Shawn from a bearded, seamed face.