Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  Slowly, and with ever-increasing speed, the spaceship lifted. It fled into the clouds of sunset and was gone. Perhaps, feeling that surge of movement, some hint of Glathnor’s purpose came to the dying Rondar. Perhaps he realized that at the end of his journey there would be men of an alien planet who would probe his brain with thought-readers, and who would learn there the proof they sought. So the metal coffin rushed on into the void . . .

  And to Glathnor, held motionless in the crushing jaws of the giant ant, there came a vision of Armageddon. He saw the skies of Earth darkened with ships from Titan; he saw the insects battling desperately, hopelessly, and at last going down to an oblivion from which there would be no return.

  And, at the last, Glathnor painfully turned his head to the west, and his strange, faceted eyes looked into the burning splendor of sunset clouds motionless above the green expanse of forest. So the Titan remained, unmoving, until in a little while he died.

  THE STAR PARADE

  Many a Man’s Plans to Film the Great Martian Inferno Had Gone Up in Smoke-But When Tony Quade Had to Shoot It, There Were Fireworks!

  CHAPTER I

  Quick Montage: Trouble on the Moon

  VON ZORN was about to make a speech. The chief of Nine Planets Films, Inc., sat rigidly at his semi-circular glass desk, staring at the televisor eye a few feet away. In a moment his small, simian face would be reproduced on receiver-screens all over the System—for this was an interplanetary hook-up. Once each week Nine Planets took the air, but, though stars and singers and comedians performed often, it was seldom indeed that the chief condescended to speak.

  Anthony Quade, camera expert, had arranged his large body comfortably in a nearby chair, and was sketching a libelous caricature of Von Zorn on a convenient pad. He was wondering why the chief had sent for him. Something had gone wrong, of course.

  He didn’t know what, but when anything went haywire in the gigantic organization of Nine Planets, Von Zorn was apt to send hastily for Quade. The movie expert blinked sleepily and added a toothbrush mustache to his employer’s portrait.

  One of the televisor operators said, “Two minutes now.” He flicked over a switch. Soft music welled out from an unseen transmitter. It died away, and a mellow voice observed, “Greetings to the System, from Hollywood on the Moon and Nine Planets Films. Tonight our program is dedicated to New York. We’re right over you, Manhattan—can you see us? Over more than two hundred thousand miles of space we send greetings to you, New York, and to the whole System. We’re pretty far away, but during this hour we bring you, via televisor, the life of the most glamorous and romantic city in the Universe—Hollywood on the Moon!”

  TONY QUADE abstractedly attached a skinny monkey’s body to Von Zorn’s pictured head.

  “Nestling in the hollow of the Great Rim,” the announcer went on, “on the half of the Moon perpetually turned away from the Earth, rises this incredible metropolis. A garden city, and a place where science reaches out to new frontiers, where artificial gravity-fields and the most healthful atmosphere in the System combine to make Hollywood on the Moon a wonderland.”

  Quade drew a tall silk hat atop his chief’s head, and, struck by a sudden thought, carefully outlined a furry arm so that it seemed the Von Zorn faced monkey was scratching himself.

  “And now we bring you the head of Nine Planets Films, perhaps the greatest figure in the motion picture industry today—Mr. Ludwig Von Zorn, who has a personal message for you.”

  An unseen orchestra trumpeted. The televisor operator touched a button and nodded at the chief, who hastily snatched up his script and glared into the eye. As the music faded into silence Von Zorn took the ether.

  “I—uh—I wish every person who is listening now could visit Hollywood on the Moon,” he began. “I wish you could spend an evening at the Silver Spacesuit, watch the stars strolling along Lunar Boulevard, and stroll through the studios of Nine Planets. I know, if you could do that, just what you’d say. You’d say, ‘What’s all this activity about? Why is everyone so busy?’ ”

  “Wonder who wrote that speech for him?” Quade said inaudibly. He carefully tore up the caricature of Von Zorn and placed the fragments in his pocket as the speaker continued.

  “I’ll tell you why everybody is so busy here. We’re working on a new picture, one of the greatest ever to be put on the screen. The biggest stars of Nine Planets will be in it—Clint Padrick, Edith Rudeen, Ailyn Van, and our latest discovery, Kathleen Gregg—and more, many more. I’m speaking of The Star Parade, the most spectacular interplanetary picture ever filmed. Watch for it—the release date isn’t far off!”

