Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  The Swamja was incredibly strong. His mouth gaped at Vanning’s throat. With an agile twist, the detective wrenched himself away, but by that time there was a gun leveled at his head. A wave of blazing agony blasted through Vanning’s body—and was instantly gone. The weapon had not been turned up to the killing power.

  The Swamja twisted the barrel with one finger, making the necessary adjustment. But Vanning hadn’t been idle. His hands crossed over the gun, wrenched savagely. There was a crack of breaking bone, and the Swamja croaked in agony, his fingers broken.

  He wasn’t conquered—no! Ignoring what must have been sickening pain, he threw his arms around Vanning and squeezed till the breath rushed from the human’s lungs. The detective felt himself losing consciousness. It was impossible to break that steel grip—

  Once more the fangs gaped at his throat. Vanning summoned his waning strength. His left hand gripped the monster’s lower jaw, his right hand the upper. Sharp teeth ripped his fingers. He did not feel them, nor the foul, gusting. breath that blew hot on his sweating face.

  He wrenched viciously, dragging the creature’s mouth wide open—and wider yet!

  A hoarse roar bubbled from the Swamja’s throat. There was a sharp crack, and the malformed body twisted convulsively. The mighty arms tightened, nearly breaking Vanning’s back. Then—they relaxed. The Swamja lay still, his spine snapped. Vanning staggered up, hearing a roaring in his ears. It wasn’t imagination. Across the square, monstrous figures came racing, shouting harshly—Swamja, dozens of them!

  “Vanning!” Hobbs’ voice croaked.

  On the ground, three figures were wrestling in a contorted mass—Zeeth and Hobbs and the remaining Swamja. The monster was conquering. His bulging eyes glared with mad fury. Great muscles stood out on his gnarled arms as he tore at his opponents.

  With a choking curse Vanning snatched up the gun his late enemy had dropped and sprang forward. His aim was good. The Swamja’s eyes went dull as the destroying charge short-circuited his nerves.

  The racing Swamja were dangerously close as Vanning bent, tearing at the monster’s mighty hands. Useless!

  He pressed his gun-muzzle into the Swamja’s arm-pit and fired and fired again. Presently one arm writhed free. Vanning seized the two men, literally tore them from the creature’s grip.

  “The port!” Vanning gasped. “Get into—the ship!”

  Hobbs lifted Zeeth and staggered around the bow. As Vanning turned to follow, he saw the slim body of Lysla lying motionless on the ground, in the path of the racing Swamja.

  He sprinted forward, scooped up the girl in one motion, and swerved back, running as though all hell were at his heels. A croaking yell went up. Sickening pain lanced through Vanning, and he nearly fell. But the shock, though agonizing, wasn’t permanent. Legs afire, the detective rounded the ship’s bow and saw a circular hole gaping in the corroded hull.

  He flung himself toward it. Through a crimson mist the masked face of Callahan swam into view. The man leaped out of the ship, caught up Lysla from Vanning’s arms, and scrambled with her back through the port.

  As Vanning tried to follow, he saw Callahan crouching on the threshold of the valve, an odd hesitancy in his manner. One of Callahan’s hands was on the lever that would close and seal the ship. For a brief eternity the eyes of the two men met and clashed.

  VANNING read what was clear to read. If Callahan closed the port now, leaving Vanning outside—he would be safe from the law. No doubt the man knew how to pilot a space-ship—

  A shout roared out from behind Vanning. Callahan snarled an oath, seized the detective’s hand, and yanked him into the ship. As a Swamja tried to scramble through the valve, Callahan’s foot drove viciously into the monster’s hideous face, sending him reeling back among his fellows.

  Then the port clanged shut!

  The port clanged shut, and the sudden silence of the ship was nerve-shattering in its instant cessation of sound.

  Vanning managed to get to his feet. He didn’t look at Callahan. Lysla, he saw, was still motionless. Hobbs was kneeling beside her.

  “Lysla—she all right?” the detective rasped.

  “Yes.” Hobbs managed a weak grin. “She got in the way of a paralyzing charge—but she’ll be all right.”

  “Okay.” Vanning turned to the controls. They were archaic—in fact, the whole design of the ship was strange to him. It had been built a century ago, and rust and yellow corrosion was everywhere.

