Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  “Find me a horse!” he shouted, and by the time he reached his companions a swift gray stallion waited beside them.

  Red grinned through a thick coating of dirt and blood. Dirk had somehow managed to remain immaculate, save for a sleeve drenched with crimson.

  “Going somewhere?” Red asked. “A mighty fine time to go riding.”

  “Galbraith’s still a prisoner,” told him. “I’ve got to—”

  DIRK gripped his arm, holding him.

  “Wait a bit! Cardoth’s already sent a troop up to the sacred valley to clean up things there. They’ll find the professor.”

  Wade hesitated, watching a band of horsemen racing northward across the plain.

  “Yeah—”

  “You may not believe it, but you’re wounded,” Dirk said. “You couldn’t get to the valley before the soldiers, so what’s the use? Just relax.” He vaulted to the saddle. “I’ll go along with ’em and make sure things are okay. Where is the old goat?”

  “In the Temple of Cnossos,” Wade said, and gasped with pain as he turned.

  “See? Busted rib, probably. Adios!” Dirk spurred the horse away after the others.

  Red started to yell in the little Greek he remembered.

  “Come over here, you shavetails! Lend a hand! How the devil can I do any bandaging with a lame wing?”

  “I’m okay,” Wade said. “Unless some bullets stopped inside my hide.”

  They had not, as he found out hours later. The wounds were clean. One had passed through his arm, and another had broken a rib. But there was nothing serious. His last worry was removed when he learned that Professor Galbraith had been found and brought back safely to Minos. The scientist was weak and feverish, but unharmed. He needed only rest. Wade felt that he could do with a little of that himself. . . .

  It was the next day when Wade, Galbraith, Red and Dirk gathered in Cardoth’s tower apartment. The little scientist was lucid, apparently completely recovered from his fever. He relaxed on a pile of cushions, fingering a small block of metal and a curious statuette.

  “Yes,” he said, in response to Wade’s questions, “this is the secret of the valley—what Solent was after. The image.” He held it up, a delicately carved bull with a replica of his own head atop the massive shoulders. “You remember this, Jim. It was made for me by the priests when I first came here. I realized its value only lately, and made certain experiments. The statuette’s substance is extremely valuable. Solent posed as a financier who wanted to back me, got into my confidence, and insisted that I try to duplicate this alloy. I couldn’t. When Solent realized I’d failed, he asked me where I’d found the statuette in the first place. I couldn’t tell him that, because—” Cardoth bowed his massive white head. “True. You swore never to reveal the existence of our valley to the outer world.”

  “Solent kidnaped me—used truth-serum to find out what he wanted to know.”

  Wade grinned. “I guessed that. It was the only way he could get anything out of you.”

  Red turned to stare at him. “I’ve got a hunch you knew what Solent wanted all along.”

  “I did. It was pretty obvious, wasn’t it? The goldleaf had flaked off the statue, and it was easy to see the thing had had rough handling. Yet it hadn’t broken. It didn’t break even when the professor threw it out of the window in Singapore. D’you know of anything that could stand that sort of handling?”

  “Steel.”

  “The statuette was light—very light. It looks like stone, but it’s metal. And I knew the secret of it long ago.”

  GALBRAITH nodded.

  “It’s the toughest metal alloy ever made on this planet. Tremendous lightness and tensile strength—much lighter than aluminum.”

  Wade agreed. “It would have industrial uses, but that wasn’t what Solent was after. He wanted a weapon for warfare. Think of the cannon that could be made from this! Not to mention armor! The stuff’s so light that a tank as big as—well, a regular land battleship could carry it easily. And nothing but the highest explosive could penetrate it.”

  “So that was why Solent wanted to get the statue?” Dirk put in.

  “Sure. He was afraid somebody might manage to analyze it, and he wanted a monopoly on the secret, so he could sell the stuff to warring nations. And that would have meant a holocaust such as has never been known on earth. Size limitations would be almost removed from mobile offense units. Tanks, planes—gigantic.”

  Red was scowling. “You said you’d known the secret all along.”

  Wade’s eyes were twinkling. “Yeah! What do you suppose the Thunderbug’s made of?”

