Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

THE plan started well. Hector and his companions arrived with their equipment neatly packed in traveling bags, and managed to secure an apartment on the ninth floor. That done, and the bellboy tipped and dismissed, the Martian went down to the lobby to wait for Martin, who was not long in appearing.

  Hector gave the ex-burglar his room number and remained on guard against the eventuality of the real Dr. Owen’s appearance. Five minutes later Martin and two of Summit’s technical experts entered Owen’s apartment bearing a half dozen heavy suitcases.

  The room became a scene of frenzied activity. The amplifier was set up and checked. The electric sockets were plugged in. Brody’s make-up was examined painstakingly. At last all was ready. Powell drew the blinds and switched on a lamp, watching that no betraying shadows might come within the vision of the creature he was trying to locate. Brody took his place before the screen.

  “We’ll try it out,” Powell said. “Run through it, Brody.” He flicked over the amplifier button.

  The dress rehearsal was a complete success. On it a great deal would depend—perhaps even the ultimate fate of New York.

  He pressed the televisor switch. Instantly red light flared on the screen. On and off it flickered, regularly, mechanically.

  Was this a signal? Was some countersign necessary? Or could it be merely a busy signal? There was no way of telling. He turned off the televisor, and turned to look blankly at the others. “Something wrong?” Martin asked.

  “I dunno. Maybe.”

  Martin came forward and scrutinized the televisor.

  “I’ve seen these private-beam sets before. When I was practising. There’s a regular signal they use, different with each set. Let me have a look at this.”

  Feeling slightly sick, Powell stepped aside and let Martin finger the televisor. A regular signal—that was bad. He should have expected it. It was a logical precaution to take. But without knowing the signal there was no way of carrying out the plan.

  Powell’s nerves got more and more tense as he moved uneasily about the room, trying to think. His gaze roved over the bookshelves, as though searching for a clue. It’d be a hell of a thing to give up now!

  As it turned out, that wasn’t necessary. Martin straightened up with an exclamation of satisfaction. Immediately the cameraman was at his side.

  “What’s up?”

  “Got the signal. I know these gadgets backwards. Used to repair ’em, in fact. When I was—”

  “Practising,” Powell finished harshly. “I know. Well?”

  “Turn it on. Get ten red flashes. Switch it off and then on for five flashes. Then on again for ten, off, and on. I’ll show you.”

  On the screen a picture grew!

  Powell leaped back, dragging Martin with him. He gestured at Brody, who slid into his place before the televisor. But the haste was unnecessary.

  There was no figure on the screen. Just a blank wall in the distance, a wall across which wires lay like a network amid dozens of dials and gauges and switches. Powell whipped a camera from his pocket and slipped a magnifying lens upon it. Hastily he began to film the scene.

  Then something came into view—a man of metal, man-sized but utterly unhuman, the same creature Powell had seen in Owen’s Chicago home.

  There was a cylindical body, topped by a globular head with faceted eyes. The arms seemed made of some pliable stuff, and were anthropoid in contour. The legs were not. They were simply jointed bars of metal, scarcely two inches in diameter, and there were three of them, placed equi-distant around the base of the cylindrical torso. They ended in semi-flexible claws that bent springily as weight was placed upon them.

  The robot came to the televisor. Its inhuman face grew huge on the screen. It nodded slowly.

  Mike gulped. Cold bloodlust was the only emotion that face expressed.

  CHAPTER IX

  Fight for a Body

  POWELL waved his hand. Behind him machinery began to work smoothly and silently. Brody leaned toward the televisor; his lips moved as the faked, amplified voice of Dr. Owen rang out.

  “I’ve been trying to reach you for hours! Couldn’t get to the apartment. Something’s gone wrong. I haven’t time to tell you now. I’ll call you again as soon as I can. It’s important, and dangerous!”

  The robot did not move. But its reaction was as Powell had expected.

  “What is wrong?” it asked. “Tell me quickly!”

  “I can’t. There’s no time,” the amplifier cried. “I’ve got to find Eberle right away. I need help badly!”

