Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

WADE was untying the prisoner’s bonds. The men outside were trying to hammer the door down, but not trying too hard. They could shoot out the lock whenever they chose. So there was a little time, at least until Varden returned.

  Kearney stretched his arms, wincing with the pain of returning circulation. Wade hesitated a moment, wondering what to do next. He moved to the window, but the bars were set solidly in their sockets. Wait a bit! One of them was loose.

  He tested it, as Kearney silently watched. Slowly, imperceptibly, Wade exerted his strength. Muscles bulged under his thin linen coat. The rusted bar gave, tearing free with a shrill screech that went unheard amid the clamor at the door.

  Then, suddenly, the clamor stopped. Wade heard a deep, authoritative voice raised in question. His heart jumped.

  Varden had returned!

  That meant there was only a minimum of time left before the deception was discovered. He glanced at Kearney.

  “Can you swim?” he demanded.

  “Like a fish.”

  “Okay. That window opens over the water. You can squeeze between the bars.”

  “But”—Kearney hesitated—“what about you?”

  “I’ll be right behind you.”

  Without another word Kearney wriggled between the bars. He hung for a moment, his face peering in, then it dropped from view. A distant splash came up.

  Wade went after him as a shot blasted from the hall. He would have preferred to stay and fight it out with Varden and his men, but that would have been suicidally foolish. He was unarmed—and they were merely tools.

  He went out the window, and a shot burned a red-hot furrow along his back. Then he was falling, with the lights of Singapore like innumerable shooting stars in the distance, and the water was leaping up.

  HE DIVED deep, till his lungs ached for air. But the surface was silvered with moonlight, and Wade forced himself to swim underwater to the concealing shadow of a wharf. Clinging to the barnacled curve of a pier, he gasped air into his lungs and shook back his hair plastered across his eyes.

  “Kearney?” he called softly. “Right here,” the answer came back from the darkness.

  “Bueno! There’s a ladder over here. Come along. . . .”

  Half an hour later Wade was at the airport, with a small bundle under his arm. He had left Kearney at the antique shop, with police guards, and the statuette had been taken from its hiding-place inside a Ming vase and given to him. He had phoned the airport.

  Dirk came to meet him. “Sorry, Jim. There was a bit of a scrap.”

  “So you said on the phone.” Wade nodded. “Glad neither of you were hurt.”

  “The sons couldn’t aim worth a hoot. But they lobbed a grenade at the Thunderbug.”

  “You told me. What’s the damage.”

  “Nothing serious. It wasn’t a direct hit. Red’s working on the motors now. It should be okay in a few hours.”

  “So?” Wade’s brow furrowed thoughtfully. “We’ll take off at dawn, if we can. We’re heading for Africa.” Dirk’s eyes widened, but he said nothing. . . .

  Early the next morning the Thunderbug rose from the tarmac, circled, and fled southwest. Wade was at the stick, guiding the plane over the smooth blue expanse of water, while Dirk and Red alternately checked equipment and squabbled bitterly.

  “We heading for Cairo?” the giant asked at last.

  Wade shook his head. “Nope. By the way, our friends at Lao Chen’s got away, didn’t they?”

  “Yeah. The police raided the joint, but no soap.”

  “Doesn’t matter. We’re after bigger game.”

  Red picked up the little statuette Wade had got from Kearney. It represented a bull with the head and torso of a man rising from its shoulders. Originally it had been gilded, but the paint had been knocked off by rough handling. The statue seemed to weigh very little, as if it were hollow.

  “So that’s the Minotaur,” Red said, pondering over it. “It’s had plenty rough handling. Doesn’t look very valuable.”

  “It is, though,” Wade said. “I think I know why.”

  The big man waited, but Thunder Jim had apparently said all he was going to. At last Red asked:

  “Got any objections to telling us what this is all about?”

  Thunder Jim lit a cigarette with one hand. The small white cylinder seemed to leap into view cut of empty air, as did the flaming match. Few professional magicians could have matched Wade’s tricks, which he had learned long ago.

