Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  “I’d like to go back to Dasonee for a while.”

  “Very well. The girl Bethya Dorn is in the robot plane. Join her, and you will both be returned to Dasonee. You may have the former home of Fered Yolath for your own. A guide will be appointed to aid and instruct you.”

  That was all. The row of chairs slid backward, out of the chamber, and the wall descended, blotting out the Council.

  AGAIN Dawson found himself in the little room of stone. Suddenly, as he started to get up, a panel moved and opened. Laurena San came in.

  Dawson was on his feet, a poignant stab of pain suddenly rising deep within him. Dust . . .

  Laurena San paused a foot from the man. “Do you know why I offered to superintend your tests?” she said, her voice low. “No.”

  “Because—” She hesitated. “Because there was something in your eyes when you first looked at me. Something I do not know. What was it?”

  Dawson froze. It was like probing in a wound.

  “Surprise, I suppose,” he said carelessly. “You’re very lovely.”

  There was indecision in the woman’s manner.

  “No. It was something else than that. Yet—”

  She turned to the door. “The plane is ready for you. Go. I do not know why I am doing this. For you are not as stupid as you pretended to be under the tests, Stephen Dawson. No! And I should tell the others of your trickery . . .”

  “I—”

  “Go.”

  Dawson obeyed. He turned in the corridor, to catch a brief glimpse of level gray eyes in a small, heart-shaped face surrounded by curling brown ringlets. Laurena’s lips were parted. She lifted one hand—

  The panel closed. Dawson, breathing unevenly, walked along the passage toward the small rectangle of daylight he could see far away.

  CHAPTER V

  Revolt!

  TIME passed slowly in Dasonee. The unexpected never happened. Everything was easy for Dawson, and, to all appearances, he settled down in Fered’s former home and began to adjust himself to the new life. But he was restless and uneasy. He asked innumerable questions of his tutor, taking care to keep up the pretense of stupidity that he had begun at the Capitol.

  He spent much time with Bethya, almost automatically assuming an attitude of protection toward the girl, and she clung to him, perhaps sensing in him a strength that had been bred out of the race for centuries. Gradually, with a definite plan, Dawson began to acquire the reputation of a wastrel.

  He spent his days and many of his nights enjoying the various amusements of Dasonee—and there were many. Horses were bred for speed and beauty, and the ancient art of hawking had come back. Dawson became expert at the art of falconry. In this Bethya could help him, for her work was the attendance of an aviary, filled with an amazing assortment of birds, some familiar to Dawson—redbreasts, herons, pigeons—and others quite new, including a sort of tiny penguin popular as a pet.

  Bethya gave him a falcon of a newly developed breed, trained to long flights, with certain novel traits that Dawson found interesting. It could sing like a canary, for one thing. He told Bethya of the birds of his day, and, to her surprise, informed her that pigeons had once been used for carrying messages, that pelicans had been used to capture fish, and other stray bits of “history.”

  All the pleasures of Dasonee were put at his disposal, and he seemed to have an unlimited number of work-units at his command. Behind this he sensed a motive. It was like being fed an opiate, kept so contented that he would not trouble to think. But Dawson was not a product of the twenty-sixth century. He was an anachronism—and therefore dangerous.

  Dining one night at a roof-garden, in a private, glass-walled room that permitted an excellent view of the floor show, a kaleidoscope of rainbow colors and shifting geometrical patterns, Dawson watched Bethya closely. He had adopted the new clothing, shorts and sleeveless shirt and flexiglass sandals, and looked healthy again, his broken arm nearly healed.

  “You’ve been wanting to talk to me, Bethya,” he said at last. “What is it?”

  SHE looked around and then met his eyes.

  “I’d be afraid to talk to anyone else, but you’re—you’re strong, S’ephen. Not like these others. Though I’m afraid not even you can help me.”

  Dawson stretched luxuriously, a lean, hard figure, tanned and dangerous-looking. Bethya watched him.

