Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  Tony’s feet thumped softly upon the peaked top of the car.

  Gasping with relief, he relaxed, keeping the ropes wound about his wrist so that his weight would not carry the car to the bottom too suddenly. But a moment later he was plummeting down, occasionally checking his speed when caution grew stronger than the imperative need for haste. Up in the penthouse Jimmy and Phil were waiting, perhaps being questioned even now by the investigators. And Seth—unseen in the darkness, Tony’s face grew grim. Seth was suffering. The old man’s devotion to his ideals, to humanity was pitted against his genuine love for his three step-sons. And one of those three was the Merlin.

  Finally the car thumped against the bottom of the shaft. A little crack of light indicated the panel opening into the porter’s cellar. Tony used his knife-blade to open it, easing the door outward little by little till he discovered that the room was vacant.

  The rest was surprisingly easy. A pair of overalls and a cap in a closet made a satisfactory disguise, and, carrying a can of rubbish, Tony walked blandly past the service man posted on guard outside. He deposited his burden on the sidewalk, and without a pause began to hurry toward the corner. A hail stopped him.

  “You, there! Wait a minute!” Tony turned. The guard was following him, gaze probing. A thick finger thrust out suspiciously.

  “Where’re you going?”

  The street was almost empty. Tony didn’t wait for the guard. He hastened toward him, arms hanging loosely at his side—until the last moment. Then, as recognition came into the man’s eyes and as his hand dived into a pocket, Tony brought up his fist in a vicious uppercut. The blow was delivered at such close quarters that it went unobserved by passers-by. The dull thwack of bone against bone was the only sound. Tony caught the guard as he fell, pulled him swiftly back into the cellar, and left him there. The man was out for the count.

  THERE were no other guards.

  Tony’s progress was not halted again. He reached his destination, secured a small, swift amphiplane, equipped with gyros, and lifted it through the port in the roof. Luckily, he had plenty of money in his pocket—enough to buy the plane instead of renting it, had he desired to do so. But, like most ships of this type, the instrument board was fitted with a “homing pigeon” device, by which the plane could be set to return to its garage along a radio beam whenever desired.

  Tony’s fingers flickered over the controls. The ship was a honey—small and swift, built like a thick cigar, with retractable wings and props. He swung up in a wide arc that presently brought him directly over the penthouse that was his goal.

  Briefly he wondered what had happened there, and whether Phil and Jimmy were still waiting. Well—fast work was vital now. The investigators were already on guard. Sight of an approaching plane would warn them of trouble. Tony checked his controls, took a few deep breaths—and dropped faster than was safe. The wind shrieked up into a high-pitched whine past the ship, almost beyond the threshold of hearing.

  The skyscraper leaped toward him like a driving lance. Its top seemed about to impale him. But the controls had been expertly set, and the craft fled down safely to one side, stopping with a bone-wrenching jolt as the automatics took hold. Tony fought back giddiness and stared out through swimming eyes. His blurred vision focused. Too far to the left—

  He slid the ship forward. This was the window. Inside, he could see Phil’s broad back, and one hand extended in a sign of warning. So the investigators had already arrived. But where was Jimmy? Tony couldn’t be sure.

  A voice he didn’t recognize was talking. One of the investigators . . .

  “Well, we’ll find him. And the lie-detectors will give us the information we want. Trying to frame Seth Martell is the dirtiest thing the Merlin ever did.”

  Jimmy said, “You’re nuts.”

  “Yeah? One of our men saw it. The Merlin was opening Martell’s safe—trying to put the Earth Star in it and throw the blame on Martell. But he didn’t have time. Our man was too close, and the Merlin had to scram in a hurry. Now—which one of you was it?”

  Tony’s eyebrows lifted. A new element had entered into the affair. Trying to throw the blame on Seth—yeah, that was a hell of a lousy trick. So—

  Tony whistled softly, and saw Phil jerk aside, crying out something. A slim form came hurtling toward the window. Tony got a glimpse of Jimmy’s pale young face; then the boy was hurtling out into space, almost overshooting the mark in his eagerness. Tony seized his arm and pulled him back as he swayed on the ship’s edge. The craft dipped slightly under the additional weight, and then lifted again as compensatory stabilizers went into action.

