Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  “You must learn not to disobey me, Quester,” a low, purring voice murmured.

  The hand—fleshy and well manicured—took the gun. So swiftly that eye could scarcely follow the motion, it swept out. Quester grunted explosively.

  He reached up and touched bleeding scratches on his cheek.

  “You had better put iodine on that,” the voice said, and, more sharply, “Now!”

  Quester said nothing. His mouth was working as he turned and vanished in the depths of the corridor.

  Yaton had not spoken. But there was fear in his eyes. The owner of the voice moved into view before the door, and Thunder Jim Wade nodded slowly.

  “Solent,” he said. “Duke Solent.”

  He had never seen Solent before, but tales of the man were whispered from Bombay to Rio. Duke Solent, the Eurasian, hybrid of two races, with the worst vices of each combining in his strong, well-built body. Ruthless, cunning, dangerous as the ringhals cobra or the black mamba, he had left a trail of death in his wake across the world.

  He worked swiftly, and had always gone unpunished—except once. A Russian mujik was the only man who had left his mark on Solent. No one ever knew the truth of that story, but Duke Solent had come out of Siberia with a flaming, crinkled scar on his forehead. He had been branded with a cross.

  MANY women had found him attractive. He was tall, strongly built, with an easy flowing grace. Only his slightly slanted eyes in the dark face told of his half-Asian ancestry.

  Wade had always known that some day his trail must cross that of Solent.

  And now—he felt a thrill of exultation at the thought—that day had come. True, he was the Eurasian’s prisoner, but—

  “Quester is impetuous,” Solent said softly. “I wanted you alive and unharmed. I have heard of the Thunderbug, and the precautions you take.”

  Wade lifted an eyebrow. “So you couldn’t get into it, eh?”

  The other lifted his hand in a queer gesture, brushing at his lips.

  “My men could not,” he admitted. “When they had acid sprayed on them from concealed automatic vents, they were discouraged.”

  “I’m the only one who can get into the Thunderbug, once it’s locked,” Wade informed his captor. “I’d advise you not to try to burn your way through the hull with an acetylene torch. There’s high explosive in the Thunderbug, and it’s apt to go off.” For a long moment Solent stared. “I believe you,” he said at last. “You’d rather see the Thunderbug destroyed than have it get out of your hands. But you can open it, eh?”

  “I can—”

  “And you will. Or your men will be tortured.”

  Wade exchanged significant glances with Red and Dirk. Such threats had been made before.

  “Got any objections to having a chat, first?” Wade asked. “There’s a lot I’d like to know.”

  Solent shrugged his muscular shoulders. The scar on his forehead gleamed crimson.

  “I shall tell you only what I wish, of course. But go ahead.”

  “Is Professor Galbraith safe?”

  “Yes.”

  “What are you after here?”

  “Talk will get us nowhere,” Solent said suddenly. His hand brushed his lips again. “No, we waste time. You will show me how to operate the Thunderbug. You have ten minutes to make your decision. Otherwise, the torture begins.”

  Without another word he turned and strode away, followed by Yaton. The single guard they had left leaned idly against the wall. Silence fell over the prison vault.

  “Well,” Red grunted, “what next?”

  Wade smiled. “Next? We’re getting out of here, of course!”

  CHAPTER IX

  Test tor the Thunderbug

  JIM WADE glanced around. The cell was empty, save for the single dim light of the ancient lamp.

  “Over here,” he said softly, and led the way into a corner of the prison where they were temporarily hidden from the guard outside. “Now—what about a knife, Dirk?”

  Marat’s round face twisted in a smile, its seraphic effect somewhat marred by a black eye.

  “I have one. You’ll have to get it for me.”

  “Where?”

  “Behind my teeth—feel? It snaps in place like a dentist’s band.”

  He knelt as Wade deftly retrieved the tiny sliver of steel. One of Dirk’s chief interests was thinking up ingenious ways of concealing knife blades so that they would not be found by searchers. The sliver was sharp, and soon the three were free of their bonds.

  “Keep the ropes in place,” Wade warned. “We’re not out of this fix yet.”

