Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  “Man? The man you think of as Owen? I see. He was analyzed.”

  The cameraman gulped. “You mean, he’s dead?”

  “Well,” said the voice candidly, “he stopped moving after a while, when his digestive organs were taken out. He is spoiled, I believe.”

  Powell began to sweat. He had never felt any liking for Owen. Still, the scientist had been a human being. Coldblooded dissection of a man is always horrible to another man.

  “Was that necessary?” he asked unsteadily.

  “Personally, I doubt it,” said the voice. “But of course I’m not in charge. I’m recessive, you see. I have emotions. The dominant part of me works on pure logic.”

  “Mind if I sit down?” Powell said. He had to. His legs were far from steady. All this seemed like a nightmare.

  “You shouldn’t be afraid of me,” said the voice. “I’m probably a friend of yours. You have a most unusual shape. What good is it?”

  “Good?” Powell glanced down at himself. “Why, I don’t—”

  “You’re not specialized. Imagine a world where everybody is alike and yet everyone performs different tasks. Can you dig a hole with those tiny claws?”

  “I’d use a shovel,” the cameraman said automatically.

  “A machine? I don’t get the thought—A lever. We do it differently. Move back a bit and I’ll show you.”

  Powell obeyed. The fountain of flame gushed up again. This time it was pure white. On its surface a picture of two beasts grew.

  “Watch,” said the soundless voice. From the tubular snout of the foremost creature, a jet of yellowish liquid spurted. It splashed on the surface of the rock and appeared to seep in. A thin steam arose.

  The shovel-pawed being lumbered forward and began to dig. In a few moments he had excavated a large hole in the rock.

  The picture faded; the flame died. Only the glowing crystal hemisphere was left. Powell stared at it.

  Grimly he strove to rationalize his thoughts. It was difficult; one can’t argue with emotions. But the face of Eberle, calm, intent, questioning, swam into view steadingly. Powell clung to that mental picture. His hand went to the camera at his belt, and he glanced again at the shining disk.

  NIGHTMARE, hell! It was a shot, something to be filmed. Powell touched the stud that started the wire film unwinding.

  When he spoke again, his voice was steady.

  “You can read my mind, can’t you?”

  “Of course. I have no organs of sense as you have. I’m not a brain, as you seem to be wondering. I have evolved beyond that. I am an intelligent atomic structure of pure force.”

  “Are there others like you?”

  “No. I think for the others. Or, rather, my dominant does.”

  “I don’t get it,” Powell said. “You keep talking about dominants.”

  “I’ll explain, if I can,” the voice interrupted. “I think I’ve read enough from your mind to make myself clear. You have two selves, haven’t you? You have names for them, conscious and subconscious, mental and emotional.

  “In this world, evolution proceeded by specialization rather than by environment, as in yours. There is an element here that affects living beings differently. Inherited characteristics are part of the plasmic pattern.

  “After birth, as you term it—and it seems to be a most ridiculous proceeding—an individual’s potentialities are shaped, in your world, by his environment. Here it is different. The strongest potential characteristic is developed in the plasm, before individual life is required. We have breeders, like your—what?—termites, yes. Queen-mothers.

  “This development took place, naturally, over a long period of years. The necessity for a single, central, directing intelligence became evident. Eventually this brain evolved from living tissue to pure energy. This great brain became two separate, yet allied, identities.

  “The same life force activated them both. Logic and emotion had to be kept separated, by the laws of ultimate evolution. And the logical portion had to be dominant. This dominant, logical intelligence rules and administers our civilization. It is the other half of myself. I, the recessive factor, am a being of emotional reactions alone.

  “Personally, I rather like you,” the voice continued. “But, as I say, I have no power at all. My dominant thought it necessary for your companion to be analyzed. I desired to see you. Since there was no immediate use for you, I had my will.

  “Should the dominant decide to analyze you, I shall be disappointed. Very! But there’ll be nothing I can do about it.”