  How would the robot react to that? Did the real Owen know where Eberle was? Apparently not. Powell grinned as the cold voice spoke.

  “Eberle is at the Sun Sanatorium. Get in touch with him there. How are the—”

  Powell dared wait for no more. A question would be fatal. Swiftly, he shut off the machine. He found to his surprise that he was perspiring profusely.

  “Okay,” he told the others. “Clear out as fast as you can. Vaya con Dios!”

  Mike fled with Brody, collecting Hector in the lobby and dragging him along. He had to find a taxi in a hurry and get to the Sun Sanatorium, where Eberle was, presumably a prisoner. If the real Owen happened to call his boss, there’d be hell, and lots of it.

  “What now?” Brody asked as they piled into a cab.

  “Trouble,” Powell said grimly. “You don’t have to come along, you know. It’s dangerous business. I can let you off now if you want.”

  “I’ll string along,” the other said. “Count me in.”

  “Swell! Here’s what I want you to do, then . . .”

  While Powell outlined his plan, his mind was busy with other things. The streets were not crowded. New Yorkers had sought their homes as though by instinct, the primeval instinct of seeking shelter.

  Radios and televisors boomed reassuring messages. The situation was well in hand, the speakers declared, and through repetition they managed to instill some degree of confidence in the public. The water supply was adequate. Food was plentiful, compressed, dehydrated, or canned.

  In the vaults beneath the city there was a stock of emergency supplies, laid by for such emergencies as war, famine, or pestilence. There were great water tanks, and, if necessary, water could be condensed from the air itself, though in no great quantity. Powell knew that the water supply was the fatal danger. It wouldn’t last forever. Nor would the fuel that ran the complicated mechanism of New York. What then?

  SLOW, horrible death would turn the city mad with panic—men and women becoming raging beasts as they fought for a vanishing chance of life. It wasn’t a pleasant thought. Powell felt slightly sick. The pit of his stomach was like a hard, cold lump. He grinned wryly. Eberle might be able to help.

  What if the robot could have told the location of its own hideout!

  But that was too risky. Dr. Owen might already have known where to find the robot. Such a question would have instantly revealed the fake. And if Owen didn’t know, there was a good reason for it. The robot might keep its hideout secret even from its own subordinates.

  And the robot itself—what about that? Was it alive? Certainly no mechanical brain had ever been constructed small enough to fit in such a small compass as the automaton’s head.

  But need it be a mechanical brain? Recently there had been startling developments in trepanning and brain surgery, led by a Chinese medico who had, Powell remembered, vanished without trace not long ago. Might be something in that. But the difficulties of transferring a living brain into the metal skull of a robot were insurmountable, or nearly so. Powell found a cigar and lit it thoughtfully. What other solution was there?

  Remote control? A wireless-controlled robot, working on a tight beam? Possibly. It was easier to believe that than to believe in a living, intelligent automaton. It meant, of course, that a human being was at the bottom of the mystery. A man shrewd, cunning, with a scientific bent and a criminal mind. The Spacehawk would be the logical choice, if he were still alive. But the IIB had got the Spa
cehawk. Powell almost regretted it. With him alive, there’d have been no guess work. Who else was left?

  Powell didn’t know. The cab came to a halt.

  “We here,” Hector said. “What now?”

  The cameraman nodded at Brody. “Your move. Luck, fella. You’ll need it!”

  THE Sun Sanatorium was atop a skyscraper in the uptown area north of Harlem. There was a landing field for gyros, but martial law had ordered all planes grounded till further notice. Powell and Hector followed Brody into the lobby, after instructing the cab-driver to wait. They rode up in an express elevator.

  They emerged in an open-air patio above New York. It was floored with red tile, and a sun-dial stood forlornly in the center, looking singularly useless, in the absence of a Sun. Opaque glass walls hemmed in the enclosure. A girl seated at a switchboard near by looked up and smiled pleasantly.

  “Good evening. Can I help you?” Evening? It was still light. Powell glanced at his watch and gasped. Eight-thirty p. m.! The strange, shadowless sky had not changed. Either there was no night in this bizarre world or else the days were unusually long.

