Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  “NICE,” Corson said. “Hope the I cameras are getting it.”

  “They are,” Judy said. “He’s going fast—too fast. How about it, Greg?”

  “He’s all right,” I told her tonelessly. My stomach was crawling.

  I knew just what hell Bruce Vane was going through. And that rat Helsing kept yelling at him, blasting at his nerves, urging him to suicide.

  I grabbed Helsing’s arm. “Give him a chance, for God’s sake! He can’t listen to you bawling and pilot that ship too.”

  “Shut up!” the director snarled, jerking free. “Mind your own business, Lash. Vane! Open up! Drive her down—” Judy caught her breath. I looked at the screen. Vane’s face had changed—just a little, but I knew the symptoms. I’d flown with him too often not to know. A rigidity, a tight, tense, intangible veil masking his eyes and mouth—

  He was seeing Cerberus, I knew. Seeing the ships of his patrol bellowing down to the fanged rocks of the asteroid, blazing into flame, bursting, rending, shattering into molten horror. He was six years in the past, looking into hell. Paralyzed, helpless, waiting for the inevitable crash. And I was the only man who knew that.

  “Take her down!” Helsing snarled. “There’s plenty of time. Keep her nose down, Vane!”

  I said, “That’s close enough.”

  “The devil it is. He’s still—”

  But I saw Vane’s face on the televisor, and I knew what had happened. I grabbed Helsing and flung him back. Cloth tore under my fingers.

  I put my face down to the screen and said, “Bruce. Bruce. That’s enough. Tractors, Bruce. Slam on the tractors, kiwi. Go ahead.”

  I felt Helsing shoving at me. From the other pilots an angry murmur came.

  Corson said, “Who asked you to butt in, Lash? You’re not the director.” Vane was watching me, a blind helplessness in his eyes.

  “Easy, Bruce,” I said, my throat dry. “The tractors. Hit those buttons.”

  I saw Helsing’s fist come at my jaw. I dodged and let him have a fast one, hard on the button. He went back and down. Judy cried out.

  I yelled into the televisor, “Slam on those tractors, you damn fool!”

  Something crashed into my face, hurling me against the wall with a crash. Briefly I felt myself whirling into blackness. I fought for consciousness. Gradually the control cabin steadied.

  Paul Corson was coming toward me, his fist poised. I heard Judy cry, “He’s made it! He’s using the tractors—” Helsing, nursing his chin, snapped, “Sure. And we’ll have to do a retake. Thanks for the help, Lash. You’re fired.” Corson stopped, glaring at me. “Retake! We’ve wasted reels of film on this. Film costs money.”

  Helsing said, “When you signed up with us, Lash, I told you we weren’t playing games. We take risks. That’s in the cards.”

  Risks—sure. But they didn’t know that Vane would never have pulled out of that suicidal dive unless I’d yelled at him.

  I looked around. The pilots’ eyes were hostile. They hated my guts.

  It was mutual.

  “Back to Klystra,” Helsing said finally. “Tell Vane to follow us, somebody.”

  And that was that.

  THE bunkroom was full of pilots, but I drank alone on my bunk. After a while Vane came in, his face impassive. He nodded at me, and shot a quick glance around.

  “I blew out one of the tractor beams,” he said. “There may be replacements at Gap Station. I’m taking the Bullet over to find out. Want to come?”

  “Sure,” I said, getting up. We went out together.

  In the little Martian ship, racing through the void, Vane said, “I told Helsing what had happened. You’re back on the payroll.”

  “You needn’t have told him.”

  “Why not? I blew up, didn’t I? And Judy saw me.”

  “She’s got sense enough to know what spaceshock means.”

  “Just the same—” Vane grimaced. “I expected trouble with Helsing, but there wasn’t any. Funny thing. He flew in the war. I didn’t know that.”

  “Neither did I. So what?”

  He shrugged. “Well—anyhow, thanks for snapping me out of it, Greg. I used those tractors just in time. And blew one out with an overload.”

  “I didn’t think you could get replacements for these old Martian ships any more,” I said.