  CHAPTER XIX

  Escape Into a Trap

  POWELL staggered back. His throat felt dry and impossibly tight.

  “Don’t you know what the—the dominant intends? Isn’t it you?”

  “Does your subconscious know what your conscious intends, or the other way around? It will depend on developments. Your brain has been searched. We know all about your world, and the experiment of the beings you call the Colossi. I may say that you’re quite right. The Colossi have tried every weapon they possess on us, and have failed to destroy us. They dare not loose their ray of potentiality on us until they have tested it thoroughly. You see, this was the ray that was responsible for our evolution.”

  “It comes from a mineral, you said?”

  “Yes, a mineral which is found far under the crust of this planet. It never affected the Colossi, who live on the surface. But originally we were burrowers underground, and came within the radius of the ray. The mineral is scattered all around.

  “I doubt if a concentration of it would hurt us. We’d simply develop new potentialities. I don’t know what. We might turn into pure energy. Let me see . . . Suppose you found a way of releasing instantaneously all the energy in the mineral you call radium. That’s the principle of the Colossi’s ray. Only it isn’t radium, of course.”

  “What do you call it?” Powell asked, remembering that Eberle had said that in this substance lay the key to the problem.

  “Names are unnecessary for telepaths. I’m getting all these words out of your own mind, you know. Our own race uses no words. The dominant sends out messages telepathically to the people, and they obey.”

  “Have they any identities of their own?” Powell asked.

  “No. The dominant and I are the intelligence; they are the physical factor. They respond to impulses, but, actually, they are a part of us, as your paw is a part of you . . . Sorry. I mean hand.”

  Powell thought it over. “And you are attacked by the Colossi?”

  “Oh, no,” said the voice simply. “We’re attacking them.”

  “Why?”

  “We want to eat them. Then, too, they would kill us if they could. For centuries we have fought. Now there is only this single group of Colossi left. Eventually we shall break through their barriers and eat them.”

  “What do you eat, aside from Colossi?” Powell inquired. He felt slightly mad.

  “All sorts of things. The diggers eat rock. They convert it into energy, and share part of it with the corrosion-throwers. The latter, in turn, eat the white plants on the surface and share part of that nutriment with other varieties.

  “It is interlocking, in a way. Certain types require different foods, supplied by the digestive processes of other types. Like your—what?—yes, aphids. Ant-cows. Or like your own race, eating food so your females can supply it in different form to their young.”

  THE sphere of light spun silently, almost with a reflective aspect. “Your race is like the Colossi, in that you depend on machines. We are machines, and yet intelligent. We have adapted ourselves perfectly to our environment. Even I, who am purely emotional, am well adapted. I amuse myself by creating color and light and sound. But I am recessive, and that is lucky, or I would probably destroy our race by impractical bungling. The dominant is perfectly adapted to his task.”

  “What does he look like?” Powell asked.

  “He doesn’t look like anything. He’s invisible. You can’t see him, anyway
, for he’s far down near the core of the planet. He lives on energy from the molten heart of it. He wouldn’t have time for you, unless you fitted into his plans.”

  “Maybe I could help,” Powell suggested. “Or others of my race. If we could help you destroy the Colossi—”

  “You can’t,” said the voice. “Your brain was examined, and that of your companion. You have no potential strong enough to aid us. And your machines—well, we don’t understand them. Our mind just doesn’t work that way. How could it?”

  Obviously, it couldn’t. Mankind was built on the principle of the machine, from the first crowbar, a lever, to the most intricate modern dynamos and space ships. But a race that automatically fitted itself to its environment and needs—such a race could no more understand the science of machinery than an Eskimo could understand quanta mechanics.

  “You do have a very strong weapon,” the voice broke in on Powell’s thoughts, “but it’s too dangerous to use. You might very well destroy us after you’ve destroyed the Colossi. There’s no use arguing. I’ve read your mind, and know how your race keeps promises. Personally, I’d take the chance, for I like you. You’re diverting, and your mental pattern is most amusing. But I’m not the boss. I’m sorry you won’t live long.”

