Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  Duncan took another drink. “It still sounds like suicide.”

  “Hartman will explain—the man we’re going to see now. Take my word for it that you can go into space without a Helmet and be safe. Fairly safe.”

  “Half a million credits—”

  “The only danger,” Olcott said carefully, “is that the Maid might send out an S.O S. The I.P. ships are rickety, but they’re fast, and they might stay on your trail. We can’t have that. So we’ve planted somebody on the Maid who’ll smash the radio apparatus just before you make contact. You can pick her up with the radium and head back to Earth.”

  “Her?”

  “You know her, I think,” Olcott said quietly, his eyes impassive. “Andrea Duncan.”

  Duncan moved fast, but there was a gun in Olcott’s hand covering him.

  The latter said, “Take it easy. You killed one man with your fists. I’m taking no chances.”

  A tiny scar on Duncan’s forehead flamed red. “You rotten—”

  “Don’t be a fool. She’s wearing a Varra Helmet. Of course she’ll take it off when she joins you, or she’d have a Varra en rapport with her, one who’d spill the beans completely.”

  “Andrea wouldn’t—”

  “She doesn’t know all of my plans. And she was willing to help me—as the price of your freedom. Listen!” Olcott spoke persuasively. “The girl’s already on the ship. She’s got her instructions. Tomorrow, at three p. m., she’ll smash the radio. If you’re not on hand to pick her up—and the radium—she’ll get into trouble. Destroying communications in space is a penal offense. She might go to Transpolar.”

  Duncan snarled deep in his throat. His face was savage.

  Olcott kept the gun steady. “Everything’s planned. Be smart, and in a couple of days you’ll be back on Earth, with Andrea and half a million credits. If you want to be a damned fool—” the pistol jutted—“it’s a long drop. And it’ll be tough on the girl.”

  “Yeah,” Duncan whispered. “I get it.” His big fists clenched. “I’ll play it your way, Olcott. I have to. But if anything happens to Andrea, God help you!”

  Olcott only smiled.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Invisible Pirate

  RUDY HARTMAN was drunk. An overtured bottle of khlar, the fiery Martian brew, lay beside his cot, and he stumbled over it and cursed thickly as he blinked at tropical sunlight. The gross, shapeless body, dad in filthy singlet and dungarees, lumbered over to a crude laboratory bench, and Hartman, blinking and grunting, fumbled for a syringe. He shot thiamin chloride into his arm, and simultaneously heard the roar of a plane’s motor.

  Hastily Hartman left the godown and headed for the island’s beach near by. The camouflaged amphibian was gliding across the lagoon—a quick flight, that had been, from the Polar Circle to the South Pacific! Hartman’s eyes focused blearily on the plane as it slid toward the rough dock. Two men got out—Olcott and Duncan. “Everything’s ready,” Hartman said. His tongue was thick, and he steadied himself with an effort.

  “Good!” Olcott glanced at his wrist-chronometer. “There’s no time to waste.”

  “When do I take off?”

  “Immediately. You’ll pick up the Maid this side of the Moon, but it’s a long distance.”

  Hartman was blinking at the convict. “You’re Saul Duncan. Hope you’re a good pilot. This is—um—ticklish work.”

  “I can handle it,” Duncan said shortly. Olcott was already moving toward a trail that led inland from the beach. The other two followed for perhaps half a mile, till they reached the dead-black hull of a small cruiser-type spaceship, camouflaged from above with vines and pandanus leaves. The boat showed signs of hard usage. Duncan walked around to the stern tubes and carefully examined the jointures.

  “Crack-up, eh?” he said.

  Olcott nodded. “How do you suppose we got our hands on the crate? It was wrecked south of here, near a little islet. There weren’t any survivors. It cost me plenty to have the ship brought here secretly, where Hartman could work on it.

  But it has been put in good shape now.”

  “She—um—runs,” the scientist said doubtfully, blinking. “And she has strong motors. Unless they’re too strong. I spot-welded the hull, but there is—um—a certain amount of danger.”

  Olcott made an impatient gesture. “Let’s go in.”

  THE control cabin showed signs of careful work; Duncan decided that Hartman knew his job. He moved to the controls and examined them with interest.

  “Made any test-runs?”