  “Nor can you, usually. But out here in the Belt there’s a chance. The asteroid miners use junky models they pick up cheap. When they fall apart, they sell the parts to the stations. There’s a salvage pile at the Gap Station, and we may find what we want there. The chance is worth taking. Anyhow, I wanted to get away for a while.”

  I knew how he felt.

  We raised Gap Station after a while, a gigantic artificial asteroid gleaming like molten metal. Vane jockeyed the Bullet in toward a valve.

  “Put on a spacesuit. You’ll have to go hunt for the gadget, Greg. I’ve got to stay here and keep the ship in place. The tractor beams are haywire.”

  “How’ll I know what to look for?”

  “Switch on your helmet radio,” he said. “I’ll tell you. You can’t miss the thing if you see it.”

  I got into the bulky suit and signaled for entrance by pressing a stud near the valve. The metal door swung open after a while, and I stepped inside. The outer plate closed; the inner one opened, and air misted my faceplate. I snapped it open and walked forward into a big room, crammed with machinery—the powerful energy converters that drew power from the sun to keep Gap Station’s giant radio working.

  And, facing me, a hand-blaster aimed unwaveringly at my middle, was a fragile-looking man with the delicate, sensuous face of a god, and the feathery, iridescent hair of a Martian.

  I stopped short.

  “War,” I said. “Eh?”

  He made a quick gesture with the gun, shaking his head. I switched into Martian. The soft, slurring vowels and consonants came easily to my tongue.

  “Sa vasth’stra m’lawoo shan—”

  “Who are you? Are you alone?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Asteroid miners usually work alone, don’t they?”

  “Your ship—”

  “I hung it on with a tractor beam. Mind letting me know what this is all about? When did Martians take over Gap Station?”

  “Yesterday,” he said.

  “Then I’ll be getting along,” I told him, turning. He whispered a soft command. I froze.

  “You must die,” he said.

  I looked at him. “I get it. A sneak attack, eh? You and your men took over Gap Station so the radio here couldn’t send out a warning. What sort of warning? Mars hasn’t any fleet any more.”

  “Earthmen are gullible,” he said.

  “Not that gullible. We’ve policed Mars ever since the war.”

  He was aching to brag about his plan. I could tell that. I let him talk.

  “Space is large. We have a secret base on Pluto. Our fleet left it days ago.”

  “It can’t be much of a fleet.”

  “It is large enough to smash the fuel supply centers on Earth.”

  I understood then, all right. That insurrection of Venus, Martian planned, was designed to lure the Earth fleet from home base, leaving supply centers almost unguarded. And Martian ships racing in sunward from Pluto, to bomb Earth and paralyze our fleet for lack of fuel. Simple, logical—and damned possible, too!

  I said, “You can’t sneak in without being noticed.”

  “That is why we took over Gap Station. Before any warning can go out, we will be through the Asteroid Belt. And then we will strike Earth before your fleet has time to return from Venus.”

  “They move fast,” I said.

  “So do we. We are near no trade routes. And in space there are few radios powerful enough to bridge the worlds.”

  “Any big transport could do it.”

  “No transports will see us.”

  I said, “Well, it’s your move.”

  He lifted the gun. I edged around toward the wall. Then th
under blasted in my ears as I slammed the faceplate on my helmet shut. The concussion flung me against the wall.

  The double valves were smashed in by the impact of a torp. The Martian was picked up and hurled across the room. Machinery shattered. The gun blasted its charge by my head.

  Then the air was sucked out into space, and the Martian’s scream was cut Off, fading into shrill emptiness, as the breath was torn from his collapsing lungs.

  Alarms screamed through Gap Station. I heard valves slam shut. In a minute the other Martians, space-suited, would be arriving.

  I went through the broken valves fast and dived into the Bullet. Vane had a helmet on and the door open. I slammed it behind me. “Jets!” I told him.

  WE streaked away from there in a blast of raving fire. I turned on the Stirsupplier, removed my suit, and nodded grimly to Vane.

  “This is it,” I said.

  “Yeah. Looks like it. Remember when we used that gag in the war? Glad you had sense enough to stand away from the valves so I could blast in.”

  “You heard what the Martian said?”

