Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  Denworth gave his home address. He was tired—magic is more wearing than one might think. Rolling through the quiet streets, he relaxed on the cushions and lit a cigarette.

  “Turzee?” he asked quietly.

  “Yeah,” the pixy’s rather horrid little whisper came. “You can’t lose me. See?”

  “Are you alone?”

  “For the nonce. But with the snap of my fingers I can summon plenty of friends. Want me to do it?”

  “Why bother?” Denworth asked reasonably. “I’m not a fool. You were trying to annoy me by that affair in the Cabanavista. It didn’t work, you see.’-L “Bah!”

  “Since you can’t do anything to me directly, you’re trying to work indirectly. Only you forget one thing. Nobody in the world means a damn to me.”

  “What a louse,” Turzee said. “To think I’m doomed to love a skunk like you!”

  Denworth grinned. “Get Wayland Smith to make you another bracelet. Ever think of that?”

  “He can’t,” the Brawler explained. “One sigil a year is the law. I can’t wait. Our festival’s coming up too soon. How about lending me the sigil till it’s over? I’ll give it back afterward.”

  Denworth didn’t trouble to reply. There was silence in the taxicab, till Turzee broke it.

  “Bo you like to be bad?” he inquired, apparently in all sincerity.

  Denworth laughed. “Relative values . . . good Lord! I wonder what your I.Q. would be, Turzee.”

  “Three hundred on Tuesdays and Thursdays,” the pixy said moodily. “Sixty-three on Fridays. Naturally. You think you’re pretty smart, don’t you?”

  “Maybe. I’m not a fool, anyway.”

  “So you think. There’s a balance. The human world isn’t supposed to touch others. The logic of Earth is fitted to the pattern. When other things impinge—”

  “Well?—”

  “Each of the worlds has its pattern. They arranged that, in the beginning, and They set up a law of compensation. What you call the Fates, or the Norns. Those are only symbols for a rule of logic that’s only applied when the worlds touch. The equation for Earth is too complex for any but Them, to visualize. When a monkey wrench is thrown into the machinery, compensation sets in. It’s set in already. You branched off from your life pattern when you stole the sigil, Denworth. You stepped out of the road. Ever since, you’ve been heading back toward the road, though you don’t know it. The law of compensation is taking you back to—”

  “To what?” Denworth asked, very softly.

  “I don’t know,” Turzee said. “But it will be quite horrible to you. The fate you most wish to avoid.”

  “Under the Hill? What does that mean?” Silence, heavy and somehow terrible. The taxi stopped. Denworth got out and reached for his wallet.

  “On me,” said the cabman, with a look that spoke volumes. “Any time you want to go anywhere, phone for 107. It won’t cost you nothing.”

  As Denworth let himself into the house, a formless dark shadow of worry paced him. So far, he knew, he had seen only the least part of the strange cosmos that the key of magic opened. Beyond might lie—anything.

  He had glimpsed merely that part of magic that impinged on himself, in his own world, and that had been altered to conform to human and terrestrial logic. It was like hearing the words of a lunatic, and knowing that black hell lay hidden within the man’s veiled mind.

  Under the Hill. What horror did that symbol imply? “The fate you most wish to avoid.” What was it?

  “Going Under the Hill,” Denworth said to himself, after a hesitant pause. “Naturally. Well—I’ll be careful. Turzee?”

  The pixy didn’t answer. There were voices from the library. Denworth went in, to find Agatha listening impassively to the arguments of Simon Henderson, her attorney.

  “Hello, dear,” the woman said, rising to kiss Denworth. “I’m so glad you’re back.” Henderson stared with astonished eyes at the scene of marital affection. He was a sourfaced, withered, gaunt figure of incredibly rigid honesty, and Denworth had never liked him.

  So he returned Agatha’s kiss and nodded at the attorney. “Glad to see you, Henderson. Am I intruding?”

  “Of course not,” his wife answered swiftly. “Sit down. We’re all finished, aren’t we, Simon?”

  The old man grunted. “The new will’s made and witnessed, if that’s what you mean. But I think you’re insane.”