  At last he nodded. “Okay. I’d better give you guys the dope on all this. Galbraith’s been kidnaped. You know that. I suppose I’d better tell you where I met the professor—it’s got a lot to do with what’s happening now.”

  He was silent for a moment, choosing his words carefully.

  “You never knew where I was born, where I came from,” he said then.

  “Well, when I was five years old, my father and I were wrecked on an island off Africa. Dad was a scientist—a blamed good one. He kept us alive till we were rescued.”

  Wade’s strong face relaxed as his mind went back.

  “A little Cockney flier picked us up. Saw our signals. That was during the World War, and he was fighting and flying in Africa. He flew us—well, there was a storm, and we were driven off our course. The rescue didn’t quite jell.

  “The plane crashed in a valley that was shut off from the outer world. Dad was killed. The pilot, Tim Miggs, was hurt, but I got off without a scratch. Kid’s luck. There were people in the valley, and they took care of us.”

  “Natives?” Red put in.

  Wade’s smile was somewhat odd. “I suppose. Yeah, you might call ’em that. Only they’d come to Africa thousands of years ago, and had never left that valley. They were Cretans.”

  “Cretans!” Red’s jaw dropped. “But—”

  “I know. But Crete existed before Greece. Thousands of years ago. It was plenty civilized then, and it sent out explorers. Some of them reached this valley in Africa, and settled there. Then Crete fell, and the African pioneers stayed where they were, hidden from their enemies.” Wade’s voice held an odd awe. “Imagine it—cultivating there in that wilderness the science and secrets of their parent race! For the Cretans had their sciences.

  “Well, I was too young to wonder much. I was brought up there. Miggs sort of adopted me, too. There was no way out of the valley—a pass had once existed, but not for centuries. So I grew up in a lost civilization, learning—a good deal. The priests showed me a lot. How to use hypnosis, for example. And Miggs did his part by teaching me sleight of hand tricks. I’ve an idea he used to be a pickpocket in Limehouse, though he never taught me anything crooked. A good guy, Miggs. The crash crippled him, and he died after four years in the valley.

  “So I grew up there, and one day Professor Galbraith found his way in. An avalanche had opened a pass in the mountains, and he simply walked through. Pure luck! He took me back to civilization when he left, saw to it that I had a modern education. A bond almost of father and son has always been between us, though now our paths lie far apart as do our interests. But after we left the valley, the Cretans closed up the pass. They’d learned enough from Galbraith about the outer world to want to stay where they were. And the professor and I always kept the secret.”

  THERE was silence for a moment, before Dirk asked a question. “What has the Minotaur to do with it all?”

  “The Cretans worship the Minotaur—the Man-Bull. Galbraith used that word in the message to tell me where to hunt for him.” Wade crushed out his cigarette.

  “So,” Dirk said, and pulled in his lips. “Well, if Galbraith didn’t talk, how’d anybody find out about the place?”

  Wade shrugged. “There’s another question. No, the professor wouldn’t talk, unless they gave him a dose of scopolamine—as they probably did. And there was only one thing he ever took out of the valley.”

  “What?”

  “This little statuette the priests made for him—a bull with Galbraith’s head. It was pretty
much of a compliment, and I know he kept it.”

  Wade glanced at the instrument panel and changed the course.

  “Anyway,” he continued, “Varden’s boss kidnaped Galbraith, found out what they wanted to know, and took him in a plane to the hidden valley.

  They may think there’s treasure there. I don’t know about that. But I do know we’ve got to save the professor. His captors are ruthless, judging by the sample I got!” There was a hard brilliance to the jet eyes. “I lived among those people for years. They’re a good, gentle tribe for the most part. They don’t go in for war. A few grenades or a machine-gun would let hell loose in that valley. I don’t intend to let that happen. The Cretans deserve to be let alone.”

  “Well,” Dirk asked practically, “what next?”

  “We’ll refuel at Cairo and then head inland, beyond Ethiopia.” Then Wade remarked abruptly: “I don’t like the sound of that engine. The Thunderbug needed more work done on it. But we couldn’t wait.”

  “Sounds all right to me,” Red said. “Cairo, eh? Nice town. For a short stop-over.”