  “It’s about Fered, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” the girl said. “He doesn’t belong in the Council. I—I want him back, S’ephen.”

  “You talked to him.”

  “That wasn’t Fered, not the Fered I knew.”

  Dawson’s eyes narrowed.

  “Right. I don’t believe his story of some secret wisdom the Council told him that changed his whole character.” There was another thing, too, which Dawson did not mention. Fered would not have been deceived by Dawson’s pretense of stupidity, after the conversations the two men had had together. Had the youngster forgotten? Ridiculous, unless—

  “These psychographs,” he said. “Are there any machines like that that could change a man’s mind?”

  Bethya frowned.

  “I’d thought of that. I’ve suspected something’s been done to Fered—something to change his psyche—”

  “Destroy all emotion, eh? Turn him into a coldly logical machine?”

  “Can’t you help me save him, S’ephen?” the girl whispered.

  “I don’t know. It’s a tough job—”

  “You’re not like other men.”

  Dawson knew that this was true.

  “Your race has become decadent, I think,” he said. “Six hundred years doesn’t seem a long time in which to work such a complete change, but with guidance and careful conditioning it might be possible. The race has stagnated. And I think the Council encourages that.”

  He went off at an angle.

  “There’s something wrong about the Council. I can’t put my finger on it, but somehow the whole set-up doesn’t ring true to me. You can’t sense it, Bethya, because you’ve been trained along different lines, like the rest of the world. But—”

  “Go on!” The girl’s blue eyes were wide. Dawson toyed with his glass.

  “I don’t know, really. The Council members seem somehow without emotion. The Capitol itself—just a block of stone. That’s funny, when you remember how lovely all the other cities are. Again, space-travel could be mastered, with the principles at your command. Yet that’s never been tried. The Council holds all science in its grasp. It’s an autocracy.”

  “It’s benevolent.”

  “Superficially, yes. The people are kept drugged with pleasure so they don’t realize that something’s wrong. They are free to do whatever they want. But what could threaten the Council’s power?”

  BETHYA didn’t answer, and Dawson went on. “Science. New discoveries, new weapons. And people have been conditioned to turn over all new ideas to the Council, without troubling to work them out themselves. The race is in a backwash. It’s stagnated, like a herd of sheep in a pasture. The sheep may be grateful to the shepherd for giving them good grass—but they’ll be mutton eventually.”

  “Five hundred years the Council has ruled—”

  “I don’t understand it all. This electorate business, for example. The Council members are elected—good enough. But why are they isolated from the world afterward? The Council’s clever—damnably so. Look at Fered. He stepped on their toes, but there wasn’t any trouble about it. They made everything easy for him, gave him just what he wanted. Maybe that’s the idea—giving people what they want, so they won’t become difficult.”

  He gestured around at the lovely city spread beneath them.

  “It’s beautiful and it’s stagnant. All initiative has been bred out of the race. There’s no need for strength or self-reliance. If anything goes wrong, just run to Papa. Papa’s the Council. And that’s the nub of the mystery.”

  “I’d like to smash the Council,” Bethya said with sudden anger, and
Dawson looked at her, startled.

  “You would? So . . . I guess initiative hasn’t been bred out entirely. Once the basic human emotions are touched—Personally, I think it’d be the best thing to cure humanity. Jolt it out of its rut. Depose the Council. People would be helpless for a while, and then learn to think for themselves. Progress would begin again.” He tugged at his ear-lobe. “I’m afraid, Bethya. There is something wrong about the Council. Remember what I said about sheep—and mutton?”

  There was a little silence. At last Dawson shrugged.

  “I’ve been playing dumb. I’ve done that before, once when I helped a revolution down in South America—but there’s no parallel. I don’t like the idea of relapsing into a stupor, like the rest of the race. Still, you can’t fight a world, and the Council owns all science, all weapons.”

  “Not all,” Bethya said. “Fered’s papers—I have a copy of them. I spilled water on the originals and made a new copy for him. I still have the first ones.”