  “What was that?” Powell shouted.

  “The food difficulty. We have no food suitable for you. Some of our race might work out a formula with the necessary proteins and carbohydrates, but the dominant feels it isn’t worth it. You’re useless to us. Don’t feel badly, though,” the voice said consolingly. “I like you.”

  “Thanks,” Powell returned bitterly. “That’s a big help. So I just stay here and starve, eh?”

  “You might go on a tour of our tunnels. But you’d better not. If you got in the way, you’d be destroyed. Still, I can’t stop you.”

  “I’d have a fine chance of getting out,” Powell said glumly. “This must be a labyrinth.”

  “I’d tell you the way out. But you haven’t much of a chance, as you say.”

  Powell gasped and caught at the straw. “You mean, you’d let me go?”

  “Oh, yes. I’m emotional, you see. I don’t really care whether or not you destroy our race. I get quite bored sometimes, since I’m nearly immortal, and death would be an interesting experience. Then, too, being emotional and illogical, I like you, perhaps because you’re so funny. Your mind, I mean, though your form is diverting too.

  “I’ll tell you the way out, if you want, and you can go. But if the dominant tunes in on my mind and finds out about it, he’ll have you destroyed. Shut your eyes.”

  POWELL obeyed. Instantly, into his brain flooded something strangely like memory, imprinting itself upon his brain cells. In a flash he knew, completely and unmistakably, the route he must follow to reach the outer world.

  “Goodbye,” said the voice. “You can open your eyes now.”

  Powell did so. He sprang up, took a few steps toward a black gap in the wall, and then halted, turning. He stared at the glowing hemisphere in the rock.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “Goodbye. You know where I am in case you decide to destroy me.”

  The fountain of flame shot up dazzlingly, washing the cavern’s walls in pale brilliance. The spire shaped itself into fantastic, intricate arabesques . . .

  Powell smiled uneasily and turned again to the tunnel mouth.

  The corridor ran up steeply and was lit by the glowing filaments. Side entrances occurred here and there. Once or twice Powell heard footsteps in the distance, and hid till the creatures had passed.

  Once it was a digger, and the next time a conglomeration of extraordinary organs that resembled a surrealist’s nightmare. Then Powell came to a passage which he could not but remember. The thought-impulse of the recessive had made certain of that.

  He turned left, still bearing upward. A bit farther on, he turned left again. From the distance came a confused stir of movement, sometimes louder, sometimes almost dying away. Powell hurried his steps. What if his escape had been discovered?

  He came to a tunnel mouth from which unfamiliar light gleamed. It seemed both short and vacant. For a moment he stood peering in, puzzled by some quality of the light. Then, on an impulse, he entered the corridor.

  The light came from the wall at the end. Something was embedded in the rough rock, a crystalline structure, a shining crystal. It reminded Powell of something. A curious quality in the light—

  It reminded him of the glowing hemisphere, on the cavern’s floor, the light emanated by the living intelligence that had been evolved by the unknown mineral.

  Was this the secret for which Eberle had been searching? Was this the source of the Colossi’s ray?

  “Lord knows,” Powell said under his breath. “But I’m going to find out!” And, unsheathing a knife, he went carefully to work.

  TEN minutes later he was on his way again with his precious burden. The radiation, of course, might be dangerous. Powell had no lead containers. He had to take the chance and hurry on.

  It was too easy, too good to be true. In half an hour Powell reached the end of a passage blocked by a fat, torpedoshaped bulk. He paused to don his transparent protective suit and then directed all his will into a silent, mental command.

  “Open! Open!”

  The gross bulk stirred and writhed forward. Bluish-white light burst into the depths of the tunnel. Earth showered outward. The creature rolled out and away, and a jagged circle of milky blue sky loomed ahead.

  Hastily, Powell emerged. Whether or not this was the same passage by which he had entered he had no way of knowing. But on the skyline loomed the great block of Colossi’s citadel.