  Wade didn’t answer. He sent the Thunderbug racing on, a black bullet in flight. But Dirk glanced at the redhead sharply.

  “Think there’ll be trouble there?”

  “Maybe,” Red said noncommittally. “Maybe somebody’s got orders to stop us. Can’t tell.” He looked speculatively at one gnarled, gigantic hand and slowly closed it. “I’d like to get a crack at those boys myself.”

  “Sweets to the sweet,” Dirk remarked. “Cracks from the cracked.”

  “That’ll be all from you,” Red returned, and took down another gun to clean.

  But nothing untoward happened at Cairo. Nothing at all occurred, indeed, until the Thunderbug was far inland, racing over tropical jungle not far from its destination. Then the motor began to give trouble.

  WADE said nothing, but his eyes worriedly searched the unbroken forest beneath. It was impossible to land. He eased the engine as much as possible until, half an hour later, a small lake appeared below. Luckily, the Thunderbug was equipped with retractable pontoons for just such an emergency as this. Wade circled down slowly, squinting against the glare of the setting sun. He dared not fly further with darkness coming on. Repairs could be made while the amphibian rested on the surface of the lake. The delay need not be a long one.

  Spray flew up in white fountains. Startled herons took off in squawking anger. A few crocodiles slid sluggishly from the banks. The Thunderbug coasted to a s. and rocked slowly, silence falling again over the jungle as Wade cut the motor.

  Thick bush fringed the lake. In the distance there was a commotion as a giant rhino snorted and grunted as it drank. But there was no danger there, nor any from the crocodiles, provided Wade and the others stayed out of the water.

  “We’ll stay here tonight,” Thunder Jim decided. “But we’d better make repairs now, while the light’s not too bad. Don’t fall off the pontoons.”

  Grumbling, Red got out tools. He paused, startled, as a sound whispered through the jungle stillness.

  A plane’s motor was humming, growing louder.

  Wade, half out of the cabin, froze, staring up. The cruciform shape of an amphibian came out of the north and circled overhead, losing altitude steadily.

  There was no doubt about its intentions, even before a burst of machine-gun fire chattered out.

  Wade dived back into the cabin, his eyes flashing.

  “Varden, maybe,” he called. “Must have trailed us. He fired too soon, though. We’ll have time—”

  He was at the controls, while the others worked busily rendering the Thunderbug airtight.

  “Dive?” Red asked.

  “Yeah. Only thing to do. We can’t get off the lake without repairing the motor, but it’ll do for a dive. Quick!”

  CHAPTER V

  Jungle Terror

  FROM outside, it would have seemed that a magic meta-morphosis was overtaking the Thunderbug. The wings grew shorter as they were cranked in. Smooth, sleek black plates slid out here and there, until the craft was a cigar-shaped torpedo. Thunder Jim Wade had spent years designing and building the Thunderbug and, as was admitted, it was a marvel of scientific engineering. Capable of being altered as it was to travel swiftly by land, sea, or air—just now it was a submarine.

  Last of all the pontoons were pumped in, and plates slid out over them as the Thunderbug plummeted into the depths. Machine-gun fire was drumming against the hull as it sank. Wade, busy with the controls, scowled. This would give him only a breathing-space. Inappropriate simile! The air in the miniature submarine wouldn’t last forever, but to have remained on the surface would have been sheer suicide.

  Now, however, the enemy had the upper hand. When the Thunderbug did emerge, the enemy amphibian’s guns would be waiting for it. No doubt the other craft would land on the lake and wait for developments.

  The Thunderbug grounded, with a lurch, in sticky mud.

  “Think there are any hippos here?” Red asked, his face gleaming with sweat in the electric light.

  “Doubt it,” Wade grunted, and cut the engine. “Lake’s too small.”

  He sat still, considering. What next? Remain here until the air was gone? There was no room to maneuver in the small lake, and the water was too murky to aim a torpedo. But they couldn’t stay here forever!

  Red and Dirk were silent, looking to their leader for orders. Wade flipped a cigarette out of the air and examined it. He made it vanish.

