Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  Alan remembered almost angrily that Sir Colin’s reputation was not good, and that Mike Smith . . .

  Evaya stepped straight into the shining moon and vanished.

  “A door!” Alan’s voice-was strained.

  “Do you think we’d better follow?” Karen asked in an undertone. “I don’t quite trust that girl.”

  Mike laughed, his strong white teeth showing. “I’m hungry and thirsty. Also—” He slapped his holster and stepped forward confidently, pressing against the shining portal. And—it did not yield.

  He turned back a face of frowning bewilderment. “It’s solid. Sir Colin—”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Carcasilla

  ALAN and the Scotchman followed Karen to the threshold. The barrier seemed intangible, yet their hands slid along the disc of light as though it were glass. Alan thought briefly that the thing was like the substance of the citadel—materialized light as that had been solid darkness. Had the same hands created them both?

  “The girl went through it easily enough.” Sir Colin was gnawing his lip, scowling. “Curious. It may be a barrier to keep out enemies—but why did Evaya lead us here if she meant to lock us out?”

  “Maybe she didn’t know we couldn’t follow,” Alan said, and—before anyone could answer, Evaya stepped back through the barrier. Her eyes searched them, puzzled. She beckoned. Alan pointed to the shining wall; then, despairing of explanations, pressed himself futilely against the strange barricade. Understanding lighted magically, as always, behind Evaya’s ivory face. She nodded at them confidently and slipped like a shadow into the moon-disc.

  “It’s no barrier to her, obviously,” Sir Colin grunted. “Remember what I said—that she may not be quite human, as we know the word?”

  “She’s human enough to understand what’s wrong,” Alan snapped, curiously on the defensive for Evaya’s sake. “She won’t—”

  He paused, startled. A sound had come out of the darkness behind them. A sound? No . . . A call in the brain, echoing from the desert they had crossed. All of them heard it; all of them turned to stare back the way they had come. It was utterly silent there, the starlight shining on low mists, dimmer now that the moon was gone. Nothing moved.

  And yet there was—something—out there. Something that summoned.

  Alan knew the feeling. It was coming—coming across the plain on their tracks, coming like a dark cloud he could sense without seeing. The Presence of the Tunisian valley, of the space ship, of the citadel. Each time nearer, stronger . . . this time—demanding. He could sense it sweeping forward over the dust of their tracks like some monstrous, shapeless beast snuffling at their footsteps, nearing, nearing . . .

  And it summoned. Something deep within Alan drew him out, away from the others. But revulsion held him motionless. His brain seemed to move inside his skull at the urge of that unseen Presence coming through the darkness. The cold starlight revealed nothing. He heard Sir Colin breathing hard, heard Mike curse.

  A figure moved past him—Karen. He caught her arm.

  “No! Don’t—”

  She turned a white, drained face toward him.

  Rainbow light sprang out from behind them. It glowed cloudily across the plain, their shadows standing long and dark across it. But it showed nothing more.

  “The door—she’s opened it,” Mike said in a harsh, choked voice. “Come on, for God’s sake f”

  ALAN turned, pulling Karen with him.

  It was like turning one’s back on darkness where devils lurked. His spine crawled with the certainty of something deadly coming swiftly nearer. The great moon-disc was no longer flat now, as he faced it, but the open end of a long and glowing corridor of light. Sir Colin lurched through after Mike; then Alan and Karen stumbled in. Alan looked back just as the golden veil of the doorway swept down to blot out the desert. In that instant he thought he saw something vague and shadowy moving forward through the mist. Like a stalking beast along their tracks in the dust. Something dark in the moving fog-wreaths . . .

  Alan put out his hand to touch the golden veil, and found the same glass-smooth barrier that had barred them from entering, stretched now across the doorway they had just passed.

  Karen said shakily, “Do you think it can get in?”

  Sir Colin, his voice unsteady, but his scientist’s brain keen in spite of it, said in the thick Scots of emotional strain, “I—I dinna think so, lassie. Else it wouldna ha’ tried so hard to—to capture us before we passed the harrier.”