  Red’s jaw dropped. “You don’t mean—”

  “I built the Thunderbug a long time ago, for Cardoth had given me the secret of the alloy before I left Minos. Not even Professor Galbraith knew that. How do you suppose the Thunderbug can get off the ground? It isn’t made of aluminum. It’s tough, light, and strong.”

  “I knew the hull was alloy,” Dirk put in, “but I never knew just what it was.”

  “It came out of this valley—at least, the formula did. Solent didn’t realize what was right under his nose. If he’d guessed the secret of the Thunderbug, he could have found it out easily enough—given me truth-serum, when I was his prisoner, and made me talk. But he did it the hard way, instead.”

  “I’m leaving the statuette here in Minos,” Galbraith said.

  “Good.” Cardoth nodded. “We want no more outsiders here. Their ways are not ours.”

  “You saw what happened when Solent came,” Wade said, and his eyes swept around the room. “We’re leaving tomorrow for Cairo. The Thunderbug’s in good repair now. Aside from us, no one knows Minos exists. No one shall!”

  Dirk, Red, and Galbraith nodded their agreement. The scientist sighed, rubbing his wrinkled cheek.

  “But that wasn’t all. There was another reason why Solent wanted the statue.”

  “It was this, wasn’t it?” Wade said, and took a small roll of parchment from his pocket.

  Galbraith’s jaw dropped. “How—” he began.

  “I found out how to open the image,” Wade told him. “It was hollow. The lock was pretty intricate, but I finally managed to open it. And this treasure map was inside.”

  Cardoth’s great head nodded. “That is true. When you and Professor Galbraith left Minos so many years ago, I bestowed on each of you a gift. Yours was the secret of the alloy. I gave Professor Galbraith the chart of a treasure buried in the wastelands beyond these mountains, and asked him never to use it unless he had need. I feared that if men came to search for the treasure, they might also blunder upon our valley.”

  HE TOUCHED the map with a lean finger.

  “When we first came to Africa, from old Crete, we found the ruins of a great city on our way. It was dead when we arrived—had been, for ages. It might have been the home of King Solomon. There was much gold there, and jewels, for which we had no need. But we remembered, and it was my gift for Professor Galbraith—if the need ever came to him.”

  “I never needed it,” Galbraith said. “I never opened the image or looked at the map. That was why Solent couldn’t find out the treasure’s location from me, even under the serum.”

  “I guessed as much,” Wade s “But huge as that treasure may l it would have been only a drop in the bucket compared to what Solent could have got out of the alloy. He knew that. But he also knew he’d need plenty of dough to finance his racket. That was why he wanted the gold and the jewels. They would have enabled him to set up a company, and probably guard or destroy Minos. He wouldn’t have wanted anyone else to find out his secret. Yeah, he needed the statuette, but even if he had it, he wouldn’t have found the map. I’d already taken that out, just in case!”

  “THE treasure had best remain where it is,” Galbraith said. “Perhaps sometime the need may arise. But it hasn’t arisen yet. Keep the map, Cardoth.”

  There was a glow of gratitude in the king-priest’s eyes as he obeyed.

&n
bsp; “Minos will be safe now,” he murmured. “There is nothing to draw the vultures.”

  The scientist nodded.

  “I must get back to my Diocene fossils,” he said. “It will take weeks to get them catalogued.” He turned again to Cardoth. “But I want to talk to you about some unusual variations in the Cretan inscriptions, first. After all, I’m an archaeologist, and—”

  He dragged out a notebook and pencil and began to question the king-priest.

  Wade winked at the others and led the way out. They paused in the corridor beyond the door.

  “It’s time to relax,” he told them.

  “Relax!” Red’s lip pushed out. “Do I look sleepy?”

  “Who said anything about sleep?” Thunder Jim asked. “They make darn good wine in Minos. Who wants a drink?”

  At any rate, nobody refused. . . .

  TUBE TO NOWHERE

  People See Red When They Binney Loses His Temper, He Become Angry-But When Joe Finds a Whole Scarlet World!

  JOE BINNEY wriggled uncomfortably in his seat on the Jersey bus. His thin face, topped by mouse-colored hair, flushed with annoyance as he squirmed. The dignified, white-headed oldster sitting next to him gave Joe a fishy stare.