  “Can’t afford to smoke in here. . . . Well, let’s see. We’ve got to get rid of our friends. There can’t be many of ’em. It’ll be dark soon. When it is”—Wade glanced at his wrist-watch—“I’ll go up through a torpedo-tube.”

  “Crocs,” Dirk said quietly.

  Wade grinned. “Nuts! You’re just aching for the chance to go yourself.”

  “Why not?”

  “The Thunderbug will need both of you to raise her. That engine’s bad—muy malo. I’ll try and get rid of our friends and, if I do, swell.”

  “How’ll we know?” Red asked.

  “You won’t. Come up in an hour—maybe two. If you’re shot at, better abandon ship and swim for it. I’ll see what I can do in an hour.”

  There was a little silence. No one spoke as Wade shed his coat and crawled into the torpedo tube. He went head-first.

  “I’ll count up to ten,” he called back. “Then I’ll hold my breath while you flood the tube. Ready?”

  “Luck, amigo,” Red said, and slammed the lock. Dirk hadn’t spoken but his eyes were bleak.

  Water gushed into the tube. The numbing shock of it was icy. Wade waited until the tumult had died, and then he was out of the Thunderbug, swimming up through murky water that blinded him.

  THERE would be a full moon, he knew, and that was dangerous. The silver African light would betray him to any watchers. Moreover, there were crocs in the lake. He had a knife stuck in his belt, and an automatic in a water-tight pouch, but he couldn’t help wondering if they would help.

  His head broke water. He gasped for breath and ducked under again instantly.

  He came up twenty feet away, but only for a second. In the tropical moonlight he caught a glimpse of the jungle, and a cabin plane floating, moored to the shore where a clump of trees grew alone, near the place where the rhino had drunk.

  Firelight was glowing on the bank. Men must be there, armed.

  Wade struck out for the opposite bank, coming up for breath as seldom as he dared.

  Halfway across the lake, he saw a v-shaped ripple heading toward him. It was a croc.

  Wade went cold. If he fought the saurian, the commotion would attract the enemy’s attention. His only possible hope was to outdistance the monster to the opposite shore.

  A slim chance!

  Until that moment Wade had not actually exerted himself. Silence had been more important than speed. But now his magnificent, wiry body came into action. Every muscle seemed perfectly coordinated; not a motion w
as wasted. His churning feet made little commotion, but his strong arms shot him across the surface of the water. Each stroke counted. His years in the wilderness had prepared him for such perils as these.

  Through flashing droplets of foam he could see the crocodile sliding silently toward him, most of the lizardlike, huge body beneath the surface. And there was another one now. Then another, all three converging on their prey. Wade wondered whether he was heading toward the jaws of a fourth. That reedy, dark bank ahead would make a perfect hiding place for a croc.

  He was conscious of nothing but the smooth, flowing rhythm of his muscles, surging almost intoxicatingly to carry him across the lake. Closer the bank drew. He did not wish to use the knife unless he had to. But—well, he must wait and see.

  The pursuing saurians were near now. Yet he was in shallow water.

  Wade’s hand touched bottom. He flung himself up the shelving underwater slope, and rose to his feet. From the corner of his eye he saw the crocs racing toward him, not ten feet away. Simultaneously a dark bulk slid off the bank and partly into the water, blocking his path. Its jaws clamped shut—crocs always sleep with their mouths open. But they open again immediately if it is necessary, with more dangerous intent.

  There was only one thing to do, and Wade did it. He jumped high, coming down hard on the saurian’s back. One of the other crocs slid past the spot where he had been a moment before. Wade felt the hard, rubbery, corrugated hide under his soles, but he did not wait to be flung off balance.

  His second leap carried him into the reeds, which rustled and crackled as he plunged into them, hurtling forward to avoid the deadly backlash of the crocodile’s tail. He heard the swish of its swing, and heard reeds break. Splashing sounds came from behind him as he fled up the slope, hoping he would not blunder into more of the monsters.

  HIS luck held. He found a tree, hurriedly climbed it, and reconnoitered. Clinging closely to the trunk to avoid detection—though there was little danger of that—he peered across the lake Its moonlit surface lay flat and unbroken. There was no disturbance around the enemy’s campfire.