Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  “Oh, I’ll learn, will I?” Quade breathed hoarsely. “Listen, young lady, I was canning films from Venus to Pluto before you crawled out of your cradle.”

  This was a lie, but Gerry chose to take it seriously. Her blue eyes widened innocently.

  “You must tell me all about it sometime,” she pleaded. “Later, though. Right now I’m going to throw away that overgrown toy so I can find some room to get my hypnotic lure into the ship.”

  She nodded distastefully toward Quade’s bloated three-dimensional camera.

  “Hypnotic lure,” said Quade bitterly, eying an over-sized gadget composed chiefly of revolving mirrors and vari-colored light-tubes.

  Tommy Strike wandered along at this moment. He marched quickly to the angry pair.

  “Hello,” he said with forced geniality. “I was just going down to the Silver Space Suit for a bit. Come along, Gerry? Quade?”

  “Can’t,” the movie man grunted. “Too busy. Things are getting in my hair.”

  He cast a baleful glance at Gerry, who smiled radiantly and nodded at Strike.

  “Be right with you, Tommy. I’ll clean up a bit.”

  She departed in search of lipstick.

  QUADE asked intently, when the girl had gone, “Do you really like being around poison ivy? For two cents I’d throw up this business and go fishing. The mariloca are running now.”

  “And you want to follow their example, eh?” Strike asked. “It isn’t as bad as all that. You just don’t—er—understand Gerry.”

  “Oh, so that’s it,” said Quade. “I was wondering. Hell, why does she want to fill the ship with her mousetraps when we need most of the space for camera equipment? We don’t know what conditions we’ll find on the comet, and we’ve got to be prepared for every emergency. A cyanogen atmosphere needs special lenses and films.”

  “Sure,” Strike placated. “You’re right as far as that goes. But Gerry’s right, too. She doesn’t know what sort of life we may find on the comet, if any. And we’ve got to be prepared for anything. Bullets don’t work on some creatures, and gas won’t work on others. You can lure whiz-bangs with tobacco smoke, but it takes infra-red light to attract a Hyclops.

  “I’ve seen the time when Gerry’s forethought in taking along one little gadget, which we never expected to use, saved our lives and netted us big dough. Maybe you’ll et the best picture in the world, Quade. But it won’t mean anything if you’re killed because we didn’t bring the right weapon with us.”

  Quade nodded. “Maybe. I see your point. Well, as long as that cyclone in skirts stops riding me, I can take it. I’ll try, anyway.” He strode away hastily as Gerry appeared, trim and dapper in jodhpurs and shimmering metalumen blouse. She looked ravishing. Strike was appropriately ravished.

  “How can anyone so lovely have such a bad temper?” he murmured, steering Gerry toward a taxicab. “Some time you’re going to die of spontaneous combustion.”

  “Oh, you’ve been talking to that animated camera,” the girl remarked. “Well, can you blame me? You know how much good equipment means.”

  They were rolling along Lunar Boulevard when Gerry spoke again.

  “Well? Don’t you agree?”

  “More or less.” Strike lit a cigarette by drawing deeply on it, so a speck of platinum black, embedded in the tobacco, was kindled into flame. “Less, if you want it. You’re only seeing your side, Gerry. After all, Quade’s job is to shoot a picture. Or the backgrounds, anyway. Put yourself in his place.”

  Gerry wrinkled her nose distastefully and said not another word till they were seated in the Dome Room of the Silver Space Suit. Then she finally relented and smiled at Strike.

  “You win,” she said. “I’ll be good. If you’ll dance with me.”

  The orchestra was just plunging into the opening chords of that latest smash hit, Swinging the Libration. Gerry and Strike accordingly rose and liberated in the current mode. Gerry sighed.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “These jodhpurs,” the girl said disconsolately. “Wish I had on a dress—organdy—blue.”

  By which it appears that Catch-’em-Alive Carlyle was somewhat feminine after all . . .

  Events marched ahead. Hollywood on the Moon raced against the comet’s thundering drive as it swept in toward the Sun. Nine Planets’ corps of scientists worked frantically. All the complicated machinery of the technical side of the movie industry swung into well-oiled cooperative movement.