  “Without a pilot?” Olcott chuckled. “Hartman says it’ll fly, and that’s enough for me.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, I see you’ve painted the ship black. That’ll make it difficult to spot. I’ll have only occlusion to worry about, and a fast course with this little boat will take care of that.” Duncan pulled at his lower lip. “I noticed you put rocket-screens on, too.”

  “Naturally.” Rocket-screens, like gun-silencers, were illegal, and for a similar reason. The flare of the jets are visible across vast distances in space, but a dead-black ship, tubes screened, would be practically invisible.

  “Okay,” Duncan said. “What about the Plutonians.”

  It was Hartman who spoke this time. “Just what do you know about the Plutonians?”

  “No more than anyone else. No ship’s ever landed on Pluto. The creatures are mental vampires. They can reach out, somehow, across space and suck the energy out of the brain.”

  Hartman’s ravaged face twisted in a grin. “So. But their power can’t break through the Heaviside Layer. That’s why Earth hasn’t been harmed. Only space travelers, unprotected by a Varra convoy, are vulnerable. Even with Varra Helmets, men are sometimes killed. All right. How do you suppose the Plutonians find their victims?”

  “Nobody knows that,” Duncan said. “Mental vibrations, maybe.”

  Hartman snorted. “Space is big! The electrical impulses of a brain are microscopic compared to interplanetary distances. But the ships—there’s the answer. A spaceship is visible for thousands of miles—reflection, and the rocket-jets. It’d be easy for the Plutonians to locate our ships, if they have any sort of telescopes at all. So, we have here a ship they cannot find. Therefore, we do not need a Varra escort to protect us from the Plutonians.”

  “It would have been safer if we could have hired a Varra,” Olcott said. “Still, that was impossible. They’re hand in glove with the government.”

  “I know. They’ve convoyed me, in the old days,” Duncan grunted. “Let me go over it again. I take this ship out, pick up the Maid, Earthside of Luna, and get the radium—and Andrea.”

  “Right,” Olcott nodded. “Then back here, and I hand over half a million credits.”

  “Going into space without a Helmet is risky.”

  “You will not be near Pluto,” Hartman put in. “There is danger, yes, but it is minimized.”

  “But there is danger. I’m thinking of Andrea. When I pick her up, she’s got to leave her Helmet in the Maid.”

  “Naturally,” Olcott snapped, his lips thinning. “If she continues to wear it, she brings a Varra back to Earth with her—a spy.”

  Duncan looked at Hartman. “What armament are we carrying?”

  “Six four-inch blaster cannons, fully charged.”

  “Okay.” Duncan turned again to the controls, slipping into the cushioned basket-seat. “Everything oiled and clean, eh? Doors?” He touched a stud; the valve of the door closed silently.

  “Everything is ready,” Hartman said. “Air-conditioning?” Duncan tried it. “Good. Course?” He checked the space-chart before him. His back to the others, he said quietly, “You’re asking Andrea to take a big risk, Olcott. You too, Hartman, going into space without a Helmet.” Olcott moved uneasily; Duncan could see him in the mirror above the instrument panel. “Hell! It was her own choice—”

  “You blackmailed her into it.”

  Olcott’s lips thinned. “Backing out? If you are, say-so.” />
  “No,” Duncan said, “I’m not backing out. I’m going into space. But you two are going with me—right now!”

  His poised fingers shot down on the instrument board. Olcott’s oath and Hartman’s startled yell were both drowned in a sudden raging fury of rockets. In the mirror Duncan could see the gun that flashed into Olcott’s hand, but at the same instant terrific acceleration clamped hold of the little ship.

  OLCOTT’S gun was never fired. The three men’s senses blacked out instantly, mercifully, as the stress of abnormal gravities lifted the cruiser bullet-fast from the islet. Three figures lay motionless on the plasticoid floor, while the rockets’ bellow mingled with the shrieking of the atmosphere. The insulated hull scarcely had time to heat before the ship was in free space, shuddering through all its repaired beams and joists, the dull, heavy thunder of the screened tubes vibrating like a tocsin of doom in every inch of the cruiser.

  The hull was dead black, the jets screened. No eye detected the swift flight of the ship. Toward the Moon it plunged, rockets bellowing with insensate fury. . . .