  “Think it’ll blast off?” Callahan asked as Vanning dropped into the pilot’s seat.

  “We’ll pray! Let’s see how much fuel—” He touched a button, his gaze riveted on a gauge.

  The needle quivered slightly—that was all.

  Callahan didn’t say anything. Vanning’s face went gray.

  “No fuel,” he got out.

  There was a clanging tumult at the port, resounding from the outer hull.

  “They can’t get in,” Callahan said slowly.

  “We can’t raise the ship,” Vanning countered. “When we’ve used up all the air in here, we’ll suffocate. Unless we surrender to the Swamja.”

  Hobbs gave a croaking laugh. “Not likely. There aren’t any weapons here. The ship’s been stripped clean.”

  Callahan said, “If we could break through the dome—”

  “There might be enough fuel for that—if it hasn’t deteriorated. But then what? We’d crash. Certain death. You know that.”

  Vanning clicked another button into its socket. “Let’s see if the visiplate works.”

  It did. On a panel before him a dim light glowed. It gave place to a picture, clouded and cracked across the middle. They could see the square, with the Swamja swarming into it in ever-increasing numbers, with the twisted buildings rising in the background, and the tower-tube shining far away.

  Vanning caught his breath. “Listen,” he said. “There’s still a chance. A damned slim one—”

  “What?”

  The detective hesitated. If he took time to weigh this mad scheme, he knew it would seem utterly impossible. Instead, he snapped, “Brace yourselves! We’re taking off for a crash landing!”

  Callahan looked at Vanning’s set, haggard face, and whirled. He picked up Lysla’s limp body and braced himself in a corner. Zeeth and Hobbs did the same. Before any of them could speak, Vanning had swung the power switch.

  He was praying silently that there was still a little fuel left in the chambers, just a little, and that it would still work. His prayer was answered instantly. With a roaring thunder of rocket-tubes the lifeboat bulleted up from the ground!

  The bellow died. There was no more fuel.

  Vanning stared at the visiplate. Beneath him the city of the Swamja was spread, the elfin lights glimmering, the coral palaces twisted like strange fungus growths. Automatically his hands worked at the corroded guide-levers that controlled the wind-vanes on the ship’s hull.

  The space-boat circles—swept around—

  The shining tower-tube loomed directly ahead. Jaws aching, teeth clenched, Vanning held steady on his course. The ship thundered down with wind screaming madly in its wake.

  The tube loomed larger—larger still. It blotted out the city. One glimpse Vanning had of the metal surface rising like a wall before him—

  And the ship struck!

  Rending, ripping, tearing, the space-boat crashed through the tube, bringing it down in thundering ruin. Briefly the visiplate was a maelstrom of whirling shards. Then the glare of an elf-light raced up to meet the ship.

  It exploded in flaming suns within Vanning’s brain. He never knew when the ship struck.

  V

  HE looked up into Zeeth’s eyes. Blood smeared the Venusian’s fat face, but he was smiling wanly.

  “Hello,” Vanning said, sitting up.

  Zeeth nodded. “The others are all right. Still unconscious.”

  “The crash—”

  “Hobbs has a broken arm, and I cracked a rib, I think. But the ship’s h
ull was tough.”

  Vanning stood up. His eyes was caught by the movement on the visiplate, which had incredibly survived the shock of landing. He moved forward, bracing himself against the back of the pilot’s chair.

  The city of the Swamja lay spread beneath him. The ship had lodged itself high on one of the towers, smashing its way into a sort of cradle, and then rolling down till its bow faced north. In the distance the jagged metal of the tube stood up forty feet above ground level. The rest of it wasn’t there, though gleaming, twisted plates of metal lay here and there in the streets.

  And through the avenues shapes were moving. They were the Swamja, and they moved like automatons. They moved in one direction only—away from the ship.

  As far as Vanning could see the Swamja were pouring through their city.

  Zeeth said softly, “You are very clever. I still do not understand—”

  Vanning shrugged, and his voice was tired. “The only way, Zeeth. I broke the tube that shot the North-Fever virus into the upper air. The virus was released within the city, in tremendous quantity. You know how fast it works. And in this strength—”

  “Yes. It strikes quickly.”