  Powell had decided that it would be dangerous and useless to ask for Eberle, since the scientist would scarcely be registered under his own name. Brody stepped forward.

  “I’m Dr. Owen. Have you a message for me?”

  The girl registered another dazzling smile. “Oh, yes, sir. You are to go to room twelve-fourteen.”

  At room twelve-fourteen Powell rang the buzzer. The door opened. A well-dressed, stocky man with an arrogant chin and a who-the-hell-are-you air stood on the threshold.

  “I’m Dr. Owen,” Brody said.

  “I know. These two—”

  “They’re all right. Where’s Eberle?” The stocky man hesitated and then stood aside, letting the newcomers enter. He carefully closed and locked the door.

  “I’m Haverhill,” he said, extending a large, capable-looking hand. Brody shook it, while Powell repressed an insane impulse toward laughter. The amenities must be preserved, even among unscrupulous crooks.

  Haverhill led the way toward an adjoining room.

  “I was going to keep him upstairs in the sanitorium,” he said over his shoulder, “but it was too dangerous. He might talk. He won’t now, of course.” The man nodded meaningly toward a long table that stood against the wall of the bedroom they had entered. It was littered with apparatus—test-tubes, hypos, retorts, a Bunsen burner, and a curious-looking device of mirrors set at intervals about a metal ring, which in turn was attached to a series of bogs and gears. A figure lay fully clothed upon the bed. Mike suppressed his thrill of triumph. It was Eberle!

  HE was a big, beefy muscular man who looked like a wrestler. Blue, unshaven jowls and an untidy mop of iron-gray hair bounded the ruddy face. Now the great torso and the heavy limbs lay utterly inert, the chest rising and falling very slowly, the eyes half closed.

  “Anything new?” Brody asked.

  “I’ve got the information on the space ship,” Haverhill replied. “The scopolamin did the trick. I’ve sent off a messenger with the notes. Eberle’s space drive principle is logical, apparently, and easy to construct. The First will be able to duplicate his ship easily. He televised me you were coming, by the way. You’re to get in touch with him immediately.”

  The First? Was that the name by which the robot was known? Powell frowned. He wanted to get Eberle out and to a safe place before trouble developed. But he also wanted to get all the information possible from Haverhill. The latter blew through his lips impatiently.

  “I’ve a televisor here that’s connected with the First. Do you want to use it?”

  Brody took a chance. “Yes. But I want to talk to Eberle first.”

  “Talk to him?” Haverhill looked puzzled. “But you know—” He stopped short. His brows came together in a frown. “Talk to him! You’d better talk to the First, Owen. Or else I will!”

  He reached casually into his pocket. Powell saw the glint of a gun coming out. With silent fury, the cameraman dived at Haverhill’s knees. The two crashed down in a vicious tangle. Hector picked up a vase, considered it thoughtfully, and discarded it for a larger one. Watching his chance, he stepped forward and stood above the struggling men. Abruptly, he smashed it down on Haverhill’s skull. Haverhill collapsed all at once.

  Powell got up, ruefully fingering his throat. He recovered the gun and put it in his pocket.

  “Not so good,” he said to Brody. “You made him suspicious. Apparently Eberle can’t talk, and the real Owen knows it. Well, can’t be helped now.”

  He went to the bedside and examined Eberle. The man’s breathing was shallow, his face pale. With a deft finger Powell lifted an eyelid and scrutinized a dilated pupil.

  “Drugs. Yeah. And that mirror gadget—it’s a hypnotic machine. Apparently Haverhill got the space drive dope from Eberle and then blotted out his memory. Sounds logical. Eberle’s too valuable to kill, at least till the First tests the space drive formula. But our friends figured something might go wrong so Eberle would fall in the hands of the police or the IIB. Hypnosis and drugs would keep Eberle’s mouth shut for a while, anyway.”

  POWELL moved to the table, examining phials and bottles, and placing some in his pockets for analysis. Haverhill groaned and opened his eyes. Hector caught the gun Powell flipped him and covered the man.

  “You’re coming with us,” Powell said. “We’ll try a little scopolamin on you, fella. You ought to know plenty and truth serum’ll get it out of you.” Haverhill grinned crookedly. His hand went to his mouth.