  Sweating, Von Zorn relaxed. Hastily he fumbled in a drawer and brought out a bottle, from which he drank long and thirstily, while the televisor operators dismantled their apparatus and departed. Quade got up and stood waiting.

  “Oh, Lord,” Von Zorn moaned. “What an ordeal. If the public only knew—Quade, we’re in trouble. The Star Parade’s jinxed. We’ve blurbed it up all over the System, and it’s six weeks behind schedule now. Trouble right from the start.”

  “Yeah,” Quade said. “I heard a few things. Lots of temperament, eh?”

  “Five stars! You know what that means. Ailyn Van raises cain on an average of once an hour; Clint Padrick and Edith Rudeen—they’re married, you know—are fighting all the time; Floyd Stover can’t stay sober—”

  “What about Kathleen?” Quade asked. He had been responsible for Kathleen Gregg’s entry into pictures, and had appointed himself her guardian angel—a role the girl sometimes resented.

  “Oh, she’s okay,” Von Zorn admitted. “By the way, you gave her an engagement ring last month. Take a look at her contract before you marry her.”

  “I did,” Quade said sadly. “It was a dirty trick, Chief. She can’t get married till her contract runs out.’ ”

  VON ZORN laughed falsely.

  “Oh, you can wait a little while. We don’t want a prospective star marrying and losing half her publicity value, you know.”

  “If you ever need a blood transfusion, they’ll have to pump ammonia into your veins,” Quade growled. “You coldblooded—”

  “Hold on. I was just going to assign you to The Star Parade, so you could be with Kathleen. I know how you feel, Tony. I’ve got a heart, you know.”

  “Try defrosting it some time.” Quade suggested. “I know darn well why you’re assigning me to that jinx flicker. Nobody else wants the job.”

  “Have it your own way,” Von Zorn said. “Fowler’s in the hospital. Ran into trouble on the Mars location—something bit him, and infection set in. Now the troupe’s without a director. And there’s been so much trouble I don’t want to let anybody but you handle the job, Quade. Especially since there’s been a set-back in filming the Inferno.”

  Quade’s eyebrows quirked up.

  “I told you the Inferno couldn’t be filmed,” he said grimly. “It’s impossible.”

  “Uh—I don’t think so. The labs have turned out some protective armor that seems to be okay. At least—”

  “Protective armor!” Quade snorted. “What can armor do against the Inferno? There’s enough sub-atomic energy in that Martian hellhole to blast Hollywood on the Moon to bits. It can’t be filmed!”

  “It was—once,” Von Zorn said softly, his gaze cool and sharp.

  Yes—the Inferno had once been filmed. Ever since the discovery of that fantastic cavern on Mars scientists and explorers had tried to do the impossible. A trader named Logan had first found it, decades ago, when he had traced down the Martian tribes’ legend of an underground city near Elysium that had been destroyed by the gods.

  At one time, before interplanetary flight had existed, a race of Martians had made their home in the caverns of an extinct volcano, and had built a metropolis there. But the red planet is old, and earthquakes rack it as the crust contracts, bringing more and more pressure to bear on the molten exterior.

  Scientists had theorized on what had caused the catastr
ophe. A passage had opened connecting the cavern city with the heart of Mars, and through this passage poured, not lava, but—energy! The tremendous unleashed power from the center of the planet, blasting up with inconceivable force, carried undreamed-of energy waves from the smashed atoms far below.

  Quade remembered this now.

  “There’s been quite a few people who tried to film the Inferno,” he stated. “You’re right, one man did succeed. Ten years ago he crawled down into it with a rope around his waist, a suit of protective armor, and a pocket camera with specially treated film. When his friends pulled him out he was dead. His brain had been burned out by the rays down there. Good Lord, Von Zorn, those waves are stronger than radioactivity! Gamma rays can get through centimeters of lead, but the radiations of the Inferno—well, they’re a lot stronger than that. Don’t forget they’re created by pressure that knocks the stuffing out of the atom.”

  THE movie executive interrupted.

  “You said one man succeeded.”

