Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  “Are you threatening us?” the biologist growled.

  THORKEL suddenly smiled.

  “If I showed you what I have in my house, I think you would—regret it,” he observed, a suggestion of subtle menace in his silky tones. “I wish to be left alone. If I find you still here tomorrow morning, I shall take . . . protective measures.”

  His eyes, behind the thick-lensed spectacles, included the group in one ominous glance. Then, without another word, he reentered the house, locking the door behind him.

  “Still staying, Doc?” Stockton asked. Bulfinch growled.

  “I certainly am!”

  There was a brief pause. Then Pedro, who had been listening intently, made a commanding gesture.

  “Come with me. I will show you something—”

  He hurried around the corner of the house, trailed by the dog Paco. Bulfinch, his thin lips working, followed, and so did the others.

  A tall bamboo fence blocked their way. Pedro pointed, and applied his eye to a crack. Stockton tested the gate, which had previously been open. It was barred now, so he joined Pedro and the others.

  “Wait,” the half-breed whispered. “I have seen this before.”

  They could see the mine-shaft, with a crude windlass surmounting it. And then a gross, strange figure entered their range of vision. It resembled, at first glance, a man in a diving suit. Every inch of the stocky body was covered with the rubberlike fabric. A cylindrical helmet shielded the head. Through two round eye-plates could be seen the heavy spectacles of Dr. Thorkel.

  “Uh-huh,” Stockton whispered. “Protective suit. Radium’s dangerous stuff.”

  Thorkel went to the mine and began to turn the windlass. Abruptly Stockton felt a hand touch his arm. He turned.

  It was Baker.

  “Come along,” the other said softly. “I’ve opened the door. Cheap lock—and Mary uses hairpins. Now we’ll be able to see what he’s got hidden in that house.”

  “Si! The doctor will be busy in the yard for a long time—” Pedro said, nodding.

  Silently the group retraced their steps. The door of the mud house was ajar.

  From within came the sound of a shrill neigh, incredibly high and thin . . .

  CHAPTER II

  The Little People

  THE room was disappointingly bare. Across from the front door was another, apparently leading to the mine yard. Another door was in the right-hand wall, and a small mica window was let into it.

  There were heavy wooden chairs, a work-bench, and a table bearing microscope and notebooks. On the bench were several small wicker baskets. Littered carelessly about the floor were a rack of test-tubes, books, a beaker, two or three small boxes, and a dirty shirt or two.

  Pedro pointed to the floor.

  “Hoof prints—Pinto was here, yes!” Mary bent over the microscope, while Bulfinch examined the notebooks.

  “Thieves!”

  Thorkel stood in the doorway leading to the mine yard, his eyes glaring behind the glasses. He was whitely livid with rage.

  “So you would steal my discoveries. You have no right here! You are merely my employees whom I have discharged and instructed to leave!” He saw the notebook in Bulfinch’s hand, and his voice rose to a scream of rage.

  “My notes!”

  Stockton and Baker seized him as he sprang at the biologist. Bulfinch smiled coldly.

  “Restrain yourself, Dr. Thorkel. Your actions are not reassuring.” Thorkel relaxed, panting.

  “I—you have no right here.”

  “You are behaving irrationally. For your own good, and for the benefit of science, I must demand an explanation. To leave you here in the jungle would be nothing short of criminal. You are grossly overworked. You are not”—he hesitated—“not in a normal state mentally. There is no reason to be suspicious or to fear persecution.”

  Thorkel sighed, removed his glasses, and rubbed his blind eyes with a weary gesture. “I am sorry,” he murmured.

  “Perhaps you are right, Doctor. I—I am experimenting with radioactivity.” He went to the mica-paned door and opened it, revealing a small closet, plated with lead. From the ceiling hung a projector, resembling the type used medically to treat cancer by radium rays.

  “This is my condensor,” Thorkel said. “You may examine it, Dr. Bulfinch. I must trust you—I have shown this to no one else in the world.”

  Bulfinch entered the closet. The others were at his heels, intently scrutinizing the projector which seemed the heart of the mystery.

  Pedro paid no attention. He was opening, one by one, the boxes on the bench. And, abruptly, he paused, transfixed with astonishment. His lips formed the word, “Pinto!”