  Bulletins were placed hourly on Quade’s desk.

  But then a new and dangerous factor entered the situation—time.

  The comet would swing extremely close to the Sun. Unchecked solar radiation would be fatal to any life on the comet.

  An insulated ship can exist for a short time on Mercury, and even narrow-beam radio communication is possible there. But Almussen’s Comet would swing well within Mercury’s orbit. At that distance, the Sun’s tremendous radiations would instantly short-circuit a human brain coming into range. Not even the special armor would help. Moreover, the comet’s mass might set up solar tides. If that happened, the strange intergalactic wanderer would be swallowed in colossal cataracts of solid flame.

  Quade and Gerry had only a few weeks, therefore, to complete their preparations, make the voyage, and achieve their aims.

  Another danger that occurred to most speculative minds was luckily not apt to materialize. The small mass of the average comet could not upset the delicate balance of the Solar System. Almussen’s Comet, though, had a solid core, massive enough to raise energy storms on the Sun’s surface—and sufficient to deflect a large asteroid or even a small planet from its orbit I Jupiter was safe enough, and even Earth. But Mercury might succumb.

  By a lucky chance, however, the comet would not pass sufficiently close to any of the inner planets to cause serious trouble.

  Quade insisted that the ship be checked and triple-checked. He admitted frankly that he was apprehensive. If the vessel happened to be wrecked on the comet’s surface, the inevitable result would be death when the Sun neared the smaller body.

  Both Gerry Carlyle and Tony Quade had been in dangerous spots from Pluto to Mercury Hotside. But this was the most perilous voyage either had ever undertaken.

  THEY did not underestimate the possibility of disaster. The electronic bombardment of the comet’s coma might mean destruction at the very start of the quest. A special double hull had been constructed, which further increased the bulk of the unwieldy ship. But it had not been built for maneuverability, so that didn’t matter.

  Gerry was considerably irritated by Von Zorn’s insistence on filming in detail all the preparations for the voyage. It seemed to her that the cameramen, at Quade’s instigation, always took special pains to wait till her hair was mussed and her lipstick smeared.

  Nevertheless, in spite of all the obstacles, the day of the takeoff at last arrived.

  It was spectacular enough to satisfy even Von Zorn. Gerry, who was decidedly photogenic, was induced to pose for some pictures. Strike, Quade and the crew were included. But the human actors in the drama were dwarfed by the background, more impressive than any constructed set.

  In the distance towered the ultra-modem pleasure and business buildings of Hollywood on the Moon—the Silver Space Suit, the studios, the great transparent globe of the sanitorium. Above everything else glowered the jagged ramp of the Great Rim that bounded the crater. Above, misty through the artificial atmosphere, glowed the stars. The Earth, naturally, was invisible. Only on the other side of the Moon could it be seen.

  And in the foreground—the ship! Ovoid, squatly enormous, glistening under the arc-lights, it lay in the center of the field like a vast metallic jewel. And a jewel of science it was, with the best equipment that the resource of Von Zorn could provide. At the last moment there had been a fanfare of publicity. A tremendous crowd was present to see the takeoff.

  Gerry was bored, Quade irritated by the waste of time. But Tommy Strike was in his element. He bowed, gr
inned, and nodded happily, and autographed books till his synapses failed. Gerry at last was forced to speak harshly to make sure he knew they were supposed to go aboard.

  “Nice place,” said Strike pleasantly, stretching his cramped fingers. “I think I’d make a swell movie star.”

  “Doubling for a Venus glider?” Gerry inquired with heavy irony. “After all, I’m employing you, Captain Strike. A little cooperation—”

  “Okay, buttercup,” Tommy said jauntily, to Gerry’s scarlet embarrassment, since Quade was within earshot. The latter said nothing, but his grin was most expressive. He continued on his way to the controls.

  CHAPTER IV

  Repairs in Hell

  A FLARE of rockets thundered up, music boomed out, and the Silver Space Suit quartet began to chant the Spaceman’s Song. Anti-gravity screens quivered as energy pulsed through them from the powerful motors.