  The sun was low. Powell glanced around and decided that the ship must lie to the left. He stared in that direction, toward the nearest ridge. Behind him the doorkeeper rolled back into place and began to plaster mud with sinuous tentacles.

  The surface seemed unchanged. The fog veils still nimbused the white plants; the crystals still grew fantastically on the crests. Powell mounted the first ridge, descended into the valley, and climbed again. He lost count of time.

  On a tall hogback, some impulse made him turn. He had heard no sound, yet a sense of imminent peril struck through him strongly. A mound of crystals that had sprung up behind him blocked his vision. He shattered it with a push.

  Across the valley lay the ridge he had just passed. Beyond this, another. And, on the third, topping it, were swift-moving pale figures that shone in the light of the setting sun.

  His escape had been discovered!

  CHAPTER XX

  Specialized Murderers

  WHAT manner of beings pursued him he could not tell at this distance. He could not pause to use his telescopic lens. Haste was all that counted now. He whirled, thrust into ruin a crystalline tower, and stumbled frantically down the slope.

  Sweat trickled over his cheeks. The suit was unbearably hot, yet he dared not discard it. The rays of the sun were far too dangerous. When he ran through the fog veil of a giant plant he longed to stay there. Cool, refreshing moisture condensed on the suit’s surface, but not for long.

  Out again he raced, into the sunlight. There was little or no refraction, for some reason, despite the fact that the sun was nearing the horizon. Powell’s feet ached from thumping on the rock-hard, oven-hot ground. Even with the dark goggles his eyes burned. Or, the thought struck him suddenly, was the radiation of the strange mineral affecting him?

  Mentally, he shrugged. If the rays were deadly, he was already doomed. The necessity now was for reaching the Manhattan, which might still be miles away, even in another direction.

  He glanced behind. There was no sign of the pursuers. The ridge hid them. Now the ground was mounting again, the white plants giving place to bare earth and then to the huge crystals. But even on the summit Powell could not see his enemies, who were apparently in a valley.

  Which valley? How fast could they travel?

  Powell wondered if he sh
ould discard his equipment. He had already jettisoned the pack, but there were other things that added weight to his load. The camera he would not discard. The mineral? No! Besides, it would take too long to remove his equipment from within the suit.

  He ran on, his breath coming fast. His throat hurt. A dull, painful ache knifed through his lungs, from sternum to spine. The agony in his legs he had forgotten long ago. They were machines, pumping doggedly and automatically, carrying him on . . .

  The next valley was in shadow. The sun was on the horizon. Panic gripped him. Had this world a satellite, a moon? How much light would it shed? Certainly he could not locate the Manhattan with the aid of his pocket flashlight!

  He topped the next rise. Behind him, the pursuers were pouring over the last ridge. They shone curiously in the dying sunlight. They seemed mere carapaces under which short, jointed legs moved swiftly. Like giant beetles, they had mandibles, vicious jaws that gaped alarmingly. Fighting creatures, sent out for destruction!

  Powell fled down the slope. Fear tore at him, but he fought it away. There was no time for anything but flight, speed and more speed!

  As he mounted the next hill, he saw the monsters dashing down into the valley behind him. There were less than a dozen of the creatures. They spread out in a crescent, trying to hem in their quarry. The horns of the crescent reached out . . .

  The next ridge held a wall of sky-leaping crystals singing in their fantastic growth. Powell lunged through them amid a torrent of cascading brilliance. Reeling, gasping, half blinded, he plunged through, and saw below him the ship.

  In the valley at his feet the Manhattan lay. But so far distant! Too far!

  IT squatted in shadow. Gray twilight filled the valley with silence. The basin was a pool of murky gloom. The sun’s rays did not penetrate there. Hope prodded him. He ran on. And behind him came the vanguard of the monsters.

  From sunlight into chill shadow, legs still pumping, he tore at the fastenings of his suit, knowing that the deadly emanations could not reach him here. He ripped the garment apart and flung it away. And then Powell gave a choking, hopeless cry.