Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  Pete nodded.

  “That’s me. And I’ll make one for you right in your courtyard, provided you’ll agree to one condition.”

  Ali turned his attention to some pears.

  “So?”

  “You probably got a guy named Major Bo and a kid named Sabu in the jug. They ain’t done nothin’ wrong. Free ’em and the carpet’s yours.”

  Ali downed a goblet of wine.

  “I could make thee divulge thy secret,” he observed, “without concessions on my part.”

  Pete bared his teeth confidently, looked around at his men. He gloried in a sense of power. The situation was delicately balanced. He did not have sufficient strength, of course, to seize the caliph and whip his army; out-and-out warfare, while Ali Ben was still in the picture, could end only in disaster for Pete. However, he could make a lot of trouble, and he figured that rather than risk his fat hide, the caliph would gladly make the small concession asked.

  The release of Bo and Sabu was important before Pete could set his plan in motion; else he might be whisked back to his own time before rescuing the lad.

  “Maybe,” he allowed, “but Ali Ben Mahmoud, on whom be peace, is allwise. You realize you can have the secret without trouble. Why waste time and blood?” He glanced around at Ali’s personal guards.

  Ali pecked at some sweetmeats, cogitating. Then he clapped his hands.

  “Bring Bo and the lad with the bottle,” he ordered.

  All hands stood around in an armed truce, waiting alertly till two battered figures were brought in. Major Bo was a wreck of a man whose mind was on the verge of collapse. Sabu had been explaining to him all that he had done during the past weeks, none of which he understood. The boy was in better shape, though plainly despairing.

  Pete grinned at him.

  “Hey, kid, been rubbing that bottle again?”

  Sabu stared at Hassan, still clutching the brass bottle.

  “Why, O Sheikh?”

  “Because the genie’s back again. Only it’s in me this time, see?”

  Hope flared in Sabu’s eyes.

  “Ai! Thou’lt save me and Major Bo?”

  “Yep. You two are free, only stick around with me a while. And promise never to rub that bottle again. It’s made a mess o’ trouble.”

  “Enough of this strange talk,” the caliph interrupted. “I understand it not. Besides, where is the magic carpet, as promised?”

  “I’ll get busy on it right away, Ali. Just get me a flock of weavers and a coppersmith.”

  WORKING day and night without benefit of union contract, the weavers made a tremendous silken tapestry that covered nearly the entire courtyard, shaped like a five-pointed star.

  They also made a gigantic harness and a wicker basket. As the use of varnish dates back to great antiquity. Pete easily made some. He melted sandarac in warm oil and applied the stuff warm. By afternoon of the second day the coat of varnish was dry. Across the center of the whole thing Pete splashed the cabalistic symbol: P-38.

  The caliph, no longer blandly unemotional, inspected the mystic figures with ill-concealed superstition.

  “This is the magic carpet?” he demanded.

  “Yeah, man. Fastest thing that flies. An’ you’re gonna be the first to ride on it!”

  Ali Ben nearly strangled on a forgotten mouthful of fruit. But, putting on a bold front, he sat cross-legged on the carpet and commanded it to fly. Pete hurriedly explained it wasn’t quite ready yet.

  Meantime Pete had instructed his coppersmith to make two slender bits of copper tubing, each fifteen inches long, and another shorter cylinder six inches long and three in diameter. This was supported by twin tripods, and filled with iron filings.

  “Now if you’ll gimme that brass bottle, kid,” he said to Sabu, “I’ll make with another genie pretty soon.”

  “Bismallah! A brother genie, lord?” Sabu quivered in fearful delight.

  “You said it.” Pete filled the bottle partially with water, then joined bottle and cylinder with one copper tube, while the other tube led away from the cylinder.

  That evening he climbed a tower, with the caliph watching narrowly, and scanned the countryside. The sky was clear, the horizon sharp in the sunset. Pete shook his head and came down.

  “The—er—signs and portents ain’t just right. Tomorrow, maybe.”

  Next morning he went through the same ritual with the same result. The caliph began to get restive. Fortunately, on the evening of the third day, Pete found the horizon obscured by low-lying dust. Sandstorm.

  Pete returned grinning.

  “Tomorrow ayem’s the big moment, Ali. Get lots o’ sleep tonight.” Then he added to his workmen, “You know your instructions; get busy. I’ll fire up the boiler department.”

  The weavers in puzzlement drew up the corners of the five-pointed silken blanket, and sewed the edges together, leaving a small hole. Into this Pete fastened a hollow reed with a crude flap valve inside. The seams were hastily varnished.