  With his arms still apparently bound he went to where the lamp stood on the floor, and stumbled, knocking it over. The guard outside stirred, peering into the Stygian blackness of the cell.

  “What you think you’re doin’ ?” he snapped.

  Thunder Jim was moving swiftly. The ropes were gone from his body now. He snatched up the lamp, drifted like a shadow to the door, and emptied the contents outside the bars, on the stone floor. That done, he slipped aside into the blackness, and Red Argyle took his place.

  The guard was coming forward, his gun ready. The torchlight just revealed Red within the cell.

  “Back up,” the guard snapped. Argyle obeyed.

  The guard was taking no chances. He walked forward warily, his pistol snouted forward, his eyes intent on the interior of the vault. Consequently he did not see the little pool of oil. He stepped into it, but his hobnailed boots did not slip.

  Simultaneously Wade lit the packet of matches he had fished out of his pocket, and tossed it between the bars.

  Instantly the oil-pool blazed up. To the guard, it seemed as though fire had leaped up from his very feet. Attack he had expected, but not this.

  And Argyle’s huge hand shot between the bars, clamped on the guard’s gun-hand, and dragged the man forward. His companions worked in swift unison. Wade’s fist cracked sharply against the gunman’s jaw. He caught the fellow as he slumped down. Dirk had already yanked the pistol from the guard’s hand.

  It was over. The three had worked like a well-oiled machine, with swift precision and accuracy—as always.

  “We could use the pistol on the lock,” Wade said, “but that’d be too noisy.”

  “Got that pen-knife of yours?” Red asked.

  He took the steel sliver from Dirk and bent over the door. His gnarled, hairy fingers looked clumsy, but within a few seconds the lock clicked, and the barrier stood open. The three hurdled the pool of oil. Briefly they paused to smother the fire licking at the unconscious guard’s clothing.

  LEAVING an enemy to be burned to death was something they could not do, even at this critical moment. But it did not take long, and then they were hurrying back along the corridor. Wade had taken the torch from its socket, and led the way.

  “Know the way out?” Dirk asked.

  “Maybe. We’ve got to get to the Thunderbug.”

  “There’ll be guards.”

  “Some. Let’s have that gun, Dirk.”

  “What about Galbraith?”

  Wade grunted. “Figure it out. Why did Solent want the Thunderbug? Because he didn’t have another plane. His own must have cracked up when he landed here. Okay. But why the rush? Because he wants to use the Thunderbug for something. I know the Minoans. Not many of them are fools or scoundrels. Solent might have got a few to help him, but the rest—no. Certainly not Cardoth, the king-priest.”

  Red was tying up his wounded arm as they went on. “Well?” he asked.

  “My idea is that most of the Minoans are against Solent, and they’re with Cardoth, in the city—Minos. So Solent wants to get the Thunderbug and drop a few bombs on Minos. I don’t get all the angles yet, but I believe that’s the best solution.”

  Wade halted in mid-stride, staring around. He held the torch higher.

  “Anyway, this is the place. Where we fell through the trap-door. How’s your arm, Red? Can you stand some weight?”

  The giant grunted
. “Climb on.” He braced himself.

  Carefully Wade mounted, until he stood astride Red’s shoulders.

  “Can’t reach. Dirk?”

  Marat made the third stone in the human tower. He could just touch the ceiling.

  “Right. No lock on it. I—I’ll see.”

  Abruptly the panel slid down, upsetting all three. They were up again instantly, alert for any sound that might betoken danger. They heard nothing.

  Once more Red braced himself. This time Dirk’s fingers slipped over the edge of the aperture, and slowly, gradually, he pulled himself up.

  “All oke,” he whispered down. “Let’s have your hand, now.”

  It was more difficult to get Red up through the trap, but they managed it at last, with the aid of improvised ropes made from their belts and twisted shirts. Finally the three stood panting in the upper corridor that was dim, silent, and empty.

  Wade had the gun. He led the way. They met no one.

  Then they were outside the temple, in the bright sunlight. The Thunderbug stood not far away. It seemed unharmed. There were a few men near it, two of them priests.

  “What about Galbraith?” Dirk whispered. “We going to leave him here?”

  “Got to,” Wade said shortly.