  “Yeah—he got a picture, pretty hazy and vague. And it killed him.”

  “Science has gone forward in ten years,” Von Zorn persisted. “Listen, Quade, we’ve blurbed The Star Parade all over the System as the picture that’ll have authentic shots of the Inferno. All we need are the backgrounds ; we’ll use double exposure to get the actors in the scenes. We can’t fake the Inferno itself—not after our advertising build-up.”

  “Why the devil did you let yourself in for it in the first place?” Quade demanded.

  “Gerry Carlyle,” Von Zorn said between clenched teeth. “The catch-’em-alive dame. We’ve faked so much interplanetary stuff that the public won’t pay to see our pics any more, when Carlyle brings back the real thing for the London Zoo. Audiences are tired of our robots. But the Inferno—that’s something Gerry Carlyle can’t put in her damn zoo!” Quade considered. Both he and Von Zorn knew how difficult was the task before the man who directed The Star Parade. A film that starts out with a jinx is hoodooed all the way through. Moreover, the Martian location was an outpost that might prove dangerous—certainly the Inferno was! Against these considerations Quade weighed others.

  This picture was Kathleen Gregg’s big chance. She couldn’t afford to fall down now, for the ways of a studio are devious, and many a star has dropped from the limelight for no fault of her own. Also, Quade knew Fowler. The director had for years wanted to direct just such a picture as The Star Parade would be, and he had worked himself to the verge of a nervous breakdown trying to handle every detail himself. Quade realized what the film meant to Fowler.

  So he said, “Can do, Chief. On one condition.”

  Von Zorn looked alarmed. “Yes?”

  “I want carte blanche in handling your five stars. What I say goes. I know Ailyn Van and her temperament—and the others. If I don’t make ’em jump through hoops they’ll be making me jump off the Rim.”

  “I suppose you’re right. But I don’t want any trouble.”

  “There won’t be any.” Quade turned to the door, grinning. “Of course, I may have to spank Ailyn a bit and sock Clint Padrick in the jaw. They’re all hams to me.”

  QUADE found an elevator and was hurtled to street level, eighty floors, in the time it took him to kindle a stubby, well-caked pipe. He inhaled a whiff of the green, aromatic tobacco grown on the Moon, and stepped out on the yielding composition of the sidewalk, figured in colorful mosaic.

  A blaze of lights made the street brilliant, so brilliant that it was difficult to tell whether the sky was blue or star-studded black. It was night, though, Quade knew. The solar orb was blazing on the other side of the Moon, and Earthlight never touched the film metropolis.

  Quade hailed a taxi and was whisked across the city to the hospital, a huge spherical building of crystal in the center of which an artificial sun was built, sending its ultra-violet rays throughout the entire translucent structure. The lift took Quade to Fowler’s room. The director, a thin-faced, tired looking youngster, was lying silently in his bed, lips tight, eyes worried.

  Quade did not attempt false heartiness.

  “Tough luck, old man,” he greeted him. “Von Zorn told me to take over.”

  Fowler nodded.

  “I thought he would. Glad it’s you, Tony. I know you’ll finish the flicker.”

  “I’ll do my damnedest. And, incidentally, you’re going to get screen credit. I’ll see to that. Now—” He waved down the director’s protest. “Now I want some dope on The Star Parade. How do things line up?”

  “Things went haywire all of a sudden,” Fowler said, grimacing. “That Mars location did the business. It’s the craziest place. Something there bit me.”

  “I know. What was it?”

  “You’ll think I’m crazy, but—well, a claw bit me.”

  Quade blinked.

  “Claw? A land-crab?”

  “I said a claw. Nothing else. I’d shot a snake of some kind, and was just about to pick it up, when this claw—a big green thing—popped out of nowhere, bit me, and ran off with the snake. I told you it sounded screwy.”

  “Dunno. There’re lots of queer animals on the planets. I’ll keep an eye out for your claw, anyway. Had you got far with the Mars stuff?”

  “Not very. The stars—all five of ’em—came back to Hollywood on the Moon with me. They wouldn’t work with the assistant director. At least, Kathleen Gregg would have, but the others overruled her. The rest of the crew are on Mars, waiting. You’ll have to round up the five stars.”

  “What about the Inferno?” Quade asked.