  Agatha smiled. “Legally insane?” Henderson snorted. “Of course not! I merely am implying that you’re unwise in leaving everything to . . . to Mr. Denworth.”

  “That’s enough,” Agatha said.

  But the lawyer turned to glare at Denworth. “Have you been applying any sort of pressure to her? If you have . . . if you have—” He stopped, face contorting, and passed his hand before his eyes. “I . . . I—May I have a glass of water? Something—”

  Denworth poured brandy, and Henderson gulped it.

  “Thanks. I was dizzy for a moment—What was I saying?”

  “That I’d been applying pressure to Agatha.” Henderson took a deep breath. “Maybe you have. Maybe you have. But that’s all right. A man needs money. Agatha, you’re doing the right thing.”

  She stared, amazed by the lawyer’s sudden volte-face. “I thought—”

  “You thought I didn’t like Edgar,” Henderson said, rather irritably. “Well, you’re wrong. He’s the sort of boy I’d like to have for a son. I think a good deal of Edgar.”

  Denworth choked, and covered, up by pouring himself a drink. He flashed an appreciative glance at the sigil. It even worked on Henderson! That meant it could do anything.

  A faint rustle brought him up sharply. Was Turzee here? It was impossible to say, but, just now Denworth did not care for more pixie trouble. He smiled at Agatha.

  “I’ve a headache. Mind if I say good night, dear?”

  “Darling! I’ll bring you some aspirin.”

  “Thanks, no. All I need is sleep.”

  “Well—” Agatha said doubtfully.

  Henderson was looking concerned. “You must take care of your health, my boy. Great care! You don’t know how much you mean to a great many people. Somehow I find myself looking on you as a son.”

  “Thanks. Night, pop,” Denworth said flippantly, and went out, throwing a kiss to Agatha. He could afford gestures now, he thought, as he climbed the stairs.

  The butler was nowhere in evidence. Denworth wondered if the man, after his experience with Turzee, had given notice. Probably not. The sigil would bind him securely.

  Denworth undressed slowly and slipped into pajamas, puffing a cigarette meanwhile. There was a board meeting at the Columbus Insurance Co. tomorrow. Denworth had plans involving that meeting. Myra Valentine could wait—even if she married tonight, that would be no obstacle. The power of the sigil recognized no other bonds.

  As Denworth dropped off to sleep, a familiar tune was humming in his mind—a song he had heard once, years ago. How did it go? Oh, yes—

  Love, your magic spell is everywhere—

  Denworth smiled and went to sleep.

  His dreams were singularly unpleasant. Someone, vast and unseen, was doing something cryptic and terrible, weaving a web, knotting a thread here, tightening a strand there; and the worst of it was that the entity paid no attention whatsoever to Denworth. It was as though Denworth existed merely as an expression in a complicated equation. He had lost all sense of self. An overpowering terror lurked at the back of his mind, pushing against a dam that threatened to break. The sigil, upon his wrist, burned like molten metal.

  From somewhere Turzee’s whisper said, “Let me take him Under the Hill.”

  The vast thing worked on unheeding.

  “Break the charm of the sigil.”

  The work went on.

  “Change the equation. Let me do as I will with him.”

  The entity did not hear.

  “Destroy the sigil. You have the power.”

  The slow weaving continued.

>   “Under the Hill they wait. Let him dance with us. Let him know us. Let him see our beauty.”

  But Turzee was not answered. His thin whisper died into silence. That great, formless thing, invisible and yet somehow strangely sensed, worked on, following an impelling urge alien to Denworth. Then, the dam that held back fear broke, and the man awoke, gasping and sweating—

  He took a sleeping tablet and rather uneasily composed himself again, but there were no more dreams. In the morning he woke refreshed, and after a cold shower was ready to develop his plan further’. He did that at breakfast.

  Agatha, he saw, was looking unusually well. Her clear skin was flushed, and a smile played about the corners of her mouth. She had ordered a mixed grill for breakfast, which was one of Den worth’s favorites.

