Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  Only a moment later the car slowed to a stop. The panel opened and Rogur sprang out into a large chamber, which held what seemed to be control machinery.

  Seeing there was no sign of pursuit, Woodley followed the scientist.

  “What do we do now?” he asked. “Where are we heading?”

  But Rogur was frantically working at an instrument board.

  “We’ve got to get out of Center! They’ll kill us!”

  He was half-mad with fear. He pulled a lever back, spun a wheel and whirled toward a gap opening in the wall. Beyond Woodley saw the night sky and the great moat that surrounded the city. They were within the great wall of Center.

  “Wait!” he said hurriedly. “Nobody recognized us. If we run away now, we’ll lose everything we’ve gained.”

  THE scientist did not hear. A white span was licking out into the darkness, spanning the moat. It was like another strange bridge by which Woodley had entered Center.

  Rogur cried out sharply and sprinted toward the threshold. His cloaked figure loomed for an instant in the black gap. Then it was gone. Woodley heard the diminishing sound of his feet racing over the bridge.

  There had been reason for Rogur’s sudden flight. Woodley saw that panels were opening in the walls, revealing tube-cars. The pursuers had caught up.

  They came pouring out into the room.

  It would have been easy to follow the fleeing Rogur, but Woodley’s mind was working fast. He had not been recognized, since he was masked. If he had to escape from Center, all his carefully laid plans would come crashing down in ruin. But there was another way.

  The hedonists were pouring into the room, unarmed but numerous. Woodley felt a strange reluctance to fight his way through them. Conscious of his own muscular superiority, he was not the sort of man who took pleasure in battle for its own sake. His hard fist could smash those smooth, handsome faces into pulp, even though the weight of numbers would eventually overwhelm him. It was hedonism of a sort. He did not wish to destroy beauty if he could help it.

  The memory of a game of his time came to his aid. His arm automatically lifted, as though cradling a pigskin. He whirled aside, spun lightly on his toes and ran. The perfect coordination of trained muscles aided him. One man he sent spinning with a lunge of his shoulder. He hurtled clear over the bent form of another. Then he was through and in a tube-car!

  The panel slid partly shut as his fingers flickered over buttons. He drove out his arm in an open-handed shove that cleared the threshold of men who were trying to push their way in. Then the door closed and the car shot away.

  Almost instantly he changed its course in the maze of tubes that threaded through Center. He stopped it, leaped out and entered another car. He doubled on his tracks, playing a desperate game of hare-and-hounds. Finally he discarded his cloak and hood, leaving them in one car before he changed to another.

  Ten minutes later he was in his own suite, lying quietly in bed, with no trace of his recent adventure anywhere save in his hastened breathing and increased pulse. But these slowed, and no one burst into the apartment to question him. So at last Woodley slept.

  The next day there was an undercurrent of excitement in the city. The tale had been told of two masked figures who had tried to turn on the neutralizing ray machine and failed. One had escaped from Center. The other was still here. Who was it?

  Woodley felt uneasy. Knowing the capabilities of the hedonists’ science, he felt none too certain that his identity would not be discovered. Scopolamine or truth-testing psychological machines would betray him, he knew. Yet there was no way in which he could escape. Suspicion would inevitably point at him, in view of his past record.

  Then new word came and the bottom dropped out of Woodley’s stomach. The culprit had confessed.

  It was—Sharn!

  She had lied to save him, of course. She had guessed the identity of the masked figure and realized that Woodley was actually in sympathy with her own aims. The authorities had already discovered, by Rogur’s absence, that he was one of the criminals. Now Sham contended that she was the other. Her motive? She refused to say. But she declared that she far preferred the outside world to Center.

  She was to be conditioned psychologically and hypnotically until she was once more satisfied with the hedonistic cultus. Or at least that was the original plan. But Sham demanded that she be allowed to leave Center.

