Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  He squeezed her arm reassuringly. “Sure. I’ll see you again?”

  “Yes. But now—”

  She was gone. Vanning whistled softly, and turned to examine the room. Sight of his face in a mirror startled him. Under the stubbly growth of beard, his familiar features had altered, grown haggard and strained.

  A razor lay handy—or, rather, a sharp dagger with a razor-sharp edge. There was a bar of gray substance that gave a great deal of lather when Vanning moistened it in the metal bowl that served as a wash-basin. He shaved, and felt much better.

  His weakness had almost entirely gone. The medical science of the Swamja, at least, was above reproach. Nevertheless, he tired easily . . . That would pass.

  Who were his bunk-mates in this cubicle? Idly Vanning scrutinized their effects, strewn helter-skelter on the shelves. Nothing there to tell him. There was a metal comb, however, and Vanning reached for it. It slipped from his fingers and clattered to the plastic floor.

  Vanning grunted and got down on his knees to recover the object, which had skidded into a dark recess under the lowest shelf. His fumbling fingers encountered something cold and hard, and he drew it out wonderingly. It was a flat case, without ornament, and clicked open in his hands.

  It was a make-up kit. Small as it was, it contained an incredible quantity of material for disguises. Tiny pellets were there, each stamped with a number. Dyestuffs that would mix with water. There was a package of isoflex, the transparent, extraordinary thin “rigid cellophane” of the day. There were other things . . .

  VANNING’S eyes widened. Two and two made an unmistakable four. Only one man on Venus would have reason to possess such a kit. That man was Don Callahan, whom Vanning had vainly pursued from Mars to Earth, and thence to Venus.

  Callahan here!

  But why not? He, too, had fallen victim to North-Fever. He had simply preceded Vanning in his drugged trip to this hidden kingdom.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  The harsh question brought Vanning to his feet, instinctively concealing the makeup kit in his garments. He stared at the man standing on the threshold—a husky, broad-shouldered specimen with flaming red hair and a scarred, ugly face. Squinting, keen eyes watched Vanning.

  “I’m—your new room-mate, I guess,” the detective said tentatively. “Jerry Vanning’s my name.”

  “Mine’s Sanderson. Kenesaw Sanderson.” The other rubbed a broken nose thoughtfully. “So you’re new. Well, get this straight. Don’t try any tricks with the Swamja or get any ideas.”

  Vanning tilted his head to one side. “I don’t get it.”

  “New guys,” Sanderson said scornfully. “They’re always figuring it’ll be easy to escape. They try it, and we all suffer. The Swamja are tough babies. Take it easy, do what you’re told, and everything’s okay. See?”

  “Not quite.” There was a roughness in Vanning’s tone. “How long have you been here?”

  “A few weeks, about. I don’t recall exactly. What of it?”

  “You don’t look yellow. It just seems funny that you’d give up so easily. You look pretty tough.”

  Sanderson snarled deep in his throat. “I am tough! I’m also smart. Listen, Mr. Jerry Vanning, two days after I got here I saw the Swamja punish a guy who tried to escape. They skinned him alive! You hear that? And his bunk-mates—they weren’t killed, but one of ’em went crazy. Those Swamja—it’s crazy to try and buck them.”

  “They’ve got you out-bluffed already, eh?”

  Sanderson strode forward and gripped Vanning’s shoulder in a bruising clutch. “You talk too much. Trouble-makers don’t go here. Get that through your head.”

  Vanning said gently, “Let go of me, quick. Or—”

  “Let him go, Kenesaw,” a new voice broke in. Sanderson grunted, but released the detective. He nodded toward the door.

  “Got off early, eh, Hobbs?”

  “A little.” The man in the doorway was as big as Sanderson, but his face was benevolent, gentle, and seamed with care. White hair bristled in a ruff above his broad forehead. “A little,” he repeated.

  “Zeeth and I must go back tonight for the festival.”

  “Sta. We must go back tonight,” said Zeeth, in the Venusian dialect. He appeared from behind Hobbs, a native of Venus, with the familiar soft plumpness and huge feet of the race. His dog-like eyes examined Vanning. “New?”