  Bethya’s hand gripped Dawson’s. “Can’t you do something, S’ephen? I’ll help all I can. I want Fered back, if it means wrecking the Council!”

  So like a woman! Civilization, the world itself, meant nothing compared to getting the man she wanted. And yet—might this not be a good idea? There was a stir of excitement rising within Dawson.

  “It’s not as fantastic as I first thought,” he said slowly. “The Council doesn’t expect attack. A sudden coup d’etat might succeed.

  Taking them by surprise, capturing them before they have a chance to use defenses—good Lord! It’d certainly jolt the race out of its stagnation.” And now his eyes were ablaze.

  “Fered told me something of his theory—”

  “He told me something, too. The vibrationary principle. If we can secretly construct a weapon and make a few converts, it wouldn’t be impossible.”

  Dawson grinned. “About these plans now . . .”

  AND so it was begun. In the days that followed, the pair of conspirators worked fast and secretly. Dawson’s pretense of being a thoughtless wastrel helped. On the surface, he continued his reckless search for pleasure, and was careful to spend some time each day with his tutor, who might, he thought, be in touch with the Council. But he and Bethya found plenty of time to work together.

  It was surprisingly easy, provided one used a certain amount of care. Conspiracy was a word forgotten. There was no need to guard against it. And, inevitably, the pair made converts. Bethya chose them painstakingly, and Dawson, more by strength of will than sound argument, made them his supporters. In the very nature of this civilization, men were ready to turn to stronger men for guidance.

  A few score men were all Dawson needed and wanted. More might mean betrayal. But among these adherents were several scientists, and Dawson needed them.

  Though, whenever they were stumped, they always ran to Dawson for aid. Gradually he began to instil some semblance of self-reliance into them, using elementary psychology, giving them jobs to do and making sure they finished them. It was curious to see the new pride and pleasure they had after completing their tasks.

  Sometimes Dawson wondered why he was doing this. He liked both Bethya and Fered, and wanted to help them. But, more than that, he sensed a deadly danger in the existence of the Council. Try as he might, he could never solve the deep mystery that surrounded it. Yet he knew, with a definite certainty, that the human race was held in silken, perhaps unbreakable fetters, subtly led on to decadence and doom.

  Why?

  No one could tell him. And how could a tyranny, based on an electorate, maintain itself? It was against all principles of political logic, for the elections, as far as Dawson could discover, were perfectly fair and free from corruption. A machine-made, psychic change in character after joining the Council was the only solution. Yet it failed to explain too many things.

  His arm was fully healed now, and Dawson worked with electric urgency, watching the characters of his adherents grow and develop under his tutelage. Bethya was much changed. Her chin was firmer, the blue eyes direct and level, her voice brisker. She was getting back the heritage of the race—and so were the others.

  Yet it was hard at first. Fered’s papers showed the way, but the instinct of research and inquiry was hard to recapture. Dawson had to show every step of the way. He guided; the others followed efficiently once he had led them on a bit.

  “How will this ray affect molecular structure?” he asked one scientist.

  “It might cause stasis.”

  “Arrested motion? You mean it could freeze people into statues?”

  “I hadn’t thought of that, but you’re right, of course, Dawson. Yes. The molecular motion would be halted, with the same effect as that caused by absolute zero temperature, and all movement would cease. Yes, people could be paralyzed.”

  “Work it out. In detail!”

  And the scientists could do that, once Dawson had given orders. Theory turned into practice, and practice into a concrete, three-dimensional ray-projector. Working on a carrier beam principle, it was capable of transmitting vibration for a distance of half a mile, instantly arresting anything in its path. Its focus could be made wide or narrow, and could, if necessary, embrace the whole great cube of the Capitol building in its sweep.

  The conspirators met in a deserted warehouse on the outskirts of Dasonee. It didn’t look like a warehouse, being a dome of plastic, tinted in blue and soft green. There was little fear of discovery, though Dawson took all possible precautions, including posting guards outside. The group met secretly, always at a different time, to disarm suspicion.