  “Uh-huh. On your helmet radio. Clever so-and-sos, aren’t they?”

  “How’ll we warn Earth?” I asked. “You smashed the radio with that torp.”

  “So I did. None of our sets will reach far enough out. The quickest way is to get in touch with a big transport. Get Helsing on the televisor. We’ll have him send out a ship from Klystra.”

  After a while Helsing’s bulldog face grew on the screen. He scowled at us. “Well? What do you want now?”

  I told him. He bit the end off his cigar.

  “Okay. I’ll send out Decker in one of the Mazies. But there just isn’t enough time. The Martians can blast through the gap and smash right down on Earth before our fleet can get there.”

  I said, “We’ve got a flock of Mazies on Klystra. And plenty of ammunition. How about it, Helsing?”

  “We’ll be with you right away,” he said. “To knock those damn Martians’ ears down!”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Battle in the Void

  THIS was it.

  Fifteen rickety Mazies and one Bullet lay in the Gap waiting, each cranky can loaded with torps.

  The Mazies were fighting again. Seated before the bombardier’s instrument bank, with its row of visiscreens, I watched Helsing’s face emerge.

  “Any sign yet?”

  “No,” Helsing said. “The boys want you in command, Vane. You rank us.”

  “All right,” I said. “But we won’t be going in for strategy or maneuvers.” I sent out a general call. “Mazies, tune in.” The screens showed their faces, watching me. They weren’t hating me now, and I wasn’t hating them.

  “Here’s the general command,” I told them. “Stop the Martians. Delay them. Hold ’em in the Gap till our fleet has a chance to get back to Earth.”

  Helsing interrupted. “Think I see something. Sector V-two seven five-P.” I used a telescopic screen. All the others, I knew, were doing the same. Hanging in the blackness of the Gap a shimmer of movement stirred. Thirty great Martian ships rolled majestically toward us, beautiful and deadly as death.

  “Here they come,” I said. “The new Martians. With technospace licenses. Rats who learned piloting at Star Point so they could bomb the Earth. Anybody here got a license?”

  Grim smiles flashed across the hardbitten faces.

  I said, “Fire at will. Zero!”

  The Martian fleet grew gigantic on the screen. Thirty fast destroyer types, latest style, well-armored, and plenty fast. Their blaster cannons were eyes watching us hungrily. We went in after them.

  “Midships,” Vane said. “Pick your target.” He aimed the Bullet toward the first of that terrible armada.

  I waited till one of the starboard tubes was in my crosshairs. Then I let go. A torp crashed across space as we danced away, and I saw flame spout from the Martian hull. One torp couldn’t hurt that armorplate. But we had plenty more.

  Then the guns of Mars opened up on us.

  IT WAS velvet—velvet! They were technospace pilots, trained for modern fighting and spacework. But we weren’t battling their way.

  Swinging into view on the screen came a Martian hull, guns raging, growing larger and larger as Vane’s skillful fingers brought us diving down at the destroyer. I knew just when he’d pull out of it. Just at the moment when it seemed impossible. And that was when I got in my work and rocketed the torps at the target, blasting away at one spot, weakening it till—

  There it was! The last torp had gone through the half-melted armor. It exploded within the ship, and the great Martian thunderbolt broke in two, its back snapped, fragments cascading out into space. First blood!

  The televisor said, “Billings and Dale gone, sir. Direct hit.”

  I flashed to the MZ that Billings had piloted. It was a wreck, split open.

  I saw fire lance from its jets.

  Billings must still be alive, I thought. If he’d had time to jam on a space-helmet—if he’d survived the concussion—

  Yeah—he was alive. The Mazie, broken and dying, flashed silent thunder from its rockets—a great, fountaining burst of flame that splashed across the starry darkness.

  She came in—fast! Full power!

  A Martian destroyer saw her coming and tried to dodge. But technospace pilots were no match for a man who’d fought his way around the System during the war. Somehow Billings matched his target’s maneuvers, without slowing.

  He made it.

  It was a good way to go out, taking a fully-manned Martian destroyer with you.