  Mike Smith’s laugh was harsh. “Capture us? What gives you that idea?” Alan said nothing. His eyes were impassive slits under the full lids, his mouth tight. There was no use in pretending any more about one thing—the Presence was no figment of remembered dreams. It was real enough to be deadly, and it had followed them, with what unimaginable purpose he could only guess. But not, he thought—capture. Mike’s primitive instinct was right. Mike knew death when it came snuffling at his heels.

  “A-lahn!” It was Evaya’s voice, beyond them. Alan looked over Mike’s shoulder and saw the girl’s exquisite gossamer-veiled figure in the full light of the strange golden corridor. But she was not looking at them now. Her eyes were on the closed barrier through which they had come, and her face was the face of one listening. For one quite horrible moment Alan guessed that the dark thing which had swept along their tracks in the desert was calling her through the barrier of solid light. Undoubtedly there had been some evanescent communion between her and the Presence at the citadel; was it speaking again here?

  “Evaya!” There was horror in his voice. And at the sound of it the listening look faded and she smiled at him. She was lovelier than ever here in the full golden light, more flawlessly perfect with the exquisite, inhuman perfection of a flower or a figurine. She had a flower’s coloring, rose and ivory white, with deep violet eyes. Here in the light her hair was a pale shade between, gold and silver, and with a curious sort of iridescence when she turned her head.

  She was turning it now, as if some faint call had reached her through the closed door. But it must have been very faint, because she shrugged a little and smiled up at Alan, pointing along the corridor ahead.

  “Carcasilla,” she said, with pride in her voice. “Carcasilla—vyenne!”

  The great golden passage swept up before them in a glowing arc whose farther end they could not see. Evaya gestured again and started up that glowing, iridescent incline.

  AS THEY advanced along the curved floor of the tunnel, Alan realized that this corridor had never been designed for human feet to travel. It was a tube, its curved floor smooth and unworn by passing feet. And its upward slant grew steeper. Human builders would have put steps here, or a ramp. Now they were clinging to the floor and walls with flattened palms, slipping between paces.

  Even for Evaya progress was difficult. She smiled back now and then when her own sure feet slipped a little on the steeply climbing, hollowed floor.

  Alan had been keeping a wary lookout behind them as they slipped and stumbled along the tube. But no darkness was following, no voiceless summons echoed in his brain. The Presence, the Alien,—whatever it had been—must temporarily at least have been stopped by the moon-disc of solid light which had dropped behind them.

  After what seemed to Alan a long time the tube abruptly leveled, and Evaya stepped aside, smiling. “Carcasilla!” she said proudly.

  They stepped out of the tube upon a platform that jutted from the face of a cliff. At their feet a ramp ran steeply down; to left and right the platform circled out around the rock walls in a spiderweb gallery, as far as Alan could see. It was a curious gallery with a tilted rail around it. Automatically the four from the world’s youth moved forward to lean upon the rail and look.

  Before them lay the blue-lit vista of a vast cavern. And in the cavern—a city.

  Such a city as mankind had never visualized even in dreams. It was like—yes, like Evaya herself, delicate and fragile as some artifice, with a beauty heartbreaki
ng in its sheer perfection. It was not a city as mankind understands them. It was a garden in stone and crystal; it Was a dream in three dimensions—it was anything but a city built by man.

  And it was—silent.

  The whole cavern was one vast violet dream where no gravity prevailed, no rain ever fell, no sun shone, no winds blew. Someone’s dream had crystallized into glass and marble bubbles and great loops of avenues hanging upon empty air to fill the blue hollow of the cavern. But it had been no human dream.

  Following the others down the ramp reluctantly, Alan saw a further confirmation of that suspicion. For the balcony rail was pitched at a strange angle, and set at an awkward height from the floor, yet obviously it was meant to lean upon. The gallery, like the tube that led to it, had not been designed for any human creature. Something else had dreamed the dream of Carcasilla ; something else had planned and built it; something else had set this gallery around the cavern so that it might lean its unimaginable body against it and brood over the beauty of its handiwork.