  In the control room, Gerry was flung into Strike’s arms as the ship lurched. Quade’s fingers flickered rapidly over a score of buttons. His lips had vanished, his jaw jutted noticeably. There was sudden tension in his attitude.

  The vessel swung heavily to the left, then to the right. Abruptly it bucked like a bronco. Then it regained an even keel, and slowly, heavily, it began to mount.

  “Whew,” said Quade without relaxing. “What a crate! You can’t maneuver the damn thing at all. If we’d been using old-style rockets, we’d have cracked up muy pronto.”

  “But we can reach the comet, can’t we?” Gerry said worriedly.

  “Yeah. We do have speed. But no maneuverability. It’ll be plenty risky, piloting this jaloppy through the asteroid belt.” Quade’s lean face was grim as he studied the visiplate showing his course.

  “We head out and intercept the comet in the major planet zone,” Strike said. “That’ll give us a certain amount of time before the comet gets too close to the Sun.”

  “I’m jamming on acceleration,” Quade nodded. “But we can’t meet the comet head-on. We’d pass it—we couldn’t decelerate swiftly enough. We’ve got to curve around, slanting through the coma, and that’s the most dangerous part. We had to sacrifice either protection or maneuverability, and we’ve plenty of protection. But not enough, maybe, if we slant through the coma instead of driving straight in. I don’t know how much electronic bombardment the hull will stand:” He shrugged wryly.

  Quade was right. It was a perilous venture. Most ships, with their controlled gravity-screens, can turn or stop on a micron. But the bulk of this special vessel defeated its own purpose to some extent. She was a hulking, lumbering, gigantic leviathan, and yet potentially vulnerable to the dangerous menace of the comet. Now she streaked out from the Moon with mad disregard for trespassers in her path.

  SPACE traffic had been warned. A path had been cleared. An intricate chart and map was before Quade, giving the orbit of every known asteroid and meteor in his route. The hull repellers were turned on full power, to give warning of any large body nearby. No other precautions could be taken, unless the crew wore space armor day and night.

  It was the asteroid belt that played merry hell with the ship. The outer hull was riddled by hundreds of punctures. A smaller vessel could have slid through the uncharted meteorite swarm. Quade’s craft could not, though he managed to avoid the main body, which would have ruined the ship completely.

  The repellers blew out with a terrific crash under the strain of trying to throw off countless small but massive bodies. But the second hull, built of super-steel, withstood the slackened speed of most of the interplanetary missiles. A few got through, but emergency valves were immediately employed.

  Two gravity-screens were destroyed!

  The ship thundered on amidst the stars. Inside the control cabin, there was blank silence. Quade, Gerry, and Strike looked at one another in dismay.

  Quade was the first to recover. He flicked over an audiophone switch and yelled commands. Emergency galvanized him into an energetic dynamo.

  “Morgan! Mobilize the crew! Get a report right away. Let me know the extent of the damage. Prepare space suits for outside repairs!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Outside repairs?” Gerry said. “We’re nearly at the comet.”

  “So what?” Quade asked. “We’re not taking this boat into the coma with a weakened hull. Even after repair it’ll be plenty risky.”

  “But we may enter the coma any time. If your crew is outside then—”

  Her pause was significant.

  “It’ll be a volunteer job,” Quade replied grimly. He turned to the audiophone again.

  “All the men have volunteered, Tony,” Morgan reported briefly. He went on to list the damage.

  “Issue space suits. Put enough men inside to take care of that job. Get volunteers to go outside. Be with you right away. Send up an emergency pilot to handle the ship.”

  “Oh—You’re going out too,” Gerry said. “Yeah.”

  “So am I,” Tommy Strike remarked happily. “Every little bit helps.” he turned to the door.

  “Tommy!” Gerry cried. “No! You can’t . . .” She hesitated, breathing hard. “If you do, I’m going too.”

  QUADE intervened. “We need every man we can get. But volunteers only. Strike doesn’t have to go.”

  “Listen, Gerry, I’m going out and you’re going to stay here,” Tommy said. “You can help by piloting the boat, so the emergency pilot can go outside with us. As Tony says, we need every hand.”

