Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

The night was not still. In the jungle only the midday is silent. With sundown the great carnivores stretch and stir in their lairs, preparing to go forth to hunt. In the wooded dongas, Wade knew, would be wildebeests, zebras, and kongoni. There might be buffalos, and even elephants. But mostly the jungle night held prowling lions, leopards and cheetahs—the big cats that were so dangerous.

  Wade descended the tree, and carefully began to skirt the lake, keeping his weapons handy. Crickets called shrilly from the shadow. Frogs were booming and croaking along the marshy banks.

  A shadow stirred in the bush. Wade froze as he glimpsed two green eyes. Vaguely he could make out a silhouette, but could not tell what the animal was. A large leopard or a small lioness, perhaps. He waited.

  There was a difference. A leopard charges like a streak of lightning and is hard to stop, even when filled with lead. But men have emerged, living, from hand-to-hand scraps with leopards. A lion, on the other hand, does not hug the ground when he charges, and has not a leopard’s speed and suppleness. But when a lion does reach a man and gets him down, it’s his finish.

  Wade never knew what beast it was that watched him. It slunk back into the gloom and was gone. The wind brought the acrid taint of blood to Jim Wade’s nostrils, and he realized that the carnivore had made its kill and was feeding. He gave the bushes a wide berth as he went on, but no further sound or motion was visible.

  Wade glanced at his watch. Not much time left. If the Thunderbug rose to the surface before he had accomplished his aim, it might prove fatal to Argyle and Marat.

  Cautiously he slipped closer to the enemy’s camp. There were five men—maybe more. Quester, whom he had already discovered was one of Galbraith’s chief kidnapers, apparently wasn’t there, though Wade could not be sure. The men were working at some task that kept them busily occupied—all but one on guard.

  They were preparing—Wade’s eyes confirmed his guess—depth bombs. Bombs that would wreck the Thunderbug if they were dropped into the lake.

  Less time than he had thought! The men were well armed, and there was even a submachine-gun among them. The plane’s guns might be turned against attack, too. Perhaps, though, guerrilla tactics might help.

  If he could dispose of the enemy, one by one. . . . Impossible! They stayed too close together, though at a safe distance from the fire, for they were, literally, playing with dynamite.

  Wade seemed like a statue as he crouched motionless. No, not a statue, for every inch of him was vibrantly alive. He was like some sleek, alert carnivore of the jungle night, wary and dangerous. His black eyes looked almost luminous.

  He had his automatic, of course. But the enemies were on the alert. At his first shot they would rake the underbrush with submachine-gun fire. Then, too, Wade had never yet shot a man from ambush, not even the most murderous scoundrel. But to save his men—

  Wade’s bronzed, strange face was hard. His wet hair clung to his face, and he brushed it back with silent impatience. Perhaps there was another way. He was sure’, now, that Quester was not among these men. Five killers—but their leader was not present. Wade regretted that as his fingertips slid along the cold metal of his gun.

  Though soaked to the skin, he was not worrying about fever, even in the jungle.

  Long years of adventuring had made him hard as nails. But of course his body was not armor against a bullet. Armor. . . . The thought stuck. It reminded him of something. What?

  Abruptly he remembered. The rhino he had seen drinking at the lake a little while ago, its tough hide strong enough to turn steel. An ugly-tempered fellow, with its powerful, saber-curved horns. The rhino has bad eyes, but a good nose. And, knowing the creature’s habits, Wade had an idea this particular one might not be far away.

  If he could find it, there might be a way!

  Carefully he scanned the encampment. The plane was moored to a tree at the water’s edge. It was a big crate, which would help, and it was bobbing and dipping with the gentle movement of the water. Bueno! The rhino could not fail to see such an obvious and bulky shape. And the man odor would infuriate him to a killing frenzy.

  All he had to do, Wade thought, was to lead the rhino here by the nose. Yeah, just that!

  And first—find the rhino.

  CHAPTER VI

  Juggernaut

  LIKE a shadow Thunder Jim slipped through the jungle, finding the path the great beast had made, and tracking it by its spoor, with every sense alert for danger. The manifold jungle odors were a hot, sweet excitement in his nostrils. From the muted symphony around him he automatically picked out individual sounds—the grunt of a leopard, the sleepy chatter of a gibbon.