  The detective introduced himself. He was secretly puzzled. One of these three men, apparently, was Callahan—but which one? None of them resembled the man Vanning had seen on the micro-projector back at Venus Landing. But, still—

  III

  ON impulse, Vanning took out the make-up kit and held it up. “I found this under the shelves. Yours, Hobbs? Or Sanderson?”

  Both men shook their heads, frowning. Vanning glanced at the Venusian.

  “Yours, Zeeth?”

  “Esta, it is not mine. What is it?”

  “Just a case.” Vanning stowed it away, and sat down on one of the cots, wondering. As he saw it, he had two objectives to reach. First—escape. Second—bring in Callahan.

  Not merely escape, though. He thought of Lysla. A slave . . . damn! And the other two hundred slaves of the Swamja . . . He couldn’t leave them here.

  But what could he do? Conquer the Swamja? The thought was melodramatically crazy. Perhaps alone he might contrive to escape, and bring a troop of Space Patrolmen to wipe out the Swamja. An army, if necessary.

  The others, he saw, had seated themselves on the cots. Hobbs kicked off his sandals and sighed. “Wish I had a smoke. Oh, well.”

  Vanning said sharply, “Callahan!” His eyes flicked from one to another, and found nothing but surprise in the faces turned to him. Sanderson rumbled, “What the devil are you jabbering about?”

  Vanning sighed. “I’m wondering something. When did you boys get here?”

  It was the mild-faced Hobbs who answered. “A couple of weeks ago, I believe. Within a few days of each other. Just before you arrived, in fact. But we recovered long before you did. It was only a miracle that saved your life, Vanning.”

  “And before you three got here—any others come from outside? Lately, I mean.”

  “Not for months,” Hobbs answered. “So I heard. Why?”

  “Why? It proves that one of you is the man I’m after—Don Callahan. I’m a detective; I came to Venus to find Callahan, and—by accident—I followed him here. It stands to reason that one of you is the man I want.”

  Sanderson grinned. “Don’t you know what the guy looks like?”

  “No,” Vanning admitted. “I’ve recognized him before by certain tricks he’s got—the way he walks, the way he jerks his head around suddenly. Before he came to Venus, I found out, he went to an anthro-surgeon and got remodeled. A complete new chassis, face and body complete. Even got skin-grafts on his fingertips. In time the old prints will grow back, but not for months. Meantime, Callahan’s pretty well disguised.”

  “Good Lord!” Hobbs said. “One of us—”

  Vanning nodded. “When he came to Venus, he put a disguise over his new, remodeled face. That’s gone now, of course. One of you three is Callahan.” Zeeth, the Venusian native, said softly, “I do not think the usual laws hold good here.”

  Sanderson roared with laughter. “Damn right! You expect to arrest your man and ask the Swamja to imprison him for you?”

  Vanning shook his head, smiling crookedly. “Scarcely. I’m getting out of this place sooner or later, and Callahan’s going with me. Later, I’ll bring back troops and clean out the Swamja. But I’m not forgetting about Callahan.”

  Hubbs shrugged. “It isn’t me.”

  “Nor me,” Zeeth said. Sanderson only grinned.

  Vanning grunted. “It’s one of you. I’m pretty sure of that. And I’m talking to you now, Callahan. You’ll be able to disguise your walk and your mannerisms, and I can’t recognize your new face or fingerprints. But sooner or later you’ll forget and betray yourself. Then I’ll have t
o take you back to Earth.”

  “You will forget,” Zeeth said. “In a year—five, if you live, you will forget. Our people have legends of this land, where the gods live. Our priests taught that the North-Fever is sent by the gods. We did not know how true that teaching was . . .” His bulbous face was grotesque in its solemnity.

  VANNING didn’t answer. His hope of tricking an admission from Callahan had failed. Well, there would be time enough. Yet obviously one of these three was the fugitive. Hobbs? Sanderson? Certainly not Zeeth—

  Wait a bit! Suppose Callahan had disguised himself as a Venusian native? That would be a perfect masquerade. And the diabolical skill of the anthro-surgeon could have transformed Callahan into a Venusian.

  Vanning looked at Zeeth with new interest. The native met his glance with stolid calm.