  Gerry, about to remonstrate, caught Quade’s eye. There was a satirical look in it, as though the movie man expected Gerry to display feminine weakness, perhaps even hysterics. The girl’s lips tightened.

  “Right,” she said succinctly. “Scram, boys.”

  Quade and Strike went out. Gerry turned to the controls. Her gaze went to the visi-plate, to the glowing menace of the comet dangerously near. A red spark on the screen showed the progress of the ship. Gerry blinked rapidly.

  Meanwhile, Quade was mobilizing his men. Some were already working on the wall of the ship, welding on emergency patches hastily brought from the storerooms. Others were struggling into space suits and lining up before the air-locks. Some were entering the inner hull of the craft, protected by their armor, bearing with them the necessary tools.

  Most of the welding machines were mounted on universal ball-bearing tripods of light metal that could be rolled easily across the hull. In each device was a small gravity-control unit, so the machine could be fixed firmly in place for the actual repair work. Quade superintended the exodus.

  Outside the air-lock, clad in his armor and transparent helmet of flexible glass, he started the first unit of men at the ship’s prow. It would have been impossible to locate each microscopic puncture in the huge area of the hull. But as the crew emerged, each picked up a portable tank, equipped with a flexible hose which ended in a round disk, easily seven feet in diameter.

  A man would place this disk flat against the hull, turn a nozzle in the tank, and walk quickly forward, dragging the hose after him. The mass of the ship, coupled with the suits’ gravity-units, made this means of progression possible. In the trail of each disk, a smear of sticky substance gleamed whitely, congealing immediately in the vacuum of space. Soon a good portion of the hull was completely plated with the substance.

  TONY QUADE barked an order into his suit’s audiophone. Inside the vessel, a man turned a screw, letting into the forward compartments of the hull a special gas that expanded swiftly. Where punctures occurred in the outer hull, the elastic coating exploded into huge bubbles, black in contrast to the surrounding whiteness. These marked the goal of dozens of men, hurrying toward the punctures with their welding units.

  It was a remarkable example of well-trained coordination. Strike, busy dragging a hose and disk toward the stern, was impressed. He looked at Quade with renewed respect. More than once, he glanced ahead at the tremendous sweep of the comet, blotting out half the heavens.

  Black void, star-speckled, lay all
around. The men worked in airless emptiness, with the Sun a far disk astern. The pallid glare of Almussen’s Comet threw their weirdly elongated shadows grotesquely along the hull, the absence of air the sharp contrast between light and darkness was striking. The helmet Tights, naturally, threw no beams, since there were no air-motes to reflect the illumination.

  Inside the ship Gerry Carlyle sat at the controls, her face drained of all color, and grimly drove the vessel at top speed toward the comet. Inexorably the red dot on the visiplate screen crept toward the white boundary of the coma. When it entered it, any man still outside the ship would die instantly under the terrific electronic bombardment.

  And Tommy Strike was out there! That was the only thought she could get through her mind.

  Every man in the crew realized the peril. Tony Quade had grimly explained the dangers. But not one thought of giving up his job, though the comet was the target of apprehensive glances. Welding machines clamped pneumatically against the hull. Pale fires sputtered and blazed. Slowly, in an eternity the cripple giant was mended.

  But its race through the void continued unchecked. In the control room, Gerry Carlyle gnawed her lips and watched the red dot leap swiftly toward the white circle of the comet’s head.

  Two inches lay between. At this speed, the gap would be bridged all too soon. Gerry’s hand hovered momentarily over a button, and then drew back. No! Deceleration must not begin yet. But there was so little time!

  The audiophone skirled. Quade’s voice rasped out, clipped and staccato.

  “What’s the distance? How much time have we?”

  Gerry made a quick computation and told him. The movie man whistled.

  “Yeah. Well, follow the course. See you soon.”

  “Quade—” Gerry said.

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” the girl whispered, and turned back to the controls. There were dark shadows under her eyes. Danger for herself she could face without flinching. But this was something entirely different. If Strike died under the electronic bombardment, it would be her hand that had killed him. Strained reasoning, perhaps—but Gerry loved her man.