  They were moving along a sloping street now after Evaya, around great whorls of avenues, through hollow buildings whose walls were resonant with color. They passed no one. Traveling thus, they went eventually down a ramp under a series of great widening arches, and paused.

  THEY stood at the edge of a swimming abyss. Here there were no floating islands of buildings overhead, no roofs below. Only the mirrored pavement. But springing out from the foot of the ramp there climbed a long, easy spiral of ascending steps, down which pale water seemed to flow, breaking in a series of scalloping ripples at their feet, and fading into the blue-green pavement they had been walking. Obviously it could not be water, but the illusion was so perfect they drew back from the lapping ripples instinctively.

  All Carcasilla defied gravity, but this was the most outrageous defiance they had yet seen. The broad, graceful curve of the waterfalling steps swept out and around over sheer space, unsupported, made four diminishing turns and ended at the base of a floating tower which apparently had no other support than the coil of flying steps.

  And the tower was a tower of water. Its vague, slim, gothic outlines were veiled in pale torrents that fell as straight as rain down over the hidden walls and went gushing away along the steps. The place looked aloof and withdrawn from the rest of the brightly blooming buildings.

  Evaya set her foot upon the first step and smiled back across her shoulder, nodding toward the raining tower above. “Flande,” she said.

  Dubiously they followed her up the spiral, at first watching their feet incredulously as they found themselves walking dry-shod upon the waterfall whose torrent slid away untouched beneath their soles. But when they had mounted a few steps they found it unwise to look down. Their heads spun as they walked upon sliding water over an abyss.

  The tower of rain should have roared with its falling torrents. But there was no sound as the illusory water swept downward before them, near enough to touch. And no door opened anywhere.

  While the four newcomers stood gaping up, for the moment too engrossed to speak, Evaya stepped forward-confidently and laid her exquisite small hands flat against the rain. They should have vanished to the delicate wrists, with water foaming around them. But the illusion evidently dwelt beneath the surface of the tower, for the rain slipped away unhindered beneath her palms.

  Unhindered? After a moment the torrents began to sway apart, like curtains withdrawing. A slit was widening and widening in the wall.

  “Flande . . .” Evaya said, a little breathlessly.

  The opening, wide now, stopped expanding. Within it were rainbow mists like sunlight caught in the spray of a waterfall. They began to dissipate, and faintly through them Alan glimpsed a face, gigantic as a god’s. But it was no godly face. It was very human. And it was asleep . . .

  Youth was here upon these quiet features, but not a youth like Evaya’s, warm and confident and glowing with inner radiance. This was a timeless youth, graven as if in marble, and as meaningless as youth upon the face of a statue a thousand years old.

  As they stood silent the closed lids rose slowly. And very old, very wise eyes looked into Alan’s, coldly, as if through the clouded memories of a thousand years. The lips moved, just a trifle.

  “Evaya—” said a deep, resonant, passionless voice. “Evaya—va esten da s’ero.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  The Coming of the Barbarians

  THE girl beside them hesitated. “Mai ra—” she began.

  The voice of Flande did not rise, but a deeper and more commanding thunder seemed to beat distantly in its tones. Evaya glanced uncertainly at the little group behind her, singling out Alan, with her eyes. He grinned at her tightly. She gave him an uncertain smile. Then she turned away from the great face above them and moved slowly toward the descending ramp.

  Mike Smith said sharply, “Is she running out on us? I’ll—”

  Abruptly he fell silent, lips drawn back, blunt features hardening into amazed wariness, as a voice spoke soundlessly within the minds of all of them.

  Very softly it came at first, then gaining in assurance as though questing fingers had found contact. Wordless, inarticulate, yet clear as any spoken tongue, the voice said,

  “I have sent Evaya away. She will wait at the tower’s foot, while I question you.”