  Eventually two planes were readied, one of them equipped with the ray-projector. This was to hover over the Capitol, keeping the beam in operation, while from the other, men in protective armor would land to take over.

  “No need for any killing,” Dawson said. “We’ll take the members of the Council into protective custody. If there’s something wrong with their minds, we want to cure them.”

  Bethya nodded, but there was a new ruthlessness in her blue eyes. It was Fered she cared about, no other.

  Dawson, at the last moment, felt a twinge of compunction. After all, he was a stranger in this world. Had he the right to upset the apple-cart without knowing more about the situation? It was rather late for such thoughts, but Dawson nevertheless determined on a bold move.

  “I’m going to Washington,” he told the group of conspirators as they listened in the deserted warehouse one night. “I’m going to ask questions and, maybe, deliver an ultimatum.”

  BETHYA objected, but Dawson was firm.

  It was a big monkey-wrench he was throwing into the machinery, and he wanted to be quite certain before he upset a world. Good Lord! He’d never realized it would be so easy. That was the result of breeding alertness out of a race . . .

  “Everything’s ready for the attack. It will take place exactly at noon tomorrow. Remember my instructions. Fly high till you reach Washington, then turn on the ray and drop. The men in protective suits will enter the Capitol and take over. Not until you’re sure of safety will you turn off the ray.”

  “What about you?” someone asked. “You’ll be in it—”

  “The ray doesn’t kill. It just paralyzes. I’ll recover with the others. And then we can learn the truth about the Council. But keep your televisors tuned in. If I don’t call you from Washington before noon, attack.”

  He let his gaze slide across the row of faces before him. They were changed, stronger now after weeks of tutelage. The softness was no longer so apparent. Dawson smiled grimly, lifted his hand in the Dasonee salute, and said, “Happy landings.” He went out, Bethya with him. But in the shadows he stopped her.

  “I’ll leave you here. You’re to remain in Dasonee, remember.”

  “I don’t want—”

  Dawson’s eyes bored into the girl’s. “You’re staying. Hear me?”

  “I—yes. You know best, of course. You’ll bring back Fered, Stephen?�
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  Dawson nodded, squeezed Bethya’s arm, and turned away, walking swiftly toward the airport. Excitement was tense within him. By noon tomorrow the mystery of the Council would be solved!

  CHAPTER VI

  Disaster

  DAWSON timed his arrival well. He did not go to Washington immediately, but, on an impulse, headed for New York. The city had changed unrecognizably. The stiff skyscrapers had given place to towering, graceful spires rising from a labyrinth of domes and curves and arches. All the structures were lit by the glow that came from the plastic structure of the city itself.

  The outline of the Island had not changed. Dawson could trace the Hudson, the East River, the Harlem River, but they were fringed with parks, and were no longer the dirty, roiling streams he remembered. Bridges spanned them, slender arches that seemed too light to support their own weight. But tremendous tensile strength held them safely.

  New York was a riot of color. Yet only the traditional name remained unchanged. Greenwich Village, Times Square, Central Park—they were all gone. Dawson felt a horrible loneliness as he hovered above the city, and for a second had an insane impulse to send the plane diving down to destruction.

  The feeling passed, and he went on, pausing sometimes over cities, or to examine the countryside in the bright moonlight. Once more he was struck by the Utopianism of this world. But it was only superficial, he knew. Over all brooded the mysterious shadow of the Council.

  The hours dragged past. He set down the plane in a valley of what had been the Alleghenies and got out, drinking from a trickling rivulet that ran near by. He walked about, feeling the dewy grass cool on his bare ankles.

  He stopped and let a handful of dirt trickle through his fingers. The Earth had not changed. But the people who dwelt upon it changed, and died, and went back into the dust, and were forgotten. As Marian had been forgotten, except by him.