  “One cannot argue with fate. Those who died on the way here are luckier. We must live and serve.”

  “I’ve got other ideas,” the detective growled.

  Zeeth gestured vividly. “Your race does not accept destiny, as ours does. We have from birth a struggle for existence. Venus is a hard mistress. But some of us live. Yet even then there is the shadow of the North-Fever. At any time, we know, the sickness may fall upon us. If it does, and we are not kept close prisoners, we go into the jungle and either die or—come here. My brother was very lucky. He had the fever three years ago, but I held him and called for help. My tribesmen came running and tied Gharza tightly, so that he could not escape. For ten days and nights the fever made him mad. Then it passed. The threat had left him forever. The North-Fever only strikes once, so Gharza was immune. I, too, am immune—but I consider myself dead, of course.”

  “Aw, shut up,” Sanderson snapped. “You give me the leapin’ creeps. Let’s get some sleep. We’ve got to attend the festival tonight.”

  “What’s that?” Vanning asked.

  The mild-faced Hobbs answered him.

  “A religious ceremony. Just do what you’re told, and you’ll be all right.”

  “Just that, eh?”

  “Our people have learned to bow our heads to Fate,” Zeeth murmured. “We are not fighters. Pain is horrible to us. You call us cowards. From your standards, that is true. Only by bowing to the great winds have we managed to survive.”

  “Shut up and let me sleep,” Sanderson ordered, and relaxed his heavy body on a bunk. The others followed his example, all but Vanning, who sat silently thinking as hour after hour dragged past.

  The door opened at last, and a Swamja stood on the threshold. He wore the familiar costume of the race, but there was an oddly-shaped gun in a holster at his side.

  “Time!” he barked in the Venusian dialect. “Hasten! You—” He pointed to Vanning. “Follow me. The others know where to go.”

  The detective silently rose and followed the Swamja into the huge room. It was filled now, he saw, with natives and with Earthmen, hurrying here and there like disturbed ants. There were no other Swamja, however.

  One of the Venusians stumbled and fell. He was a thin, haggard specimen of his species, and how he had ever survived the trip north Vanning could not guess. Perhaps he had been in this lost city for years, and had been drained of his vitality by weeks of arduous servitude. He fell . . .

  The Swamja barked a harsh command. The native gasped a response, tried to rise—and failed.

  Instantly the Swamja drew his gun and fired. The Venusian collapsed and lay still. Vanning took a step forward, hot with fury, to find himself drawn back by Hobbs’ restraining hand.

  “Easy!” the other whispered. “He’s dead. No use—”

  “Dead? I didn’t hear any explosion.”

  “You wouldn’t. That gun fires a charge of pure force that disrupts the nervous system. It was set to kill just now.”

  The Swamja turned. “I must attend to this carcass. My report must be made. You, Zeeth—take the new slave to Ombara.”

  “I obey.” The native bowed and touched Vanning’s arm. “Come with me.”

  FOLLOWED by Sanderson’s sardonic grin, Vanning accompanied the Venusian into a corridor, and up a winding spiral ramp. He found it difficult to contain himself.

  “Good God!” he burst out finally. “Do those devils do that all the time? Plain cold-blooded murder?”

  Zeeth nodded. “They have no emotions, you see. They are what you call hedonists. And they are gods. We are like animals to them. The moment we make a mistake, or are no longer useful, we are killed.”

  “And you submit to it!”

  “There was a rebellion two years ago, I heard. Twenty slaves died to every Swamja. They are like reptiles—nearly invulnerable. And we have no weapons, of course.”

  “Can’t you get any?”

  “No. Nor would I try. Venusians cannot endure pain, you understand. To us, pain is worse than death.”

  Vanning grunted, and was silent as they passed through a curtained arch. Never would he forget his first sight of the Swamja city. It was like—

  Like an ocean world!

  He stood upon a balcony high over the city, and looked out at a vast valley three miles in diameter, scooped out of the heart of the mountains as though by a cosmic cup. Overhead was no sky. A shell of transparent substance made a ceiling above the city, a tremendous dome that couched on the mountain peaks all around.

  Gray-green light filtered through it. An emerald twilight hazed the fantastic city, where twisted buildings like grottos of coral rose in strange patterns. It was a labyrinth. And it was—lovely beyond all imagination.