  They sat in the sun porch, and warm yellow light drifted through the windows, borne by the sharp, pleasant air of early spring. The feel of the wind was like that of water at dawn, during a hot summer; a sensuous, electric caress that ran pleasantly along Den worth’s skin. He felt very good this morning. Why not? At last he was on the brink of achieving all that he had desired, all that he ever wanted. Nor would it have the dullness of a gift dumped in his lap. There would be the thrill of conflict.

  And yet he was invulnerable. So might Achilles have felt—battling, as he thought, without danger to himself. The parallel was a good one, even to the disastrous implications, for Denworth remembered his dream and what Turzee had said in the taxicab. He would have to be careful. Yet he felt confident now, tuned to the highest pitch. He stretched lazily, enjoying the movement of his muscles flowing under his hide.

  “How did you sleep, dear?” Agatha asked.

  “Well enough.” A shadow fell over the man. He pushed it away, and forked up a bit of broiled kidney. His blue eyes had suddenly turned cold and stony.

  As he ate, he thought, casting quick glances at Agatha. The sigil maintained its power. The woman showed it; adoration was plain in every look and movement. The love the amulet compelled was unreasoning and selfless. Selfless? Was it, then, stronger than the vital element of self-preservation?

  A thought came to Denworth; was it necessary to have Agatha die? Money was his for the asking. Agatha would give him a divorce if he desired that—

  He asked her. Her eyes filled, but after a while she nodded. “Yes, Edgar. If it would make you happy. Do . . . is that what you want?”

  “No. Of course not, dear,” he said, and “fell silent, considering. Life with Agatha, under these altered relations, might not be too unpleasant. Yet the face of Myra Valentine rose up, shattering his unformed good intentions.

  She would become his mistress. The sigil would take care of that. But it would not be enough. Denworth wanted Myra more as a symbol than a reality, though he did not realize it. Possession of her would compensate for certain deficiencies of his own. As Turzee had remarked, Denworth was a louse.

  This was the more evident when he decided to keep to his plan of eliminating Agatha-permanently. It was not necessary now. But he remembered the chafing impotence that had been his in the past, the sullen, bitter hatred he had felt for Agatha after he had first realized that she was not a malleable fool; and it seemed necessary, for the sake of his own ego, that Agatha should die.

  He looked at her, finding a secret pleasure in her willing, almost supplicatory adoration. But the intellectual satisfaction of mental sadism was somewhat too fine for Denworth. Concrete realities were more desirable.

  She must die.

  And so he arranged it, with rather horrible callousness, playing delicately on the woman’s helpless emotion. She loved him. That he knew. She would die for him—

  Agatha cried at first, but a pitiable bravery sustained her in the end. Yes, she knew Edgar wasn’t happy with her. It was her fault. Only yesterday had she realized—

  Couldn’t they go on—differently?

  No.

  She loved him. She would do anything for him. Couldn’t they make a second try—

  No. He loved Myra Valentine.

  But—

  “You said you loved me enough to die for me. Prove it. Kill yourself. So that it will seem an accident. Die for me. If you love me. If you love me.”

  On his wrist the sigil shone brilliantly in the morning sunlight.

  Die for me. If you love me.

  And Agatha, pressing her damp handkerchief to her mouth, nodded. Her eyes looked after Denworth as he left the room. She knew she would not see him again.

  Denworth knew that, too, but he did not turn. He was too busy wondering if the final test would be successful.

  In the meantime he fortified himself with a drink, hailed a taxi, and went downtown to his office. On the way he passed Wayland Smith’s shop and hastily averted his gaze. A new thought came to him; something Turzee had said. Smith possessed a great many charms—

  The thought was forgotten, but it would recur later. Denworth presently reached his office, where he waited for the signal that would summon him to the board meeting. When it came, he rose, taking a deep breath. This would be important.

  He sat silent at first,-the recipient of a surprising number of handshakes and inquiries as to His health. Oddly friendly glances were sent his way. But business proceeded as usual.

  Until, under the head of new business, Denworth brought up the point of policy that had been settled yesterday. Everyone listened. Denworth said that he felt the idea was too conservative. He mentioned another plan. It was out of order, he knew, but under the circumstances he thought it would be all right to speak. He made a motion.

  Six men seconded it as one.