  A white mule was within the box. An albino mule, no more than eight inches high!

  “Pedro!” Thorkel called sharply. The half-breed sprang up. His elbow overturned the box, which clattered to the floor.

  The midget mule was flung out. Only Thorkel and Pedro saw the beast as it struggled up and raced across the floor.

  The door was still ajar. The mannikin animal fled out into the night.

  FOR a second Thorkel’s eyes clashed with Pedro’s.

  “Come here,” the scientist said tonelessly. “I want you to see this, too.”

  The half-breed went toward Thorkel, his face blank with amazement. “What—what has happened to—” Thorkel smiled. He pointed to the closet where the others were still examining the projector. Pedro turned to look.

  Thorkel moved with the swiftness of an uncoiled steel spring. He struck at Pedro. Caught unawares, the half-breed was hurled into the closet. The door slammed shut behind him.

  Thorkel locked it with a swift movement. His hand closed on one of the switches nearby; he pulled it down. Instantly there was a low hum, which rose swiftly to a sibilant crackling buzz.

  Green light blazed through the mica window.

  From a shelf Thorkel took a heavy helmet and donned it. He leaned forward to peer through the mica pane.

  “Thieves!” he whispered. “I told you to go! I could not force you—but if you insist on staying, I must be sure that you will not interfere with my experiments or try to steal my secret. So you wished to help me, Dr. Bulfinch? Well, you shall—but not quite as you expected!”

  Thorkel’s laughter rose above the crackling snarl of the condensor . . .

  * * * * *

  THE infra-red lamp suspended from the ceiling sent down a rich, warm glow. Beneath it was a glass dish, containing a colorless liquid that was boiling gently, warmed by an electrode. From the dish steamed a whitish vapor which shrouded the floor, almost hiding the dim outlines nearby.

  One of these figures writhed and sat up, tearing away the silken wrappings that bound it. The swart face of Pedro appeared. He sprang up, knee-deep in the white vapor, coughing and choking for breath.

  Beside him another form stirred. Bill Stockton rose shakily, breathing in great gasps.

  “Air—air’s better up here . . . what the hell!” Discovering that he was naked save for the silk shroud, he adjusted it, looking rather like a Roman, with his harsh eagle face and keen eyes.

  Mary and Baker were the next to appear. Then came the grim face of Dr. Bulfinch. For a moment each was busy adjusting their makeshift garments.

  “Where are we?” Pedro gasped. “I cannot see—” He choked and coughed.

  “Calm down,” Bulfinch said curtly. “We won’t be asphyxiated.” He sniffed and glanced at the light above. “Ozone, ammonia, humidity, temperature—calculated to revive consciousness.”

  “Where are we?” Mary asked. “In the mine?”

  They could not see beyond the small circle of light. Stockton gripped Pedro’s arm.

  “You know this place better than we do. Where are we? What’s Thorkel done?”

  Suddenly horror grew in Pedro’s eyes as he remembered something. “Pinto,” he gasped. “He has made Pinto—little!”

  “Nuts,” Stockton grunted. “Let’s grab hands and feel our way aroun
d. Come on!”

  “He has made me little like my mule!” Pedro whispered.

  Without warning the faint red glow of the lamp faded and died. It was almost utterly black. Stockton felt Mary’s hand tighten in his own, and squeezed it reassuringly.

  Light shafted in whitely. Instantly Stockton saw that they were in a cellar, at the foot of a flight of stairs that led up to an opening door. On the threshold stood Dr. Thorkel, looking down at them. Satanas, the cat, crouched by the scientist’s feet.

  “He has made us little!” Pedro screamed.

  And it was true! Thorkel was—a giant! A thirty-foot titan towered over them! The cellar door seemed as big as a two-story house; Satanas was a sabre-toothed tiger!

  Bulfinch was chalk-white. He sprang back suddenly as Satanas spat down at the tiny group. Thorkel hastily bent down and picked up the cat. His voice was booming thunder.

  “No, no—you must not frighten them,” he told the cat. Thorkel stepped down into the cellar, and the others shrank from this colossus. Mary’s voice rose in a scream.