  “Sorry, Mr. Dennler,” Binney muttered. “That da—that bottle keeps digging into me.”

  “Bottle?” Dennler’s tufted eyebrows rose. “Do you drink?”

  Binney hastily disclaimed the idea. He had to disclaim many ideas in Dennler’s sanctified company. Dennler, it seemed, demanded certain definite qualifications in the salesmen from whom he purchased goods.

  Oh, well—Dennler was already sold on a big order from Pinnacle Novelty Company, the firm for which Binney worked. That meant a fat commission, and a chance to take Susan Blythe to dinner and the theater. Binney’s thin face wrinkled into a wistful smile. Maybe, some day, Susan would marry him . . .

  “Oh, the bottle,” Binney said, returning to the present. “Some chap I know gave it to me. Wanted to have it tested in our labs. He didn’t know what it was—combined some chemicals and got a fluid that wouldn’t react to anything, he says. Doesn’t matter. Here’s the Tunnel. We’ll get a taxi on the other side and I’ll take you up to the office. Mr. Horton will be glad to see you.”

  “Ah,” said Dennler. “Always like to settle matters in person. I shall put in a good word for you, Binney. You’re an excellent salesman.”

  “Thank you,” said Binney. “Hope we can find a taxi in a hurry. It’s raining cats and dogs.”

  It was, indeed, pouring. As the bus circled down the ramp into the Holland Tunnel, water was cascading along the gutters. A low, gray sky was sullen overhead. In the distance thunder growled ominously. Lightning forked.

  THE bus halted as the driver checked the toll. Then it rolled on into the brightly lit depths of the tube. The roar of the storm faded to a faint humming. Binney automatically began to count the metal doors that broke the smooth walls at regular intervals.

  One . . . two . . . three . . . He was thinking of the glamorous face of Susan Blythe . . . four . . . five . . . He was due for a promotion—this sale would clinch it. And then . . . six . . . seven . . . And then Tim Blake, Binney’s rival in business and love, could go hang, for all his Greek god profile and Atlas physique.

  Eight . . . nine . . . The bus sped faster. Idly Binney wondered how long the tunnel was. The doors were about forty feet apart. With the concentration that such trivial things evoke, it abruptly seemed most important to Binney not to lose count.

  Ten . . . eleven . . .

  “—especially on Tuesdays,” said Mr. Dennler. Binney caught only the tail end of the sentence and grunted.

  Fifteen . . . twenty . . . thirty . . . forty doors.

  Dennler was slightly irritated. He liked an audience. And obviously Binney wasn’t listening. He was staring out the window rather fishily.

  Fifty . . . sixty . . .

  “Don’t you think so?” Dennler repeated.

  “Uh—yes. Just a moment.”

  But the other kept on talking. Binney was conscious of a slow surge of annoyance. He had reached the one hundred and ninety-fifth door when Dennler leaned forward, and the bottle in Binney’s pocket dug agonizingly into his ribs.

  The salesman cursed luridly.

  And that started the whole fantastic affair. Because when Binney suddenly got mad, his suprarenal glands naturally became active and poured adrenalin into his blood-stream. And just at that moment a bolt of lightning hit near the bus. The two incidents were connected.

  The bus was rolling up the ramp toward the New York exit. Thunder was bellowing. And out of the cloudy skies a crackling streak of blazing light flashed . . .

  Lightning plays strange tricks sometimes. No one in the bus was injured. Nothing happened to anybody—except Binney. He vanished.

  Dennler yelped and collapsed, moaning in a low, hopeless voice. When your companion in a bus seat abruptly disappears, it is difficult to cling to sanity. Mr. Dennler undoubtedly felt that he had not deserved such treatment.

  Binney, himself, was past thinking. As the lightning struck, he was momentarily conscious of a wave of uncomfortable warmth. He heard glass tinkle, and felt the bottle in his pocket break. The fluid gushed out, seeming to sink right into Binney’s skin—he could feel it, like liniment, penetrating through his flesh with a queer, hot tingling. There was a grinding shock . . .

  “That was a close one,” said Binney, turning to grin at Dennler.

  Only Dennler wasn’t there any more. The bus wasn’t there.

  New York wasn’t there!