  Hector moved too late to intercept the action. The prisoner shuddered convulsively. His body arched like a bow, and then relaxed.

  Haverhill lay quiet, unmoving. Dead!

  The camerman jumped forward, knelt beside the body. Hastily he felt for the heartbeat. There was none.

  “Scram up to the sanitorium! Get somebody down here with adrenalin. Quick!”

  Brody rushed out. The cameraman gestured toward the figure on the bed.

  “Take him out, Hector. To the Summit hospital. I don’t want him here when the medicos come in.”

  The Martian scooped up Eberle in strong arms and fled. Powell turned back to the body on the floor. On one lax finger was a ring, with jagged, tiny splinters where the setting had been.

  “Poison. Sure, he’d have that. The First takes no chances. Well, maybe adrenalin will do the trick.”

  Two doctors and a nurse hurried in, followed by Brody. They wasted no time. One of them prepared a hypo, while the other, at Powell’s suggestion, examined the ring.

  “Looks like curare,” he said. “Can’t tell without an analysis, though.”

  He helped his companion inject adrenalin into Haverhill’s heart, and then clamped a stethoscope into his ears.

  “Not much chance. A few seconds, a minute, perhaps, if we’re in time. But we can’t keep him alive longer than that.”

  “Hold it,” the other snapped. “The heartbeat’s starting. Get the orderlies, nurse. We’ve got to get him upstairs into the iron lung.”

  But as the girl started out the physician made a discouraged gesture.

  “No use. He’s gone.”

  “More adrenalin?” Powell suggested hopefully.

  “He’s dead. Now I think you’d better explain what happened.”

  “He committed suicide.”

  “It’s quite all right,” Brody said, coming forward. “I was here at the time. This man was in no way responsible.”

  The doctor lifted his eybrows. “Of course, Dr. Owen. However, you’ll understand that this is a matter for the police.”

  “Sure,” Powell said hastily. “You know where to reach Dr. Owen.”

  “The Martian who accompanied you—where is he? I think you had better remain here till the police arrive. A matter of simple precaution, you understand.”

  Powell went toward the door. “Sorry, we can’t wait. This is government business.”

  “Government
business? Your credentials?” The doctor stepped in Powell’s path. The cameraman sighed and took out his gun.

  “My credentials,” he observed, pointing it accurately at the physician’s heart. “Step aside, please.”

  There was no difficulty. A loaded heat-gun is a good passport anywhere. Powell and Brody backed into the hall, raced to the elevator, emerged a few seconds later in the lobby. They hurried toward the entrance, ignoring the shrill ringing of the desk clerk’s phone.

  “Got to reach Eberle fast,” Powell explained. “Get a cab.”

  For Eberle was in desperate danger. The First would have no hesitation in killing the man to close his mouth forever. An interview with the police would cause delay that might be fatal to Powell’s plans.

  CHAPTER X

  The Accelerated Genius

  POWELL left Brody at the Summit Building, dashed inside to the elevator.

  “Keep on call,” he shouted back at Brody. “I may need you again.”

  At the hospital floor, he found Eberle in a private room, with Hector and a physician waiting for him.

  The Martian greeted Powell effusively.

  “Okay, Boss. I fix um. You come out all right?”

  “Sure. Hello, Moulton. What’s the verdict?”

  “Semi-cataleptic state. Drugs, I think. What’s up?”

  Powell explained, but not too much. From his pockets he drew the bottles he had taken from Haverhill’s apartment.

  “Hypnosis, too,” he added. “Can you do anything?”

  Moulton examined the bottles and sent some away for analysis.

  “Possibly,” he said doubtfully. “I’ll try.”

  He tried, vainly and earnestly, for minutes that grew into hours. A message came through from Gwynn. The chief wanted to get in touch with Powell. It was vitally important, he said. Something had to be filmed.

  “Nuts,” the cameraman told Hector. “I can’t leave Eberle now. Go see Gwynn for me. Oil him along.”

  But the chief was silent. At last Powell went to a televisor.