  By the time Woodley got the news, the girl had already been sent out into the wilderness of what had once been Pennsylvania. The authorities were not willing to force her into a course she disliked, for that was the antithesis of hedonism. But with her out of the city, the source of friction would be removed, shut out of sight.

  Sham was alone in a world of savages! Woodley’s immediate impulse was to go after her and bring her back, assuming the guilt that was rightfully his.

  He had started toward the Senate rooms with that in mind when a slim, blond youth crowded into the pneumo-car with him. The boy touched a button and the vehicle paused between levels.

  “What’s the idea?” Woodley asked impatiently. “I’m in a hurry.”

  “I have a message from Sham,” the youngster said. “She thought you might go to the Senate and that would spoil everything.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Sham told you of the secret organization that wants to open Center’s gates and restore mankind’s memory. Well, I’m a member.” The boy looked around furtively, though there was no chance of any eavesdropper here. “Sharn took your guilt so that you could remain here. If you had left, the whole crusade would fail. It’s all built around you. You’re a concrete symbol, Sharn said. She’ll wait outside till we’re strong enough to get what we want. Then she’ll return, when we’re in power. And she had another errand, too.”

  “What kind of errand could she have in the outside world?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’m going after her and bring her back!” Woodley declared fiercely. “She’d have no chance out there.”

  “You couldn’t find her,” the boy said confidently. “She expected you to talk like this. She’s gone far east, and she took supplies with her. Sham’s clever and resourceful. You’ve got to do as she wishes now. If you don’t, it’ll spoil everything, without helping her at all.”

  Woodley bit his lip.

  “You don’t understand. You’re still a hedonist. I’m responsible for the whole thing.”

  “We’ll soon be strong enough to demand that the ray be turned on. Keep on with your propaganda dreams, Sham said. It’s the only way!”

  CHAPTER XIV

  Deluge

  SWIFTLY the boy touched a button.

  The car slid forward, the panel opened and he was gone. Woodley remained hesitant, wavering. It went completely against his grain to know that Sharn had sacrificed herself for him, but it was her life against the whole future of mankind, the entire world.

  Woodley sent the car swiftly toward a dream palace. Direct action had failed. He must wait now and build up a strong revolutionary movement.

  For days thereafter he was vastly worried about Sharn. More than once he considered going after her, but he did not. With Rogur gone, there was no other way. He concentrated on creating more potent propaganda dreams.

  Days, weeks, months dragged past. Woodley’s contacts with the secret league were few, and strangely they became fewer. At times he felt that he was shut out of their confidence. He became so busy that he had no time to view even his own dream symphonies. There must be no relapse into the lotuseating habits of the hedonists.

  Weeks . . . and more weeks . . . chafing against inaction, waiting for piled-up waters to break the dam . . . waiting . . . waiting . . .

  He felt utterly alone, yet he was beginning to love Center, its gay beauty, its manana spirit. The world would be the loser if it perished. But it need not die, Woodley told himself. It would still exist, eternally lovely, in a world of intelligent humans such as had existed before 1942.

/>   Over all the Earth lay the darkness of the long night after the Judgment Day. Only in Center was there light.

  One day he was asked to visit the Senate. All the members were there, men and women, the graybearded leader, the crag-faced man he remembered. He had no idea what was wanted. For some days there had been no message from the secret organization. But he was feeling encouraged as he relaxed in one of the padded chairs and waited for the Senate’s words. Soon the day would come to strike.

  The graybeard smiled at Woodley.

  “We felt the time had arrived to talk frankly to you. We like you, for you bring freshness and vigor to Center. But you have brought something else that might have been dangerous.”

  Might have been? The words reechoed ominously. What did he mean?

  “I don’t understand,” Woodley said, tense as wire inside.

  “Your propaganda films, of course. They were very clever. At first even the Senators began to fall under their spell. But since the girl Sharn left Center, we looked more closely into certain effects. We discovered a secret organization which wanted to destroy our isolation and give the savages back their memories.”