  This country, Wade thought, was alive with game. Consequently the carnivores were not trouble-hunters. They were well fed, at least until they became old and toothless and turned into rogues. However, rhinos are never noted for sweet dispositions.

  This one had not gone far, after filling its belly with water. Wade heard a hiss of steam escaping through a locomotive stack. There were no trains around, he knew. And that meant—rhino.

  It had scented the man. It came forward from deep shadow into the jungle path and stood motionless in the moonlight. Then it lowered its head, let out another explosive snort, and trotted forward a few steps before it stopped again.

  Behind it, Wade saw, was another, only slightly smaller. But both seemed momentarily larger than haystacks. The chief danger of a rhino’s charge is the paralytic effect it has on the target. A mountain seems to be rushing at the victim—a mountain with the face of a dinosaur. At a short distance it looks fantastically gigantic. Many a hunter has been frozen with something more than fear at the sight, and has died as a result. It is the impulse that stops a man from jumping from the path of an automobile hurtling down at him.

  Would they charge? Wade knew that, if they did, they might turn off if their pretended target stood firm. That sometimes happened. He waited.

  Up went the first rhino’s tail, down went his head, and he charged!

  Dangerous to use the gun! That would warn the enemy! Wade knew his knife would be useless, but his hand closed on its hilt nevertheless. He waited no longer. He turned and ran at top speed down the trail toward the lake.

  The low, earth-shaking thudding of hoofs paced him. He risked a glance, and saw that both beasts were on his trail. He could not outrun that express-train charge, but if he could keep ahead until he reached the shore, that would be enough.

  He ran easily, head up, legs pumping, as though he did not realize that a misstep would mean death. His eyes searched the trail ahead, showing him where to place each foot. The skin of his back was crawling.

  The wind stirred by his running blew coldly on his wet skin. I was like racing in a nightmare, unable to turn aside, unable to escape from a pursuing Juggernaut. Two Juggernauts! That ominous thud-thud was louder.

  Then, through the bush, he glimpsed the fire.

  He lunged forward, his chest aching, his muscles flame-hot, and burst out into the clearing. Simultaneously he lunged aside. He saw the fire, startled men rising around it, and beyond, the dipping, lifting hulk of the plane.

  SO CLOSE had the leading rhino crept up that Wade felt the wind of its passing as he flung himself aside into the bushes. The thorns tore at his skin and clothes. But he drove farther in, regardless of pain, just as a bullet clipped leaves from his hiding place and went singing off into the night.

  The rhino snorted again. Wade heard one of the men yell, and there was the sound of a shot plunking home. The beast went “Phsss!” and went for these new enemies, enraged by his wound, crazed by the man smell, confused by the huge, bobbing target of the plane that he mistook for an enemy.

  The fire could not stop him. He went around it, for luckily it was not in his direct path. Luckily for Wade, that is. The second rhino just stood there until a bullet hit it. Then it bent its knees and folded up, killed by the lucky shot.

  The men were shouting and firing in confusion. There was a rending c
rash as the rhino hit the plane. Spray rose in moonlit fountains. Wade yanked the automatic out of its holster and lunged forward out of the bush.

  A bullet greeted him, slicing cloth from his shirt sleeve. The gun barked and jolted against his palm. He saw one of the figures jerk upright and begin to collapse, but there was no time to watch that. The remaining men had seen Wade.

  The rhino was wreaking its fury on the plane, and splintering crashes mingled with the splashing of the heavy bulk in the shallow water. Wade ignored the beast. The danger was not there. Coldly, icily, he stood with the automatic jolting in his hand, straddle-legged and grim, his eyes deadly as black ice. The whiplash crack of his shots split the night.

  To his enemies, he must have seemed a ghost risen from the lake. The legendary Thunder Jim!

  But Wade knew that he was up against four guns, and not even his unerring marksmanship would help enough. So, with chill deliberation, remembering Red Argyle and Dirk Marat imprisoned in the Thunderbug, waiting to be blasted to doom by depth-charges, he took steady aim.

  His bullet found its mark—the dynamite.