  FROM within the room came a crash, and a sharp cry of pain. Phil appeared, his face stolid and expressionless. He jumped, landing accurately, and immediately whirled. In his hand, Tony saw, was a bronze figurine he had snatched up from a table.

  “Run for it!” he snapped. There were faces in the window. A gun snarled viciously. Phil hurled the figurine with deadly aim, shattering the glass above the group, and the investigators dodged back as shards and splinters showered them. Almost immediately they were back—but Tony’s hands had found the controls.

  The ship fled up. As it fled it curved southward, till far below could be seen the shining waters of Long Island Sound.

  Jimmy said tautly, “They’re coming after us. I can see planes—”

  Phil touched a lever. The upper framework of the plane was instantly sheathed with transparent walls, making it more than ever resemble a fat, shining cigar.

  Tony sent the craft rocketing down. Almost at the surface of the water, he pulled out into a glide, swooping almost without a splash into the Sound. The light was blotted out by green translucence that grew darker as the ship slanted into the depths.

  “Not too deep,” Phil suggested. “The hull won’t stand a crack-up.”

  Tony didn’t answer. He was fingering the controls, trying to get every possible bit of speed out of the ship before the pursuers located it with their search-rays. If they could reach the outer Atlantic, they’d be safe—barring accident. But they were not safe in the Sound.

  Abruptly the water ahead sizzled and bubbled with heat. An aerial torpedo had been launched. Tony shot up and then almost immediately dived again, shifting sharply to the left. Before his companions could get their breath, the ship was rushing back along the way it had came, retracing its path. Jimmy said sharply, “What the hell—” Phil’s fingers dug into the youngster’s arm. “Good idea, Tony.”

  The latter nodded. “Maybe. We’ll dig in at the mouth of the Hudson. They’ll never look for us there. Then tonight we can slip out, take the air again—and head for the Company.” Jimmy said, “Once we’re there, we’re safe. There’s no extradition from the Legion, eh?”

  “Only to Hell,” Tony remarked, grinning.

  CHAPTER III

  Legion of the Lost

  “SO,” SAID the fat little man with the shaved head, “so you want to join the Legion. Eh?”

  Tony looked him over. The dingy office in the outskirts of the North African city was unimpressive. But, somehow, the little man was not. He wore dirty white tropical linens, his face glistened with sweat, but to the three brothers he represented fate. On his decision their destiny would depend.

  “Yeah,” Tony said. “We want to join. Well?”

  The little man smiled, tapping pudgy fingers on the crowded desk. “Well. Let’s see. You passed the physical examination. Your names are—Anthony. Phillips. Jameson.” The pale blue eyes sparkled maliciously. “Better remember ’em. Sometimes it’s hard at first, but you’ll get used to them. I’m sure I don’t know why everyone who enters the Legion changes his name. There’s no extradition. However . . . You are joining for a term of five years. If you wish to leave before then, you can buy your freedom if you have the money. If you have not, you must serve your term.

  “You may try to escape. You may succeed. You may fail, and in that case will be assigned to the guards in the uranium pits
of Mars. No one has ever escaped from there. It is not advisable—” The blue eyes were hard as steel now. “It is scarcely wise to attempt escape. Aside from all else, when you leave us, you are no longer under the Company’s protection.”

  He passed a plump hand over his shining head. “Anything more?”

  Tony glanced at his brothers and shook his head. “Not a thing. What happens next?”

  “The Sub-Sahara post needs men. It’s an easy job for recruits, keeping the Copts in check and seeing they don’t go outside raiding. Here!” A buzzer rang, and soon a man entered, clad in the dull gray uniform of the Legion. He saluted casually.

  “Sir.”

  “Captain Brady,” said the fat little man, “these three are assigned to Sub-Sahara. Rookies. Anthony, Phillips, Jameson. Break ’em in.” He immediately became engrossed in the papers piled high on his desk.

  Tony looked at the officer with interest. He saw a spare figure, and a worn, tired face, deeply lined, with sunken eyes and a clipped moustache. An adventurer gone to seed, he thought—grown tired.

  Brady said, “Come along,” and led the way out of the room. They emerged in blazing white sunlight. A helicopter stood a few rods away, and the captain gestured toward it.