  “Good,” said Thorkel. “Vocal cords unimpaired, eh? You have no temperature? Dr. Bulfinch, will you be good enough to take the pulse of your companions?”

  Pedro broke and raced for the stairway. Thorkel nodded, smiling.

  “Little creatures—t their first instinct is to escape. Run if you like, then.”

  And the wee folk fled . . .

  CLIMBING those stairs was a feat.

  Each tread came up to their breasts. But, pushing, pulling, scrambling, the miniature humans swarmed up toward the light. Soon they were gone from sight. Thorkel put down the cat and followed, shutting the cellar door. He turned to glance around the room. The little people had hidden themselves.

  “Come out. You have nothing to fear,” he said smoothly.

  Thorkel waited, and then sank down into a chair.

  “Where is your scientific spirit, Dr. Bulfinch?” He smiled. “Did you not wish to join me in my experiments?” He mopped perspiration from his bald head and slid the chair away from the patch of sunlight that slanted in through the window fronting the mine yard.

  Bulfinch’s head appeared cautiously from behind one of Thorkel’s discarded boots. He walked toward the giant.

  “Come closer,” Thorkel urged. Bulfinch obeyed, staring up at the other.

  “What is the matter?” Thorkel said fearfully. “Can you not speak?”

  The biologist’s voice was thin and high.

  “Yes, I can speak. What have you done—and why?”

  Thorkel leaned forward, his huge hand reaching toward the tiny figure on the floor. Bulfinch retreated in alarm.

  “I only wish to weigh and measure you,” he said softly. He rose and settled back in his chair. “Come out. I won’t eat you. As you can see, I have reduced your size.”

  His pale eyes, behind the thick glasses, watched intently as, emboldened, the others appeared one by one. Pedro had been hiding behind a chair leg; the others behind a stack of books on the floor. They advanced until they were in a group with Bulfinch.

  “You should be proud,” Thorkel said. “You are almost the first successful experiment—Pinto was the first, Pedro. Too bad you let him escape. Again I thank you, Mr. Stockton, for identifying the iron crystals.

  They gave me the last clue.”

  He blinked down at them. “Till you came, I could reduce organic substances, but life could not be preserved in them. It is a matter of electronic compression of matter under ray bombardment. The radium in the mine gave me unimaginable power. Look.” He lifted a sponge from the table and squeezed it in his fist. “That is it. Compression. But energy is required, rather than brute force—”

  Baker spoke up suddenly. “Did you do this to Mira?”

  “The native girl—my housekeeper? Why, yes. But I failed—she was reduced in size, but she was dead. How do you know of her?” Thorkel did not wait for an answer. He rubbed his eyes wearily. “I am very tired. It has taken days to reduce you, and I have not had one moment’s sleep . . .” His voice trailed off wearily. Sleep smothered him.

  Stockton was staring around.

  “We’ve got to get out of here. Do you realize that this fiend intends to kill us all?”

  Bulfinch looked a question. “That scarcely—”

  “He told us he murdered the native girl, didn’t he? He’s a cold-blooded devil.”

  Instinctively they glanced at the door. The bar that locked it from the inside was thrice the height of Stockton’s head.

  Human beings—scarcely more than half a foot tall!

  On the floor nearby a book stood on end—“Human Physiology,” by Granger. Stockton went to stand beside it. His head scarcely came to the top of the volume.

  “Well?” he asked bitterly. “Any suggestions?”

  Bulfinch nodded. “Yes. Books are handy things. If we can pile them up and reach the door-latch . . .”

  It took time, but Thorkel did not awaken. A pencil, used as a lever, opened the door a crack. And then the little people were outside in the compound. Strange sight! A cactus patch not far away was taller than the tallest tree. The camp tables were fantastically high. A chicken was moving jerkily in its quest for food—and its bobbing comb rose higher than Stockton’s head!

  If it saw them, it made no hostile move. Slowly the tiny group moved forward, toward Bulfinch’s tent. Each box and crate was a mountain to be skirted. The rough ground hurt their bare feet.

  Pedro was glancing around nervously. Abruptly he cried out and pointed. Stockton whirled with the others, and he showed his panic.