  Fowler shook his head, frowning. “Haven’t had a chance to put it in the can yet. Too much trouble. Those new armored suits may do the trick—certainly Von Zorn’s radioactive-resistant film will work, but—”

  “I’ve a hunch the suits are corny,” Quade said. “Those rays can get through almost any kind of shield. But we can probably dope out something.” Inwardly, though, he wasn’t so sure. The rays were deadly to brain tissue, and Von Zorn would willingly slaughter all his staff to get a hit picture. Not for the first time Quade cursed his chief.

  FOWLER moved uneasily.

  “Don’t take any risks, Tony. I don’t—oh Lord! What’s that?”

  The door had opened, and something popped into the room with the agility of a jack-rabbit. It gave a tremendous hop, sailed entirely over the bed, and crashed down on the remains of Fowler’s dinner. Plates tinkled, and the table on which the tray stood tilted ominously.

  “I picked him up on Ganymede,” Quade said, after a startled pause, “It’s called a Bouncer. Native of the asteroid—”

  The Bouncer jiggled with excitement, and the table swayed, while spilled cocoa dripped gently to the floor. The creature was about a foot and a half high, and resembled a tailless kangaroo. Short, stubby forearms and tiny, human-looking paws were folded over a bulging little paunch.

  On a head shaped like a turnip were (a) two saucerlike eyes, (b) a button of a nose, and (c) down under a remarkably long upper lip, a small, sadly drooping mouth. It was entirely covered with white fur, now decorated with orange marmalade.

  The Bouncer opened its puckered mouth and said quietly, “What are you doing here?”

  Fowler moaned.

  “It’s no use your pretending to see it too,” he told Quade. “I’m having hallucinations. I just heard it talk.”

  “Sure, Quade chuckled. “It reads thoughts. Read my thought just now. It picks up the strong vibrations broadcast by a brain, and repeats ’em. Listen, I’ll show you.”

  He became silent, while the Bouncer, suddenly conscious of the marmalade on his rotund body, began to lick it off. Then he straightened, nodding energetically.

  “I’m a native of Ganymede,” he declared squeakily. “My name’s Bill. Pleased to know you, Mr. Fowler.” He hesitated, then went on, “Mr. Quade, you’re getting uglier every day. How long has it been since you combed your hair?”

  Quade’s eyebrows lifted. Then, smiling wryly, he sprang for t
he door and wrenched it open. A small girl, standing in the corridor, was doing her best not to laugh.

  “Oh, it’s you, Kathleen,” he said. “I knew I didn’t broadcast that last crack. Come on in.”

  Kathleen Gregg had a stubborn chin, pleasantly warm brown eyes, and a temper. She showed it now.

  “So you’re taking over The Star Parade, eh?” she observed. “Well, that’s lucky. I was just going out to collect our four stars, and I had my brass knuckles ready. That’ll be your job now, Tony.”

  “I’m ready for it. I was just getting the dope from Fowler.”

  “Good. I just came from your apartment. They said you’d gone to see Von Zorn, so I phoned him and figured out where you were. Bill begged to come along, so—”

  “Don’t believe it, Tony,” the Bouncer broke in, blinking owlishly. “She enticed me out. Offered me candy. And she didn’t give it to me yet, either.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad,” Quade said reprovingly to Kathleen. “You ought to keep your word, you know. Give him the candy, Kate.”

  It was almost impossible for Fowler to realize that the small Ganymedean was merely broadcasting Quade’s thoughts. However, for the moment he thrust thought of the Bouncer aside.

  “Tony,” he said. “About The Star Parade—”

  Quade sobered.

  “Yeah. Well, Kate, can you round up Ailyn Van and Edith Rudeen? I’ll get Clint Padrick and Stover. I want to start for Mars in three hours.” Without a word Kathleen nodded and went to the door.

  “See you at the spaceport,” Quade called, as the Bouncer leaped from the table and hopped hastily after the girl.

  CHAPTER II

  Follow Shot: Moon to Mars

  QUADE found Floyd Stover floating in his swimming pool, red and depressed. Nine Planets greatest character star had a hangover. Feebly rubbing his great mop of white hair, he climbed up the ladder and agreed to be at the spaceport as soon as he could dress and pack.