  “ ’ntre. We’ll fly, and talk as we go. Discipline needn’t begin till we reach Sub-Sahara, so if you’ve any questions—I’m at your service.”

  He pointed toward the plane, and followed the brothers into it. With quick, familiar motions he lifted the craft into the air and sent it winging southward.

  “I’ll stop at Azouad. That’s an oasis on the way. You can get smokes and equipment there—personal stuff you may want. That is—if you have any money.”

  Tony’s eyes narrowed, but he merely said, “We’ve a little.” He shifted on the worn leather seat, glancing aside at Captain Brady. The man’s haggard face was immobile, the eyes mere slits as he squinted into the flaming sunlight.

  From the rear of the plane came Jimmy’s voice. “Just what is Sub-Sahara?”

  BRADY’S voice went dull with routine. “Well—twenty years or more ago a labyrinth of caverns was discovered under the Sahara. It was inhabited by survivors of prehistoric Egyptians—Copts. They were trapped underground in some ancient catastrophe, and got along there, gradually growing accustomed to their environment. Matter of fact—there was a sort of colony in the old pre-dynastic days down there. The Copts worked mines, and there was a—well, a city of miners under the Sahara. When the entrance was blocked, the miners couldn’t get out—so they stayed there.”

  “What about food?” Jimmy asked. “And oxygen?”

  “There’s a lot about that Copt tribe we don’t know. Food—well, fish and mushrooms are staples. The Midnight Sea lies under the Sahara. Ages ago the water in it made the desert itself a sea, but it drained underground at last. As for oxygen, there must have been outlets before we blasted some, though they’ve never been discovered. Possibly through river caves that drain into the sea.”

  Captain Brady rubbed his eyes with the back of one mahogany hand. “A lot we don’t know about the Copts. Savage, ferocious—but marvelous miners. The Legion’s posted there to keep order. Prevent raids on the surface tribes. The Copts worship Isis, or the Moon—I dunno which. Probably they’re the same. Keep clear of them unless you’re armed; don’t monkey with their religion; and don’t enter any passages engraved with the emblems of the Moon and the sistrum.”

  “Why not?”

  “Religion, youngster. No white man has ever seen the Ka’aba—the Black Stone—at Mecca. It’s sacred to the Moslem, just as the Alu—the group of deepest caverns—are sacred to the Copts. They say Amon-Ra is down there.”

  Jimmy’s eyebrows lifted. “Amon-Ra? The ancient Egyptian god?”

  “Right. ‘The Hidden Light.’ We have a sort of armed truce with the Copts, provided we don’t interfere too much. When they get out of line, we whip them back. Figuratively, of course.” Brady’s hand touched the buttoned holster at his thigh.

  “What did you say the sacred caves were called?” Phil asked suddenly.

  “Alu.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “The Land of Light.” Brady looked around. His face was alight with interest. “Have you studied Egyptology?”

  “No—afraid not.”

  The captain’s eyes lost their glow. “Um. Bit of a hobby of mine. Land of Light—Hidden Light—Isis, the Moon goddess—I’ve always wondered what exists in Alu. Never found out. Never expect to. But I shouldn’t be surprised if there’s the wreckage of a civilization down there.”

  He chuckled. “Not that the commander agrees with me—Commander Desquer, you’ll be under him. But he can’t tell me how the Pyramids were built, or the explanation of so many mysteries of Egypt. In my opinion, space travel was understood ages before Europeans achieved it. Yes . . .” He nodded thoughtfully. “A puzzle. A nomadic civilization on the Nile, and then, without warning, a civilization full-blown and decadent. Where did it come from? It was decadent when it reached Egypt. I wonder . . .”

  He turned to the controls. “Here’s Azouad. Half an hour. You’ll find plenty of shops. Don’t buy any wines—they won’t keep in Sub-Sahara. Brandy’s good. And pipes wear better than cigarettes in the Legion.”

  Below the gyro was a patch of gray on the brownish, rolling Sahara plain. Small dots of faded green were visible, trees struggling desperately for moisture and life. In a clearing Captain Brady set down the ship.

  “All out,” he grunted. “Parte! Half an hour, remember.”