  Alan risked a sidewise look at Sir Colin. The Scotchman was leaning forward, his head cocked grotesquely, his beak nose reminding Alan of a parrot investigating some new morsel. There was no fear in Sir Colin’s face, only profound interest. Karen showed no expression whatever, though her bright green, eyes were narrowed. As for Mike Smith, he stood alertly, with a coiled-spring poise, waiting.

  “Do you understand me?” the voice murmured soundlessly.

  “We understand.” Sir Colin spoke for them all, after a quick glance around. “This is telepathy, I think?”

  “My mind touches yours. So we speak in the tongue that knows no race or barrier. Yes, it is telepathy. But speak aloud; it is easier for me to sift your minds.”

  Alan touched Sir Colin’s arm, giving him a brief look of warning.

  “Wait a minute,” he said. “We’ve a few questions to ask ourselves.”

  Flande’s great veiled eyes flashed—and a streak of silver fire leaped out above their heads with a crackle of dangerous violence!

  All of the little group cowered away under it as the sword-blade of silver light flashed across the platform where they stood.

  The shelf was wide here, and of translucent clarity, as if they stood on a depthless pool of clear water. There was only quiet emptiness below them as they stumbled backward, the fiery menace of Flande’s glance burning tangibly past their heads.

  Then Flande laughed, cool and distant. And the burning silver sword broke suddenly into a rain of silver droplets that sparkled like stars. Sparkled and came showering down around them. Karen flung up an arm to shield her eyes; Mike swore in German. The other two stood tense and rigid, waiting for the stars to engulf them all.

  But Flande laughed again, a thousand years away behind his veil of memories, and the shower fell harmlessly past them and sank glittering into the pellucid depths of the shelf on. which they stood. Down and down . . . And the twinkling points began to dance with colors.

  Alan watched them in a curious, timeless trance . . . And then—under his feet the glassy paving crumbled like rotten ice. He was falling—He threw himself flat, and the support held him briefly—briefly . . . Then, in a crackle of broken glass, he plunged downward.

  Flande’s cool laughter sounded a third time.

  “Stand up,” he said. “There is no danger. See—my magic is withdrawn.”

  Miraculously, it was so. The platform spread unbroken beneath Alan’s hands, a surface of quiet water. Crimson-faced, he scrambled up, hearing the scuff of feet about him as the others scrambled too. Karen’s lips were white. Sir Colin’s twisted into a wry half-grin. Mike muttered in German again, and Alan had a sudden irrelevant thou
ght that Flande had made an enemy just now—for what that enmity was worth. The rest of them could accept this magic for what it was—telepathy, perhaps, group hypnotism—but to Mike it was personal humiliation and would demand a personal revenge . . .

  FOR a moment they stood hesitant, facing the great visage that looked down aloofly from the tower, no one quite knowing what move to make. Flande broke the silence.

  “Fools question me,” he said. “I think you will not question me again. These you have seen are the least of my powers. And you are not welcome here, for you have troubled my dreams.”

  The brooding gaze swept out past them all, plumbing distances far beyond the cavern walls that hemmed in Carcasilla.

  “You are strange people, from what I see in your minds. But perhaps not strange enough to interest me for long.”

  Alan said, “What do you want of us, then?”

  “You will answer my questions. You will tell me who you are, and whence you come, and why.”

  “All right. There’s no secret about us. But after that, what?”

  “Come here,” Flande said.

  Alan took a cautious step forward, his nerves wire-strung. The vast face watched him impassively.

  Still cautiously, Alan advanced, step by careful step, straight toward that enigmatic doorway. No sound from the others warned him. Only the airman’s trained instinct, almost a sixth sense, told Alan his equilibrium was going. The pavement seemed as solid as ever under his advancing foot. But sheer instinct made him twist in the middle of a stride and hurl himself backward, scrambling on the edge of an abyss he could sense but not see. The surprised faces of the others stared at him.

  He reached out gingerly, exploring the platform until his fingers curled over the edge. Below lay the swimming violet depths of Carcasilla. One more step in the blindness of his hypnotic trance would have plunged him down.