  The roaring boom of the explosion ripped out like heavy thunder. Wade was flung back into the bushes, his eyes blinded by the glare, deafened and shock-paralyzed. He lay motionless while the gusting echoes went whoo-whoo-whoo and faded into silence. Faintly he heard the rhino charging away in fright.

  But there were no more shots.

  Wade got up, blinking to clear his vision. A curious stillness had fallen over the jungle. The wreckage of the plane was half-submerged in the lake. The clearing was a shambles, embers scattered far into the bush by the explosion. There were no survivors.

  Wade’s eyes still held a blazing, ruthless fury—a fire that had meant death to many. Slowly it died. But there was no sign of compassion in the hard, bronzed face, just as there was no trace of triumph.

  He glanced around, made certain that there was no immediate danger, and walked to the shore.

  Something was rising above the surface of the lake. It was the Thunderbug. A hatch on the rounded upper hull opened, and Red Argyle cautiously poked out his head.

  “Oaky,” Wade called. “There’s no danger.”

  “That you, Jim?” Argyle did not ask what had happened.

  “Yeah. Bring the Thunderbug ashore here. We’ve got some repairs to do before we take off.”

  As the black bulk slid forward, Wade absently reloaded his gun. His eyes were no longer black ice. . . .

  THE next morning the repaired Thunderbug rose smoothly from the surface of the lake, once more adapted to air travel. Wade was at the controls, shaking his head worriedly as he listened to the engine’s beat. The craft had taken hard usage up in the Turkestan country, and really needed a complete going-over.

  But there had been no time for that, of course. If it would hold out until they reached the hidden valley-swell! But would it? Thunder Jim Wade was not sure.

  Still, there was not far to go now. Yet the air currents over the mountain barrier were treacherous. And a crack-up in that desolate, lifeless region would be fatal. Blizzards on the equator! But that was nothing new in Africa, land of weird contrasts and incredible survivals. It was the country where the unexpected always happened.

  Wade hoped there would be no fog. Flying blind, in a low ceiling, would not be pleasant. He was tense with the momentary expectation that the motors would stutter and quit.

  No landmarks were visible. They were flying over a great plain. Zebras, giraffes that ran at sight of the Thunderbug’s shadow, elephants and buffalos were plentiful. There were smaller animals, too—hyenas, jackals, wart hogs, and a great many leopards. Then, as the ground rose, kudu were visible on the mountain slopes, their spiral horns clearly visible through the glasses.

  Once they passed above a group of natives who stood staring up in wonder at the indagi—the “great bird.” And once they swept over an island in the center of a huge lake. Wade nodded down.

  “I’ve been there. The natives are Omolos. It’s a funny place. The blacks think they’re the only people in the world.”

  Red stared. “How come?”

  “They can’t see the shoreline—it’s a big lake. And they haven’t any boats. They make rafts out of reeds, but those get water-logged almost immediately.”

  The Thunderbug roared on. The ground mounted steadily. They were leaving the great plains. Sometimes a solemn-looking secretary bird or a bustard was seen, but there was not much game now.

  Uninhabited, bleak and hot was the country they now passed. It was utterly barren, like sand-dunes frozen motionless at the moment of some vast cataclysm. Mostly the terrain was volcanic lava covered with sand. It was a baking oven, and heat currents blasted up from below incessantly. Wade nodded toward a window.

  “That’s one reason why the Valley of the Minotaur remains undiscovered,” he said. “Even in the Sahara you find oases, but here—well, most of the lakes are alkali. People don’t come here, as a rule. There’s nothing to bring them.”

  Dirk smoothed back his blond hair. “How did Galbraith get in?”

  “Sheer luck—and nerve. A long time ago—centuries—there was a fresh river that ran across this hell. Galbraith discovered its route by ancient inscriptions he dug up, and followed the dry water-course. He found enough good water to keep him going, though mostly he had to dig for it. But he did get through, and brought me back with him.” Wade glanced down. “I wonder if I could find any traces of our camps. Guess not, though. The simoons wipe out everything.”

  Red shifted uneasily. “Want me to take the stick?”