  THE brothers watched the lean figure move briskly across the sunbaked square, to disappear into the depths of a cantina. Then they looked at one another.

  “Well!” Jimmy murmured. “So we’re in the Legion!”

  “Sub-Sahara. Um. Come on; we’ve only half an hour. Let’s look over Azouad.” Tony hesitated, gripped Phil’s arm, and glanced up. “That a plane?”

  “Yeah.” Phil squinted aloft. “Wait . . . not a government plane. Private.

  Anyway, so what? There’s no extradition.”

  “I know,” Tony said softly. “But the Earth Star’s plenty valuable. Somebody might have . . . ideas.”

  “Maybe I’d better mail it back home,” Jimmy grinned.

  Three glances crossed. And, curiously, at that moment a shadow drifted across the brothers—the shadow of a plane, chilling them momentarily after the blast of the African sun. It was like an omen.

  Phil said, “I wonder which of us really has it?”

  “I have,” Tony remarked. “Come along. I want a drink.”

  He led the way, shouldering through a crowd of assorted riff-raff, the usual scum of a bordertown. Odors of sesame, oils, and less familiar stenches were sickeningly strong. Dozens of mongrols roved hungrily about; the flies were countless.

  They bought smokes and entered a cantina, dark and muggy. A fat native served them squareface gin, waddling toward the dim corner where they sat. Behind them, Tony noticed, was a door, half opened less to permit fresh air to enter than to allow foul to emerge. He pushed it shut with a casual foot.

  The gin wasn’t good, but it was strong. Also, it was inordinately expensive. Jimmy made a wry face.

  “Hell of a lot of good money will do us now. We’ve ten minutes. Think we’ll like Sub-Sahara?”

  “It sounds—interesting,” Phil said slowly. “Captain Brady’s certainly hipped on his Land of Light. I wonder what sort the Copts are?”

  “Tough hombres,” Tony grunted. There was a brief silence. The waiter appeared, refilled glasses, and departed. Then—

  “Merlin!” a soft voice whispered.

  Tony’s fingers tightened around his glass. Phil sat perfectly motionless. Jimmy’s head jerked slightly; then he was immobile.

  Tony looked around, and the others followed his lead.

  Standing beside them was a small, round-faced man, his beady dark eyes glinting beneath a sun-helmet, his tropical whites looking freshly laundered. His g
aze swiveled sharply from one to another of the trio. A shadow of disappointment flickered over his features and was gone.

  Tony said, “Who the devil are you?” The stranger flashed white teeth. “The private secretary of a certain Rajah. One of you has seen me before. I do not know which one. However—”

  “He’s crazy,” Phil grunted. “Batty as a bedbug. Drink up, boys.”

  “My name is Zadah,” the man went on without heeding the interruption. “I know that one of you is the Merlin and has the Earth Star. I want it.”

  Tony looked at the man. “Do you think anybody’d who’d stolen a jewel would be fool enough to keep it on him?”

  “The Merlin would. Because he’d want to make certain that a certain—deal—wouldn’t ever be completed. An imitation of the stone was made, so perfect that the deception can be discovered only by comparison with the original. Someone might try to sell the imitation as the original jewel—and the Merlin could block such a transaction only by producing the real Earth Star. He won’t get rid of it. Not unless—he’s forced to.”

  Tony drank gin reflectively. “There’s an offensive odor in this place,” he remarked. “Notice it, anybody?”

  Zadah said, “I do not want the police to find you or the Earth Star. If I recover it myself, the Rajah will pay me any price to have the jewel—and the original owners can prove nothing. My private operatives have traced you this far. Now—” He took out a small gun. “You will stand up and walk one by one through the door behind you. Stay in single file. My plane is just near by. We will fly to my country, and there—” Again the teeth flashed. “There I think it will not be too hard to learn which of you is the Merlin.”

  Tony hesitated, remembering the plane he had seen in the sky. Zadah held the gun almost hidden under his coat, but of its deadliness there could be no doubt. The brothers exchanged glances.

  “Stand up!” Zadah whispered.

  Tony obeyed. He turned toward the door, opened it, and stepped out into sunlight. The others followed. Zadah said, “To the left.”