  It was the only way, he knew. Just now it was imperative that they make their escape, and return later with aid. Besides, Galbraith might not be here. He might be in the walled city of Minos.

  Wade felt a sudden electric tingle go right up his spine. Far away, a voice was shouting something. Had their escape been discovered? Had Solent returned to the cell and found it empty? In that case, Jim Wade could not wait for an opportunity to disguise himself and his companions as priests. “Red,” he whispered, “head for the plane. I’ll cover you.” Without hesitation Argyle launched himself forward. He knew Wade’s uncannily accurate marksmanship.

  Dirk was gone, too, slipping like a shadow from bush to bush. Wade followed, his eyes keenly alert for any sign of movement.

  The four men visible near the plane noticed Red’s sprinting figure. One of them yelled and jerked up a gun. Wade seemed to fire without aim. The gun was unfamiliar to him, but he did not miss. The killer yelled even louder, and jerked up an arm from which red drops splattered in the bright sunlight.

  Wade willed himself to icy calm. His glance raked the scene. The shadow of the gigantic Minotaur lay beyond the plane. Was someone moving there? Yes!

  Again the pistol snarled. From far away, a voice rose in agony. Red was almost at the Thunderbug. Then he was at its side, bending low, his deft fingers searching. The magic in those gnarled hands opened the secret lock in split seconds. But meanwhile Wade guarded him, not daring to waste bullets, for he had no extra ammunition. Six slugs, and he had used two . . . three now.

  Red was in the plane. The door was shut. A staccato clatter of machine-gun fire ripped out, and the priests flung themselves fiat on their faces. But they had no need to fear. That was just a warning. Argyle had aimed high.

  “Dirk!” Wade called sharply, and saw a small figure dart rabbitlike toward the Thunderbug.

  He followed, racing at top speed. Behind him he heard shouts and shots. Over his shoulder he saw men pouring out of the temple he had just left, and risked a snap-shot that halted them momentarily.

  Then Dirk was scrambling into the plane, Wade on his heels. Lead plunked against the armored hull. A bullet sang through the door as it closed, and splashed on the inner wall. Wade jammed the barrier shut, locked it, and breathed again.

  “Anybody hurt?”

  “Those sons can’t shoot worth a hoot,” Red told him, and Dirk merely smiled.

  “Okay.” Wade bent over the controls, touching the starter. Only a coughing grunt was the response. He went suddenly tense.

  Neither Dirk nor Red said anything, though they realized that something was wrong. Quietly they took their places, one on each side of the cabin.

  The shutters were still in place, and the small enclosure was lit by electric light. Nothing outside, of course, was visible.

  Wade’s deft fingers moved swiftly. That attempt to enter the Thunderbug—it hadn’t helped any. The engine trouble had developed to dangerous proportions. Dangerous to men in the air, for a forced landing here might be disastrous.

  “We’re moving by land,” Wade said.

  INSTANTLY the cabin sprang into hurried activity. The retractable wings were drawn in, tractor wheels pumped out, and, in a matter of minutes the Thunderbug was not a plane any more. It was a tank, of definitely unusual construction, but looking strong.

  Wade chanced a glimpse of the outside. As he half suspected, the enemy, under Quester’s guidance were arriving with dynamite. Ahead, in the Thunderbug’s path, a tree had been hastily felled, and rocks piled about it to form a barricade. No doubt boulders had been put against the treads, too.

  Jim would have preferred to warm the motor awhile longer, but he dared not delay. With a signal to the others, he flipped open the front shutters. The Thunderbug quivered, shook, but did not move.

  From outside, came Quester’s voice. “Touch off that fuse! Quick!” Wade threw on more power. The Thunderbug backed up, the floor tilting dangerously, and then moved forward. It crawled toward the tree that blocked its path. The straining, damaged motors sang more shrilly.

  Slowly, gradually, the Thunderbug clambered like a beetle over the barricade. It came down with a thump, just as a grenade landed nearby. Wade threw on additional speed, and the tank, once more on level ground, began to move faster. The pick-up was good, he thought, but those motors might quit at any moment. Faster, now. . . .