  Wade nodded. “Thanks.” He relinquished the controls to Argyle, and lit a cigarette, expelling the smoke in twin streams from his nostrils. “Bueno. We’ll spell each other. We can’t afford to be tired, any of us, when—”

  He didn’t finish. There was no need to. All three men knew that peril waited for them in the Valley of the Minotaur.

  PRESENTLY Wade began to sketch on a pad he took from a compartment. Dirk peered over his shoulder.

  “Eh?”

  “Here’s the set-up. Something you both should know. The valley’s pretty big. Or, rather, the two valleys. There’s a large one where the Cretans have their walled city—Minos—and a smaller one at the top.” He drew an oval, and a small circle crowning it. “The valleys are connected by a pass, through which a river flows. The Argo River, it’s called. It comes down from the mountains into the little valley, where the priests have their headquarters, runs through the Labyrinth—that’s their tempi e—and through the pass into the big valley, where it skirts the wall of Minos. Catch?”

  Red, glancing aside at the map, asked:

  “What’s this Labyrinth?”

  “I’ll have to teach you to read some time,” Dirk observed blandly. “You’d be surprised what you can find in books. Ever hear of Theseus?”

  “Yeah—three little Theseus,” Red responded, and bellowed with laughter. “Haw!”

  Dirk moaned. “You and your lousy puns. Even if it were good. . . . Shut up and listen. Back in ancient Crete the Minoans worshiped a monster-god called the Minotaur, half bull and half human. Victims were turned into a maze, the Labyrinth, and the Minotaur got ’em. They couldn’t find their way out, of course.”

  “Bull,” Red said, laughing immoderately.

  “For the love of—” Dirk growled.

  He lifted one hand, presumably to scratch the back of his neck. Suddenly it flashed down, with a short, deadly throwing knife in it. More than once Dirk had found his back-holster effective, giving him the advantage over an armed enemy. To tell Dirk Marat to put up his hands was leading with your chin. A swift, blinding motion, a lightning-fast throw—and bullets didn’t always have the advantage over Dirk’s sharp steel.

  But now he just sat idly toying with the knife, and went on talking.

  “One more crack out of you and the

  joint will be covered with blood,” he promised. “Theseus, as I was saying, kill
ed the Minotaur. He took a spool of thread with him into the Labyrinth, unrolling it as he went, and simply back-tracked.”

  Wade was staring at his crude map. “There was no Theseus in the valley,” he said. “I never was in the Labyrinth, but the priests said there was a Minotaur in it. Criminals condemned to death were sent in—and never came out. But a young priest once told me he’d seen the Minotaur. He believed in it.”

  “What was it like?” Red forgot to joke.

  Wade shrugged. “Dunno. He wouldn’t say. But he was scared pantless. . . . Well, I suppose we ought to make some plans.”

  Inwardly he was not so sure. It was difficult to foretell anything yet.

  “The best thing to do is get in touch with a guy named Cardoth. He’s the high priest. We’ll find him at the Labyrinth.”

  “In the small valley?”

  “Right.”

  “Is there room to land there?”

  “Room enough.” Wade fell silent, thinking.

  CHAPTER VII

  Over the Mountains

  MOUNTAINS loomed ahead. They were beyond the last outposts now. This was the lost land, forsaken and desolate as the surface of another planet. Presently Wade took the

  controls again.

  Higher the mountains rose, snowcapped and thrusting up like menacing spears. The wind was chill now, and the plane hard to handle in the whirlpool currents. The icy mountains, bordering the oven-hot surrounding wilderness, made the air rough. From occasional rifts and valleys rose thermals that sent the Thunderbug sliding and rocking sickeningly. Wade lifted the plane’s nose higher.

  Up—and up! Toward the highest ramparts of that great wall, to the towering peaks that seemed to touch the sky.

  “We’ll need oxygen masks,” Red muttered.

  “Not quite.” Wade smiled. “There’s a pass—for planes, anyway, if my memory’s right. I’ve never been this way by air.”

  All around them now lay the tumbled, cataclysmic vastness of the icy ranges. Sometimes the bellowing roar of an avalanche thundered up from below. Plumes of snow blew constantly from the mountain peaks, like the famous mile-long plume of Everest. The scene beneath was a black-and-white dry-brush sketch, redeemed only by the violet shadows on the snow. The sky was a pale, cloudless blue.