  But we had no time to think of that. The dogfight was raging through the Gap—lit now with the crimson fires of war—smashing savagely at the enemy. But we’d broken the Martian formation. Billings’ attack had done that.

  We cut them down to our size. I don’t know how long the scrap lasted. But we held them. We held them.

  ONE of the Martians broke through. I yelled at Vane to follow it. Another Mazie paralleled our course, but I didn’t object to that. A lucky hit might disable one of us, and then it would be up to the remaining one to stop that destroyer.

  We caught up with her ten minutes later, after a fast, hard chase. She turned at bay above Cerberus. The asteroid formed a backdrop to the crimson tongues lashing viciously toward us.

  I waved at Vane. He sent the Mazie dodging, twisting, weaving down on the Martian. The big cannon couldn’t stop us.

  I laid an egg on the hull and saw Helsing, coming after me, chalk up a repeat.

  It took six more dives to kill the destroyer. She broke apart; the gravitational tug of Cerberus caught her, and she went down in flame as she hit the atmosphere.

  From the screen, Helsing said, “Reporting out of control. Instrument panel smashed. Corson wounded.”

  I tried an outside televisor view. Helsing’s ship was already far below us, screaming through the atmosphere of Cerberus.

  Vane turned a gray face on me.

  “I’ll take it, Bruce. We’ve got to get a tractor beam on them before they crash.”

  For answer he sent the Bullet nosediving toward Cerberus.

  “Like hell! You can’t handle this ship. Stand by to shoot out a tractor. And take it easy—we’re one short.”

  “Bruce!” I yelled at him. “That’s Cerberus! Cerberus!”

  He jammed on the rockets. We blazed down like a meteor.

  I dropped into the seat beside him, gripping the tractor controls, watching the pilot’s screens before me. The great, jagged surface of Cerberus loomed ahead. The Martian ship was a dot of crimson as it fell. Helsing’s Mazie hadn’t warmed up enough yet to be luminous, but it had already reached atmospheric limits.

  And it was far below us—too far!

  I didn’t look at Vane. But I knew what he was seeing. Cerberus—six years ago—reaching out to claw at his throat.

  The Martian struck, going up in a spout of fire. I felt Vane jerk convulsively. Then he smashed his hand down on
the keyboard, and the tremendous acceleration stopped the breath in my throat.

  “Tractors!” he gasped.

  We shrieked down toward the Mazie. I flashed the beams out to the little ship, touching it delicately, then clamping down as I felt it respond. We were chained together now with unbreakable lines of force. And still going down. Down toward Cerberus—with Vane at the controls . . .

  Five miles—four—three—and Cerberus leaped at us like a solid wall. I was as rigid as Vane. Four lives hung on his fingertips now. And he sat frozen—he was the only man who could stop the Bullet, and he could not stir.

  The horrible tension in him had reached out to grip me fast. I shared the phobia and I was going to share its penalty. I knew that. I sat there helpless, watching it come, watching Cerberus swell monstrously below us. We were going to crash, all of us . . .

  Vane’s hands stirred. I couldn’t believe that. I couldn’t even lift my eyes to his face. But I saw his fingers moving, very delicately—I saw him pressing the studs . . .

  I went weak as water.

  Vane had done it.

  He’d looked that six-year-old fear between the eyes and stared it down. It takes a man to do something like that.

  I said, “Wait a minute,” and stared at one of the screens. My heart jumped.

  I was looking at the Gap. Our Mazies were withdrawing, but that wasn’t the important thing. Slipping smoothly into the Gap were great, shining ships, dozens of them, each with the green-and-gold symbol of Earth upon its bow.

  “Fast work,” I said, my voice unsteady, though I didn’t know why. “They couldn’t have come from Venus. Or anywhere except—”

  “Mars. Yeah,” Vane said. “See those letters on the bow of that one? TAE—Terrestrial Auxiliary Expedition. Our police ships from Mars. They got the message and came in full acceleration.”

  Deadly, gigantic, the avengers swept into the Gap in pursuit of the Martian ships.

  Our job was done.

  WE’D lost five men. We drank to them that night on Klystra—all of us who were left. Vane had his arm around Judy as she lifted her glass.