  When it came to a vote, the new policy was passed without a dissenting voice, canceling the previous decision. Den worth grinned and settled back, satisfied. They loved him so much they couldn’t refuse him anything.

  He turned to the man at his left. “Joe, I want a raise. And a better position. I wonder if you’d mention it?”

  “Damn right I will! I should have done it before. You deserve a great deal, Ed.”

  The members didn’t vote him in as chairman of the board—that just wasn’t possible—but they quadrupled his salary and gave him a position about two steps below that of the president. Applause signified approval.

  As the meeting broke up, Denworth pushed his way through a crowd of congratulations, refusing a score of invitations, and returned to his office. He did no work there. Instead, he lifted his feet to the desk top, smoked cigarette after cigarette, and nodded from time to time. All was going well—very well indeed. So far.

  He phoned Myra Valentine. Her maid said that she was out. This was an obvious lie, for Myra never rose before noon. The sigil, then, didn’t work over the telephone.

  Denworth said, “Tell her I’ll be over this afternoon,” and hung up, smiling thinly. Myra would be easy prey, once she was within the bracelet’s sphere of influence, whatever it might be. Range of vision, perhaps? It didn’t matter.

  He wondered what Agatha was doing. Had she—Well, he would soon know. In the meantime, he could stand a drink.

  “Don’t go,” a familiar whisper said. “I’ll cause trouble if you do. I have lots of friends, you know. And Oberon’s given me carte blanche.”

  Denworth relaxed behind his desk. “All right,” he said. “What’s the proposition now?”

  “I’m getting damn tired of making propositions,” the Brawler announced. “I love you, and I’d like to take you Under the Hill. Paradox, isn’t it? You don’t take—friends—Under the Hill.”

  “Just what’s there?” Denworth asked, yielding to curiosity.

  “To our eyes, it’s lovely,” Turzee said, “but we are in no sense human. People have a mistaken idea about pixies. Figures of fun—so is Punch, but he’s pretty nasty, too.”

  “I know,” Denworth agreed. He had always felt that way about the crook-nosed, stiffly gesticulating puppet. “What do you look like? How big are you?”

  “As large, perhaps,” Turzee
said, “as the last joint of your little finger. To your eyes we would be quite lovely. Only you can’t see us.”

  “There’ve been artists’ conceptions of pixies.”

  “You could paint one yourself, if I described myself,” the Brawler said. “We’re small, delicate, fragile, with a high basal metabolism, no digestive tract, no—”

  “Eh?”

  “We’re solid all through. Like a potato. You may find that difficult to understand—you think anthropomorphically. Why am I telling you all this?”

  “Because of the sigil?” Denworth suggested.

  “I suppose so. Listen, won’t you be reasonable and take the bracelet back to Smith? I’ve spoken to him, and he’ll give you a lot of puckerel charms in exchanged.”

  “What are those?”

  “Petty stuff. But they’d be important to you. A bottomless purse, X-ray glasses, a character scanner. How about it?”

  “No,” said Denworth, “because they wouldn’t protect me against enemies. The sigil does. Nothing can harm me as long as I wear it.”

  “By the seven dimensions of hell!” Turzee shrilled. “You try my patience! And too far! I’d like to—”

  “What?”

  “Do this!” the pixy cried hoarsely, as the door opened to admit Den worth’s secretary. The secretary’s body seemed to collapse, as though all the bones had been removed from it. A shapeless, horrible bag, it sank down, gasping and staring. And then it melted away and was gone, clothes and all.

  Denworth looked sick. He shut his eyes tightly, chewing his lip.

  “Miss Bennett?” he asked gently.

  There was no answer, except for Turzee’s low snigger.

  “Miss—”

  “That’s what I’d like to do to you,” said the pixy with relish. “I can do a lot more horrible things than that, too. You’ll learn!” Denworth had recovered his equilibrium. “It’s no use,” he said, putting his palms flat against the desk and staring into space. “It’s—pretty bad, but Miss Bennett was nothing to me. I don’t care if she’s dead; if she’s suffered. It doesn’t touch me. I’m impregnable, and I’m going to stay that way.”