  Out of a crumbling hole in the mud hut’s base Satanas, the cat, was crawling. The creature’s eyes were intent on the little people. More formidable than a tiger, it wriggled free and bounded toward them, sharp fangs bared!

  CHAPTER III

  Death in the Jungle

  STOCKTON seized Mary by the hand and dragged her toward the shelter of the cactus clump. The others were not slow in following. Baker paused to hurl a pebble at the cat, but the gesture was futile.

  Snarling, Satanas came on. The cacti were too far away for safety. Hopelessness tore at Stockton as he realized that none of them could reach the clump. He could almost feel sharp fangs sinking into his flesh.

  The cat spat viciously. There was an uproar of furious barks. As the little people miraculously found concealment amid the cactus spines, they turned to see Satanas fleeing from Paco, Pedro’s dog.

  “Whew!” Baker gasped. “That was a close one.”

  Bulfinch regarded him sombrely, tugging at his Vandyke. “There will be more ‘close ones,’ ” he said with grim meaning. “Every creature larger than a rat is apt to be a deadly menace.”

  “What can we do?” Mary asked. “First—food, weapons,” Stockton said. “Then we’ll deal with Thorkel and find some way out of this.”

  The day dragged on, and Thorkel still slept. Satanas did not reappear. Mary engaged her self in making sandals, a difficult task at best, and worse when the knife is larger than you are.

  As for Stockton, he managed to take the screw out of a pair of scissors, and one blade provided him with a serviceable weapon, about the size of a sword.

  Thorkel’s voice startled them when it came. He was leaning out the window, like a giant in the sky, regarding them.

  “You are resourceful, my small friends,” his voice boomed out. “But now come back. I must weigh and measure all of you.”

  The group drew together. Thorkel laughed evilly at them.

  “I won’t harm you. Come, Dr. Bulfinch,” he said silkily.

  “I demand that you restore us to our normal size,” the biologist snapped.

  “That is impossible,” the other said. “At present, anyway. All my energies have been devoted to the problem of atomic shrinkage—compression. Perhaps, in time, I can find the antidote, the ray that will turn men to giants. But it will take months of research and experiment—perhaps years.”

  “Do you mean
we must remain like this—”

  “I shall not harm you,” Thorkel smiled. “Come—” He leaned forward. Bulfinch drew back, and, with an impatient grunt, Thorkel disappeared from the window. His feet thudded across the floor. Bulfinch hastily fled back to the others.

  “The cactus,” he gasped, panting. “Let’s hide!”

  But already Thorkel was emerging from the door. His figure loomed gigantic. A few quick strides, and he had cut off the retreat of his quarry. He crouched down, spreading his fingers wide.

  ESCAPE was impossible. Mary and Baker were gathered up in one titan hand. With the other Thorkel reached for the fleeing Bulfinch.

  Pedro had secured a fork from somewhere, and held it like a spear.

  He thrust at the huge hand.

  Chuckling, Thorkel brushed the weapon aside, knocking Pedro headlong. Contemptuously he stood up, still gripping Mary and Baker.

  “Dr. Bulfinch!” His voice was thunderous. “Listen to me!”

  The biologist was peering out from the deaths of the cactus. “Yes?”

  “I wish to weigh and measure you. You are a scientist; your reactions will be more valuable than those of the others. I am conducting an experiment for Germany—my father-land. If my reduction method proves successful, we will be able to reduce our armies to miniature size. Our men will be able to steal into enemy territory, sabotage industrial centers. And no one will suspect the destruction due to—men in miniature. You will not be harmed. I promise you that. Will you come out?”

  Bulfinch shook his head stubbornly. His whole being revolted at the ruthless plan outlined by this sinister genius. A plan that might mean the death of thousands of innocent civilians.

  “No? Then, perhaps, if I apply a little pressure—a very little—to these tiny people I hold so gently in my hand—” The constricting fingers tightened. From Baker’s lips came a grunt of pain. Mary’s voice rose in a scream.

  “Oh, damn!” Bulfinch snarled. “All right, Thorkel. You win. Put them down.” He emerged from the cactus as the scientist gently deposited Baker and Mary on the ground. They were unharmed, but so giddy from the rapid descent that they could scarcely stand.