  “Those—things—built this?” Vanning breathed.

  “They knew beauty,” Zeeth said. “They have certain senses we do not have. You will see . . .”

  From the exact center of the city a tower rose, smooth and shining as metal. It reached to the transparent dome and seemed to rise above it, into the clouds of Venus.

  “What’s that?” Vanning asked, pointing. “Their temple?”

  Zeeth’s voice held irony. “Not a temple—a trap. It is the tube through which they blast the spores of the North-Fever into the sky. Day and night without pause the virus is blown upward through that tube, far into the air, where it is carried all over the planet.”

  The air was darkening, thickening. Here and there rainbow lights sprang into view. Elfin fires in an enchanted world, Vanning thought.

  Through the grotesque city equally grotesque figures moved, to be lost in the shadows. The monsters who ruled here—ruled like soulless devils rather than gods.

  “Come. We must hurry.” Zeeth tugged at Vanning’s arm.

  Together they went down the ramp into one of the winding avenues. It grew darker, and more lights came on. Once Vanning paused at sight of a corroded metal structure in the center of a well-lighted park.

  “Zeeth! That’s a space-ship! A light life-boat—”

  The Venusian nodded. “And it is well guarded, too. It crashed through the dome a century ago, I was told. All the men in it were killed. A space-wreck, I suppose.”

  Vanning was silent as they went on. He was visualizing what had happened in that distant past. A wreck in space, a few survivors taking to this life-boat and setting out, hopelessly, for the nearest world—believing, perhaps, that if they reached Venus, they would be saved. And then the tremendous atmospheric tides and whirlpools of the clouded planet, in which no aircraft but the hugest could survive . . .

  Vanning whistled softly. Suppose he managed to get into that space-boat? Suppose there was still rocket-fuel in the tanks, and suppose it hadn’t deteriorated? Couldn’t he blast up through the dome to freedom?

  Sure—to freedom and death! No ship could survive in the Venusian atmosphere, certainly not this light space-tub, of an antiquated and obsolete design.

  AT one of the twisted buildings, Zeeth paused. The structure was larger than Vanning had imagined from above, and his eyes widened as he followed the Venusian up winding ramps, past curtained arches, till at last they stepped into a luxurious chamber at the t
op. Seated on a low tussock was a Swamja, fat and hideous, his bulging eyes glaring at the intruders.

  “You are late,” he said. “Why is that?” Zeeth bowed. “We came as swiftly as possible.”

  “That may be. And this slave is new. Yet errors are not permitted. For your mistake, this—” A malformed hand rose, clutching a gun. “And this.”

  Instinctively Vanning tensed to leap forward, but a blast of searing fire seemed to explode in his body. He dropped in a boneless huddle, gasping for breath. Beside him he saw Zeeth, similarly helpless, fat face twisted in agony. Venusians, Vanning remembered, were horribly sensitive to pain; and even through his own torture he felt anger at the Swamja for meting out such ruthless justice.

  But it was over in a moment, though that moment seemed to last for eternities. Zeeth stood up, bowed again, and slipped from the room, with a warning glance at Vanning, who also rose.

  The Swamja raised his gross body. “Carry this tray. This flask and goblet—for my thirst. This atomizer—to spray on my face when I demand it. This fan for the heat.”

  Vanning silently picked up the heavy metal tray and followed the lumbering, monstrous figure out. He had an impulse to bring the tray down on the Swamja’s head. But that wouldn’t solve anything. He’d have to wait—for a while, anyway. A show of temper might cost him his life.

  Along the twisting avenue they went, and to a many-tiered amphitheatre, where the Swamja found a seat in a cushioned throne. Already the place was filled with the monsters. Many of them were attended by human or Venusian slaves, Vanning saw. He stood behind the Swamja, ready for anything, and looked down.

  In the center of the pit was a pool.

  It was perhaps ten feet square, and blackly opaque. That was all.

  “The spray.”

  Vanning used the atomizer on the scaly face of his master. Then he looked around once more.

  Not far away, standing behind another Swamja, was Sanderson. The red-haired man met his eye and grinned mockingly.