  Involuntarily Woodley looked around, as though judging the chances for escape. A woman laughed with a tinkling, musical sound. The leader shook his head.

  “No harm will come to you. We don’t even know if you were connected with the movement, or if you meant wilful harm. It doesn’t matter now.”

  What did he mean? Woodley, feeling sick hopelessness, decided to take a bold course. He stood up. His throat felt dry, but he spoke in a hard, defiant voice.

  “All right. You’ve found out. The ‘secret league,’ as you call it, is stronger than you think—strong enough to force you to turn on the ray projector!”

  TO his astonishment a ripple of laughter went around the group. “I’m sorry, Woodley,” the graybeard said. “We were forced to fight you with your own weapons. It was, I’ll admit, rather enjoyable, something none of us had known for many years.” He lifted shaggy eyebrows. “But that little conflict was quite enough. More would be dangerous. It is ended now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You haven’t been to any of the dream palaces lately. You’ve been too busy making dreams. We saw to it that your own dreams were edited before release. We drew their teeth, made them innocuous. We also used psychology and created counter-dreams that neutralized yours. Very slowly we have guided our people back into the safe track of peace and satisfaction.” Counter-propaganda by dreams! Yet it was true, Woodley realized now. So that was the explanation of the flagging interest in his crusade! Not until that moment did he recognize at its true worth a falling-off of members, a certain lack of enthusiasm among the antihedonists. Slowly, gradually they had been fed psychological medicine that neutralized his own subtle poison.

  “You may still make dreams if you wish, but they must be edited. Unrest has gone again from Center and we can live for pleasure, as we did before you came.”

  Somehow Woodley knew that the Senator spoke truth. Perhaps eventually he might gain back his former adherents, but what chance had he, now that his plot was discovered?

  “Well?” he asked. “Do you want me to leave Center, or will you kill me?”

  “Of course not. We are not evil, Woodley. We harm no one. There was some discordance even in the Senate. A few of us actually were in sympathy with you. But we finally decided that hedonism is best. As for you, you may remain here if you wish. You’ll be perfectly free, but we’ll see that you cause no more discord. Our rule is gentle. You’ll feel no restraint.”

  “So?” he persisted.

  “It may be necessary to condition you. But we don’t wish to do that unless it’s necessary. We like your freshness, your vigor. We’d prefer to keep that. But the source of discord must be removed.”

  Woodley’s stomach felt hollow.

  “You mean—”

  “The counter-ray machine is being dismantled. Its plans will be destroyed, all memory of its principles wiped out by hypnotism. We’ll use psychology to create a mental block in our scientists, which will prevent them from ever again discovering the ray.”

  Woodley stood with bowed head. His world was crashing about him. There was no hope now at all.

  “I am sorry,” the gray man said gently. “Very sorry. If you wish, we can wipe out all your painful memories. That will make you completely one of us.”

  Briefly Woodley was tempted. Then he shook his head.

  “No,” he said. “I’d rather not. This way, at least I’m myself. And somehow I can’t make myself hate you. I’m trying to.”

  “We are not evil. We harm no one. There is no hate in our city, Woodley.”

  He went toward the door, bowed with failure. All his plans were wrecked. His only satisfaction was that now he could save Sharn, if she still survived in the outer world. He’d lift the false guilt from her shoulders, get the Senate’s permission to bring her back to Center, and then leave the city forever. He would go back to Janet, care for her, remembering her as she had been before the curse had fallen.

  He saw the future that stretched grayly before him, one mortal in a world of immortals, one man with intelligence in a race of savages.

  On the threshold he paused. A warning hum went through the room. From a concealed amplifier a voice cried: “Danger! Flood!”

  WOODLEY whipped around.

  Through the transparent side of the room he looked out over the city and beyond it, up the valley that stretched northward. The Senators, too, were staring in the same direction.

  “To shelter!” the voice cried. “Swiftly!”