  “Once you’ve had the fever, you’re immune to it ever afterward. So the slaves won’t suffer. Only the Swamja. They’re getting a dose of their own medicine.”

  “They go north,” Zeeth said. “Out of the city.”

  It was true. Far in the distance, the Swamja were pouring toward the north gate, and vanishing through the open valves there. Nothing could halt them. The deadly virus they had created was flaming in their veins, and—they went north.

  The did not walk; they ran, as though anxious to meet their doom. Through the city they raced, grotesque, hideous figures, unconscious of anything but the terrible, resistless drive that drew them blindly north. Through the north gate, into the pass—

  Through the pass—to the lava pits!

  Vanning’s shoulders slumped. “It’s nasty. But—I suppose—”

  “Even the gods must die,” Zeeth said.

  “Yeah . . . Well, we’ve work to do. We’ll get food, water, and supplies, and head south for Venus Landing to get help. A small party will do. Then we can commandeer troops and swamp-cats to rescue the slaves from this corner of hell. We can get through to Venus Landing all right—”

  “Yes, that will be possible—though difficult. Vanning—” Zeeth’s eyes hooded.

  “Yeah?”

  “Callahan is not here.”

  “What?”

  The Venusian made a quick gesture. “He awoke when I did. He told me to say that he had no wish to go to prison—so he was leaving.”

  “Where to?” Vanning asked quietly. “Venus landing. He left the ship an hour ago to get food and weapons, and by this time he is in the southern swamps, well on his way. At the Landing, he said, he would embark on a space-ship heading—somewhere.”

  “I see. He’ll reach the Landing before we do, then. Before we leave, we’ll have to get things in some sort of order.”

  BOTH Hobbs and the girl were moving slightly. Presently they would awaken—and then the work would begin. With the city emptied of the Swamja, it would be easy to organize the slaves, get up a party to march to Venus Landing—Vanning’s mouth twisted in a wry smile. So Callahan was gone. He wasn’t surprised. Callahan would never know that the detective had awakened from the crash before any of the others—and had shammed unconsciousness till the fugitive had had time to make good his escape.

  Vanning shrugged. Maybe he was a damn fool. Getting soft-hearted . . .

  “Okay,” he said to Zeeth. “Let’s get busy. We’ve got a job ahead of us!”

  THE TWONKY

  The skilled—but very!—workman was a bit confused, and, in his daze, made something a little out of—time. Quite a little something, too. It looked like a standard radio, but unlike most of those complex gadgets, this one would wash the dishes!

  The turnover at Mideastern Radio was so great that Mickey Lloyd couldn’t keep track of his men. It wasn’t only the draft; employees kept quitting and going elsewhere, at a higher salary. So when the big-headed little man in overalls wandered vaguely out of a storeroom, Lloyd took one look at the brown dungaree suit—company provided—and said mildly, “The whistle blew half an hour ago. Hop to work.”

  “Work-k-k?” The man seemed to have trouble with the word.

  Drunk? Lloyd, in his capacity as foreman, couldn’t permit that. He flipped away his cigarette, walked forward, and sniffed. No, it wasn’t liquor. He peered at the badge on the man’s overalls.

  “Two-oh-four, m-mm. Are you new here?”

  “New. Huh?” The man rubbed a rising bump on his forehead. He was an odd-looking little chap, bald as a vacuum tube, with a pinched, pallid face and tiny eyes that held dazed wonder.

  “Come on, Joe. Wake up!” Lloyd was beginning to sound impatient. “You work here, don’t you?”

  “Joe,” said the man thoughtfully. “Work. Yes, I work. I make them.” His words ran together oddly, as though he had a cleft palate.

  With another glance at the badge, Lloyd gripped Joe’s arm and ran him through the assembly room. “Here’s your place. Hop to it. Know what to do?”

  The other drew his scrawny body erect. “I am—expert,” he remarked. “Make them better than Ponthwank.”

  “O.K.” Lloyd said. “Make ’em, then.” And he went away.

  The man called Joe hesitated, nursing the bruise on his head. The overalls caught his attention, and he examined them wonderingly. Where—oh, yes. They had been hanging in the room from which he had first emerged. His own garments had, naturally, dissipated during the trip—what trip?