  Duncan was first to awaken. Space flight was nothing new to him, and his body had been hardened and toughened by five years at Transpolar. Nevertheless, his muscles throbbed with pain, and he had a blinding headache as he dragged his eyelids up and tried to remember what had happened.

  Realization came back. Spaceman’s instinct made Duncan look first at the controls. The chronometer on the board told him that he had been unconscious for many hours. Watching the star-map, he figured swiftly. Fair enough. They were off their course, but the cruiser had been traveling at breakneck speed. It was still possible to keep the rendezvous with the Maid, Duncan readjusted the controls.

  After that, he turned to Olcott and the scientist. Neither was seriously injured. Duncan relieved Olcott of his gun; Hartman was unarmed. Then he took a drink and sat down to wait.

  Presently Olcott stirred slightly. His lashes did not move, but without warning his hand streaked toward his pocket.

  “I’ve got your gun,” Duncan said gently. “Stop playing possum and get up.”

  Olcott obeyed. There was a streak of blood on his cheek, and he swayed a little as he stood, straddle-legged, facing the pilot.

  “What’s the idea?”

  Duncan grinned. “I’m carrying out your orders. I just thought I’d like company.”

  Olcott fingered his mustache. “You’re the first man who ever played a trick like that on me.”

  For answer Duncan stood up and waved negligently at the controls. “Take over, if you like. Head the ship back to Earth.”

  The irony was evident. In free space, almost anyone could pilot a cruiser. But emergencies and landings were different matters. Years of training in split-second, conditioned reactions were necessary to make a pilot—and only Duncan had had that training. Olcott could easily turn the ship around, but he probably could not control it in atmosphere, and he certainly could not make a safe landing. Olcott was in a prison, and Duncan held the only key.

  “What do you want?”

  “Not a thing. I’m going through with the job. I’ll get the radium for you, and pick up Andrea. But if the Plutonians harm her, without a Helmet, she won’t die alone. We’re all in the same boat now.”

  Olcott came to a decision. “All right. You’ve got aces. Later, we can settle things—not now.”

  Duncan turned to the star-map. “Fair enough.”

  In the mirror he watched Olcott kneel beside the unconscious Hartman and break an ammonia capsule under the scientist’s nose. Yes, fair enough. He had Olcott in a trap. Dangerous as the man was—and Duncan made no mistake about that—he would scarcely be fool enough to cause trouble till his own safety was assured.

  It wouldn’t be assured till the cruiser was back on Earth. Meanwhile, they were in free space—without Varra Helmets. Duncan shivered a little. His eyes sought the enigmatic blackness where Pluto swung in its orbit, invisible and menacing. The Plutonian mind-vampires. Apparently Hartman’s trick had worked. The creatures had not yet discovered the blacked-out cruiser.

  Not yet. But the scope of their powers was unknown. After all, the Plutonians were the reason why space was forbidden.

  Instinctively Duncan’s teeth showed in a snarl of savage defiance.

  THERE was hilarious excitement aboard the Maid of Mercury. The big passenger-cargo ship had just crossed the Line—Luna’s orbit—and that entailed a ceremony involving those who had never crossed before. An officer, grotesquely costumed as the Man in the Moon, presided from a makeshift throne in the main salon, and Andrea Duncan, smiling a little, watched the victims each get their dose of crazy-gas. She’d already had her initiation, and the effects of the mildly intoxicating gas were wearing off.

  It was difficult to believe that outside the hull lay empty space, dark and limitless. Andrea turned her mind away from the thought. But another came—Saul—and she bit her lip and caught her breath in a tiny gasp. Saul! Had Olcott managed the escape? Was Saul Duncan free from Transpolar?

  He must be. Olcott wouldn’t fail. That meant that in a few hours Andrea must destroy the communication system. Olcott had told her the best way. Yes, she was ready. It would mean freedom for Saul.

  If she failed, Olcott had said, her husband would be sent back to Transpolar, with an additional heavy sentence—ten more years, perhaps. Well, she wouldn’t fail.