  “Oh, my God,” Binney said quietly, appalled. “Wha—wha—wha—” He fell silent, considering.

  HE was sitting on hard stone, translucent green glass that looked like emerald, but which obviously wasn’t. Above him the sky had turned crimson, and bloodshot clouds drifted across it. The sun was excessively large, and red. All around Binney were red walls, rising to a height of several hundred feet.

  He sat approximately in the center of a crescent-shaped plaza, paved with green stones. Nearby, in the middle of the half-moon, was a sunken depression in the pavement filled with water. A hundred feet away the wall of a building loomed, white, Binney now realized, but painted red by the queer sunlight.

  It was like being at the bottom of a crescent-shaped well, surrounded by the walls of the towering structures, windowless and enigmatic.

  “Urdle ah nyasta dree?” asked an inquiring voice behind Binney.

  Naturally puzzled, the unfortunate salesman turned his head. What he saw made him rise and retreat rapidly back until his foot slipped on curving stones.

  With a sharp, shrill cry, Binney fell into the pool.

  “Ah nyasta wurn!” said the strange voice, more decisively.

  Binney scarcely heard it. He was quite certain now that he had gone mad. Certainly when one falls into a pool, a normal amount of dampening is expected. But Binney’s body was reclining at full length on an elastic, watery surface which gave only slightly under his weight. It wasn’t H20, that was plain. Some vague recollection of deuterium—heavy water—stabilized Binney’s wavering sanity as he scrambled back on the stones.

  “Urdle wurn,” the voice said, tinged now with impatience.

  Binney, on his hands and knees, stared at the creature confronting him. Or, rather, the creatures. Binney couldn’t be sure. The thing had two heads, both of them extraordinary. The body was lean, long, and covered with reddish fur. The legs—two of them—were short and stumpy, like an elephant’s. From the shoulders grew a folded, grayish membrane that completely hid the arms, leaving only two claw-like hands visible.

  There were two heads sprouting from the skinny shoulders. Each had two bulging, large-pupiled eyes, no nose, and a tiny button of a mouth. The ears were large and bat-like. The face on the left had reddish whiskers on its darkish skin, and a short crop of crimson hair. The head on the right was more delicately featured, without a beard, and had long, burnished curls.
It seemed oddly feminine.

  “Oh, my God,” Binney moaned, not daring to rise. “I’ll wake up in a minute. I know I will.”

  “Nyasta!” said the bearded head. But the other one shook itself angrily.

  “Dree!” it snapped shrilly. “Urdle dree!”

  “Dree,” conceded the other in a sulky voice. “Urdle dree.”

  This seemed to settle it, but threw little light on the problem for Binney. He rubbed his aching eyes and tried to think. A hallucination? Maybe. On an impulse, he gingerly reached out and touched a furry, lean claw. The claw gripped his hand and cordially shook it. This nearly finished poor Binney, who shuddered and gave himself up for lost.

  “Ah nyasta,” said the deeper voice.

  Binney felt himself being fingered. It was not a pleasant sensation. He opened his eyes again and found himself staring into the inquisitive pupils of Red-whiskers.

  The creature, or creatures, pointed up, and made an inquiring sound. For some reason this heartened Binney. He stood up, staring around. Then he screamed.

  STRONG talons were gripping him.

  The gray, folded membrane about the thing’s arms unfolded and took the shape of strong, bat-like wings. Binney felt himself being carried up into the air. His stomach turned over. By some quirk of mind, he became violently enraged at the indignity. Carried off by the seat of his pants . . . red fury surged through Binney.

  Simultaneously he felt a grinding shock, a wave of sickness and disorientation. He fell heavily, landing on his hands and knees on a metal surface that sent out angry echoes. A hoarse voice bellowed curses. But, Binney realized with heartfelt relief, these were good, Brooklyn oaths. Nothing about nyasta or urdle dree.

  Brakes screamed. A policeman appeared and plucked Binney from his position, spread-eagled across the hood of a truck.

  “Hah!” said the cop. “I know your kind. Trying to bump yourself off, eh?”

  Binney stared around. He was at the New York side of the Holland Tunnel. Familiar skyscrapers rose all around him. Taxis honked and a streetcar rumbled by in the distance. The Empire State loomed against the gray, stormy sky.