  Amnesia, the thought. He had fallen from the . . . the something . . . when it slowed down and stopped. How odd this huge, machine-filled barn looked I It struck no chord of remembrance.

  Amnesia, that was it. He was a worker. He made things. As for the unfamiliarity of his surroundings, that meant nothing. He was still dazed. The clouds would lift from his mind presently. They were beginning to do that already.

  Work. Joe scuttled around the room, trying to goad his faulty memory. Men in overalls were doing things. Simple, obvious things. But how childish—how elemental. Perhaps this was a kindergarten.

  After a while Joe went out into a stock room and examined some finished models of combination radio-phonographs. So that was it. Awkward and clumsy, but it wasn’t his place to say so. No. His job was to make Twonkies.

  Twonkies? The name jolted his memory again. Of course he knew how to make Twonkies. He’d made them all his life—had been specially trained for the job. Now they were using a different model of Twonky, but what the hell! Child’s play for a clever workman.

  Joe went back into the shop and found a vacant bench. He began to build a Twonky. Occasionally he slipped off and stole the material he needed. Once, when he couldn’t locate any tungsten, he hastily built a small gadget and made it.

  His bench was in a distant corner, badly lighted, though it seemed quite bright to Joe’s eyes. Nobody noticed the console that was swiftly growing to completion there. Joe worked very, very fast. He ignored the noon whistle, and, at quitting time, his task was finished. It could, perhaps, stand another coat of paint—it lacked the Shimmertone of a standard Twonky. But none of the others had Shimmertone. Joe sighed, crawled under the bench, looked in vain for a relaxopad, and went to sleep on the floor.

  A few hours later he woke up. The factory was empty. Odd I Maybe the working hours had changed. Maybe—Joe’s mind felt funny. Sleep had cleared away the mists of amnesia, if such it had been, but he still felt dazed.

  Muttering under his breath, he sent the Twonky into the stock room and compared it with the others. Superficially it was identical with a console radio-phonograph combination of the latest model. Following the pattern of the others, Joe had camouflaged and disguised the various organs and reactors.

  He went back into the shop. Then the last of the mis
ts cleared from his mind. Joe’s shoulders jerked convulsively.

  “Great Snell!” he gasped. “So that was it! I ran into a temporal snag!”

  With a startled glance around, he fled to the storeroom from which he had first emerged. The overalls he took off and returned to their hook. After that, Joe went over to a corner, felt around in the air, nodded with satisfaction, and seated himself on nothing, three feet above the floor. Then Joe vanished.

  “Time,” said Kerry Westerfield, “is curved. Eventually it gets back to the same place where it started. That’s duplication.” He put his feet up on a conveniently outjutting rock of the chimney and stretched luxuriously. From the kitchen Martha made clinking noises with bottles and glasses.

  “Yesterday at this time I had a Martini,” Kerry said. “The time curve indicates that I should have another one now. Are you listening, angel?”

  “I’m pouring,” said the angel distantly.

  “You get my point, then. Here’s another. Time describes a spiral instead of a circle. If you call the first cycle a, the second one’s a plus 1—see? Which means a double Martini tonight.”

  “I know where that would end,” Martha remarked, coming into the spacious, oak-raftered living room. She was a small, dark-haired woman with a singularly pretty face and a figure to match. Her tiny gingham apron looked slightly absurd in combination with slacks and silk blouse. “And they don’t make infinity-proof gin. Here’s your Martini.” She did things with the shaker and manipulated glasses.

  “Stir slowly,” Kerry cautioned. “Never shake. Ah—that’s it.” He accepted the drink and eyed it appreciatively. Black hair, sprinkled with gray, gleamed in the lamplight as he sipped the Martini. “Good. Very good.”

  Martha drank slowly and eyed her husband. A nice guy, Kerry Westerfield. He was forty-odd, pleasantly ugly, with a wide mouth and an occasional sardonic gleam in his gray eyes, as he contemplated life. They had been married for twelve years, and liked it.

  From outside, the late faint glow of sunset came through the windows, picking out the console cabinet that stood against the wall by the door. Kerry peered at it with appreciation.