  A man brushed past her. “Your hair’s mussed up—”

  Instinctively Andrea lifted a hand, only to be checked by the hard plastic curve of her Helmet. It was an old gag, but she forced herself to smile. The necessity of wearing Helmets in space had become a joke to most of the passengers. Probably only the officers realized the true danger of the Plutonian mind-vampires.

  Everyone in the salon, of course, wore a Helmet—even the Man in the Moon, under his disguise. Cumbersome as they looked, they rested lightly on the wearers’ shoulders, and were actually so light that one easily became accustomed to them. Andrea studied her reflection in a nearby mirror. Her small, heart-shaped face seemed dwarfed by the Helmet. Experimentally, like an interested child, she pressed a stud and saw the transparent, air-tight shield slide into place an inch from her nose. Within the ship the shields were not necessary, nor were complete space-suits. But the Helmets were vital.

  ANDREA knew little or nothing of the technical details. The secret of the Helmets lay in the luminous, intertron knob atop each one. It was this that provided a two-way hook-up with the Varra. She remembered what an officer had told her, when she had first donned a Helmet at the Atlantic Spaceport.

  “Never done it before, eh, miss? Well, don’t be frightened. Let me help you.” He had adjusted the bulky Helmet. “The power won’t be turned on till we hit the Heaviside Layer. The Varra can’t safely enter our atmosphere, you know.”

  “I didn’t know. It seems so strange—” The officer chuckled. “Not really. It’s like being in radio communication with somebody. You see, when the juice is turned on, a Varra instantly hooks itself up to your Helmet. You can even talk to him—it—if you like. They’re intelligent; nice people, in fact.”

  “Can they read thoughts?”

  “Everybody asks me that. No, they can’t. The idea is that without a Helmet, you’d be exposed to the Plutonian mind-vampires. As it is, the Varra throws up a mental shield that protects you.” Andrea hesitated. “It doesn’t always work, though, does it?”

  “Almost always. You were warned of that—” His manner became officially rigid. “You signed a release blank, in case of accident. But there’s no danger to speak of. Space flight is exhausting; you’ll feel pretty bad by the time we hit Mars. Somehow there’s an energy drain that even the Varra can’t neutralize.”

  “The Plutonians?”

  “We think so. But without the Helmets—” He grinned in a comforting fashion. “You’ll be okay, miss.”

  Later, at the Heaviside Layer, the power had been turned on in each Helmet. There was no apparent chan
ge, except for the sudden luminosity of the intertron knobs. But a voice, friendly despite its curious alienage, had spoken wordlessly inside Andrea’s brain.

  “I’m taking over now. Don’t remove your Helmet or turn off the power till you’re in atmosphere again.”

  “Atmosphere—” Andrea had spoken aloud without realizing it. The Varra answered her.

  “Each planet has a Heaviside Layer, an electronic barrage that disrupts mental-energy vibrations. We find it dangerous to pass that Layer, but so do the Plutonians.”

  Another passenger had told Andrea somewhat more—that the Varra, even before space travel, were not unknown to science. Charles Fort had been one of the first to collect data about them—inexplicable balls of fire appearing on Earth, with their life-forces warped and harmed by the Heaviside Layer, moving at random out of their native element.

  Two hours after crossing the Lunar Line Andrea slipped noiselessly into the radio room. The long space trip had told on her; like all the others, she was conscious of exhaustion and mental drain. Glancing at her chronometer, she realized that in a few minutes Saul would make contact with the Maid.

  She clicked off the power in her Helmet. She wanted no Varra spying on her now.

  The radio operator did not turn. He had not seen her or heard her silent approach. Andrea’s hand poised over an intricate array of wires and tore the cables free.

  A lance of cold fire plunged into her brain. It was too quick for pain. Her terrified thought, The Plutonians! was cut off instantly. Her mind drowned, as in dark water, chill and horrible.

  The radio operator whirled, startled, at the thud of Andrea’s falling body.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Destination—Death!

  “CQX! CQX! Calling Maid of Mercury!”

  Saul Duncan looked up from the mike. “No answer. Their radio’s dead.”

  “Your wife did her job,” Olcott grunted, fingering his mustache. He had regained his usual impassivity, though Hartman, in the background, had not. The scientist, without his daily quart of khlar, was a nervous wreck, puffing cigarette after cigarette in a vain attempt to calm himself.