  Small figures in the lower roof gardens scurried from view. One by one the great windows were closed. Soon Center was a closed, airtight prison. Great plastic shells swung out to shield the gardens. Far in the distance, up the valley, Woodley saw movement. It drew closer, resolving itself into a green wall of water topped with white.

  “There was a dam in the valley,” the graybeard said. “It has broken, I suppose.”

  “There is no danger,” the unseen speaker called. “Center is built to resist such things. Find windows. It will be a spectacle worth seeing.” Incredibly vast the flood mounted. Woodley remembered some words that Rogur had spoken about the dam.

  “Once I thought of dynamiting it and wrecking the city . . .”

  Was this Rogur’s doing? If so, it would be futile.

  The waters lifted like iron against the sky. It was near sunset. Red light shot through the green, fringing the wall’s top with blood. The moving mountain hurtled down on the silent city. It was an experience that staggered imagination. Inevitably fear came, the insistent knowledge that no wall could resist this tremendous battering-ram. Tons of water, driving with the bellow of clashing armies down the valley, poured resistlessly against Center.

  Higher the terror rose, and higher. It sprang up with impossible speed. Its movement seemed suddenly upward, as though it leaped into the sky, ready to swoop down and smash the world.

  Every person in the room fell back from the window. The flood loomed momentarily, for a split-second, as a black wall that blotted out all else. Then it struck!

  The city shook. Built on solid rock, a part of the Earth itself, stronger than steel, the mighty towers shuddered with agony at the wrenching strain. Only the science of pure genius could have withstood that horror for more than a second. Darkness covered Center. Even through the insulation, the shouting roar of the mighty waters was deafening.

  Within the buildings was light, but the windows were veiled with blackness, too intense for any illumination to penetrate. The roaring, bellowing fury raged. There were swirlings and foamings visible in the water now, Woodley saw, and a faint greenish light. The worst of the flood was over.

  The city had withstood its tremendous impact.

  SUDDENLY he saw the sky again.

  Water dripped and trickled down the outside of the great pane. Northward the valley was a foamin
g, brown, turbulent river. Debris and flotsam surged with the flood. But it was over.

  Murmurs of appreciation went up from the Senate. They were actually appreciating the esthetic beauty of the terrifying scene. Whatever else the hedonists might be, they were certainly not cowards.

  The graybeard picked up his conical narrow-beam phone and listened.

  “No damage was done,” he said at last. “The flood has passed on down the valley, but the moat is filled with water. We must drain it.”

  The Senators drifted away. Woodley, still dazed by his recent experience, retreated to his own suite. Soon darkness fell on the city, and with the shadow came a faint, insistent murmur.

  At first Woodley thought it was within his own ears. Restlessly he tossed on his bed, where he had lain down to rest. His mind was in turmoil. There were so many things to be done—tomorrow. Tomorrow he would go after Sham.

  “Woodley!” The voice was urgent. “Woodley!”

  Suddenly he realized what was happening. With a swift motion he reached for his beam-phone and held the larger end to his ear. Long ago he had been given one of the convenient devices.

  “Woodley!” called Sham’s voice.

  “I hear you. Sham?”

  “Yes. Quick, let me into Center. I’m outside Gate Four.”

  Sharn, returned to the city? Hastily Woodley sprang up. Some impulse toward secrecy made him thrust the phone into a pocket. But he met no one, and the control room for Gate Four was deserted.

  Hurriedly he manipulated the simple device. The wall opened. The bridge licked out into darkness.

  He waited a moment, then pressed the button that brought the span licking back.

  It flashed toward him.

  Two figures materialized in the gloom. They were drawn into the room where he stood.

  Sharn—and Janet!

  CHAPTER XV

  The Hordes Attack

  A HUNDRED questions raced through Woodley’s mind, but there was no time. Janet’s shallow blue eyes stared around wonderingly. She was cleaner than Woodley remembered, and he guessed that Sham was responsible for that. But why had she brought Janet here?