  The grenade exploded, too far away to do any harm. From the distance came shots and cries. Wade sent the Thunderbug racing forward, at thirty miles an hour, heading for the pass.

  The mountainous ramparts at either side drew closer. On the right was the Argo River, flowing with smooth, oily speed. The Minotaur’s shadow fell on them briefly as they rounded an outcrop of rock; then they were in the pass. The confusion of noise grew fainter behind them.

  The Thunderbug picked up speed, but its motor sometimes stuttered disconsolately. Wade frowned. If it died—

  They had to reach shelter first. And the only safe shelter was the walled city, Minos.

  The sun was dipping toward the western rampart of ice-bound cliffs, and the shadows of trees and bushes were lengthening. Jim Wade glanced around. Dirk was busy adjusting a new bandage on Red’s arm, to replace the temporary, makeshift one. Both of the men were ragged and blood-smeared, but Wade knew there was plenty of life in them yet. There would have to be! If his suspicions were right, a hard fight lay ahead.

  So Duke Solent was behind this! The Eurasian was a dangerous man. He was cunning as well as unscrupulous, and no doubt he had laid his plans well. But what was behind all this mystery? What was the unknown treasure of the valley? And how did the little statue of the Minotaur, which Galbraith owned, affect the situation? The material of which it was made was not even marble. The thought of its being pitchblende or any precious metal was ridiculous. Nor was it old. The priests had made it for Galbraith when the Professor visited Minos.

  Wade shook his head doubtfully, guiding the Thunderbug through the pass and into the larger valley. A gradually rising slope lay ahead, tree-forested and bushy. Higher up were farms. But, when Wade passed them, he saw that the oddly constructed buildings seemed deserted. No smoke rose from the roofs, and cattle lowed sadly in the meadows.

  CHAPTER X

  Escape to Minos

  NOW there was no danger of pursuit. But there was always the ever-present peril of engine trouble. The motor was worse now. Once it went out entirely, and Wade had to tinker with it for fifteen minutes before it sputtered unhappily to life again.

  Red and Dirk watched in silence. The little man had found another throwing knife among the equipment, and was sharpening its blade. Red was smoking a particularly vile brand of black cigar, which Dirk contended was imported from Gehen
na.

  The ground kept on rising. The river lay on the right, hidden now behind palisades of low cliffs, from which ravines cut up at sharp angles to the plateau-plain. Ahead Wade could see the tall rampart of the city’s wall, and the gate that opened northward. He went on, following a road into which he had guided the Thunderbug.

  Cough, the engines went. Sput-t—sputt-t-t—chk! The tank needed an overhauling badly, Wade realized. He wished he had left it in Singapore until the job had been completed. But there would have been no time, had he done so. As it was, time was dangerously short. Duke Solent already had acquired power of some sort in the valley. But how?

  Those questions could be answered later, Wade thought. Meanwhile, the most important thing was to get the Thunderbug into Minos, where it would not fall into Solent’s hands and be destroyed. Granted, of course, that the city held friends.

  Land of mystery and ancient glamor! And now overrun with killers, the worst types of the outer world’s civilization. To Wade, who had lived so long in the lost valley, such intrusion seemed almost sacrilege. The incongruity of modern guns, hand grenades, dock rats and hired killers in Minos was, somehow, subtly degrading. Like a black blotch of fungus on a marble statue of pure beauty.

  Wade’s mind went back to a long-ago day when brigands had attacked an isolated Chinese Buddhist temple, a marvel of jade and bronze and ebony. He had felt the same way then. And he had had no compunction in machine-gunning the brigands, at that time, for their weapons had been superior to his own. And once, in the silent fastnesses of Tibet, battling in the air against roaring planes, he had glanced down and seen the bleak, ascetic bulk of a lamasery against the snowy peak. It had stood there for centuries, untouched by greed and hatred and evil.

  And now Minos—cheapened, somehow, desecrated by Solent and his murderous crew.

  The great wall loomed ahead. To left and to right it stretched, tall and grimly undecorated, save for sentries who paced the walls, tiny silhouettes against the dying light. The road led directly to the tall bronze gates, three times higher than a man, decorated with carving of the Minotaur. Wade sent the light tank heading directly toward it.