  “May leak a bit,” he said, just as though there was a single soul in Bagdad with the faintest idea of what he was talking about, “but not much.” Turning to his bottle-and-cylinder contraption, he built small, hot fires beneath each. Presently the water began to boil, and the steam passed from the bottle over the iron filings.

  “Y’see,” Pete elaborated to Sabu, “with steam, iron brought to a red heat interacts vigorously, according to Prof. Aker. The oxygen in the steam combines with the iron and makes iron oxide. What’s left is hydrogen.” With which he plugged the end tube into the reed leading into the now sack-like magic carpet.

  ALL through the night Sabu refilled the brass bottle as fast as it was emptied; more and more hydrogen hissed into the balloon. At first sign of its uneasy stirrings, weavers and coppersmith fled screaming. Only Pete’s warriors had the courage to stay and watch the big gas-bag finally rise and hang, tugging mightily, against the night sky. Pete had fore-sightedly thrown harness and attached basket over the balloon before it rose. The whole thing was tethered to Ali’s fountain.

  By dawn the windstorm hit hard, but behind Bagdad’s sheltering Walls little of it was felt. Ali Ben Mahmoud gave it not a thought as he gaped at the monster which had been born in his garden overnight.

  Pete bowed with a flourish.

  “The magic carpet, O Lord, awaiting its brave passenger, the courageous Ali Ben Mahmoud.”

  The balloon wavering above the caliph’s walls had attracted quite a crowd, and Pete had discreetly spread word of how the grave caliph was to ride the rug that morning. A halfhearted yell arose as Ali was spied through the gates. Thus, with Pete having neatly put the pressure on him, the caliph was obliged to go through with it.

  Ali stepped into the basket!

  “Just command it to rise,” Pete said, “and up she’ll go. Command it to descend, an’ see what happens. If you wish to descend faster, throw out the rocks I put in there.”

  “Arise, o magic carpet,” Ali quavered to the bulbous giant.

  Pete’s scimitar severed the tether. The bag rose and was promptly caught by the wind raging above Bagdad’s walls. It shuddered, swooped, and soared away. Ali Ben Mahmoud was last heard screaming at the carpet to descend, frantically bombarding the city’s roofs as he tossed out the ballast.

  In three minutes Ali had passed from view, and the populace was already festively expressing its heartfelt joy.

  “Well, that’s that,” said Pete. “I hereby proclaim Sabu the new popular caliph of Bagdad. Me an’ my—er—retainers will be your advisers in a gentlemanly sort o’ way. Always be a good ruler, kid. The people already like you an’ Major Bo. So just keep taxes low, encourage trade, put down crime, be merciful. Now my time’s about up. This is the genie signing off, kid. So long—”

  Sabu’s. face was a mixture of bewilderment, pride, and sorrow at the departure of the mightiest of all genies, indeed.

  Zung-g-g!

  The lab at P. U. whirled once and came to a gentle stop. Pete si
ghed with relief and stepped from the Time Chair to greet Professor Aker, Dr. Mayhem, and Colonel Crowell. Crowell scowled.

  “Professor Aker tells me you have failed in your solemn mission.”

  “Oh, I dunno. It’s a fact there wasn’t no magic carpet, till I invented it.” Pete passed over this hastily. “But it wouldn’t interest the Army. However, I did figure out a way to get rid of Hitler. It worked swell in ancient Bagdad. I pulled a coup d’etat.”

  “Coup d’etat!” The colonel raised his eyes to heaven. Ice clung to his words. “Gentlemen, I am sorry to have wasted your time and mine in this fruitless endeavor. Even if the whole thing has not been a gigantic hoax, it is obvious that the scope of your invention has been greatly exaggerated!”

  “I done my best to help,” said Pete plaintively.

  COLONEL CROWELL jerked his cap in irritation.

  “The War Department,” he announced, “is not going to like my report on this episode. Good-day!” The door slammed behind him.

  The two savants stared at each other angrily.

  “How,” inquired Dr. Mayhem, “do you like that? We propagandize Manx into making the trip, do our best to aid national defense, and what thanks do we get? I’ve a notion to send Colonel Stimson a bill for the power we used!”

  “Nix. I’m jinxed enough as it is,” Pete moaned. “You old duffers needn’t worry; you’re too old to fight, but I want to and they’ve turned me down just because I’m over thirty-seven. And me with military experience.”

  Aker snorted derisively.

  “What military experience?”

  “Artillery, that’s what. I got a special aptitude for a highly specialized job.”

  “Such as what?”

  “I useta earn ten bucks a shot at Casey’s Carnival,” Pete sighed. “I was the Human Cannonball!”

  THE WORLD IS MINE

  Gallagher, the mad—or at least cockeyed—scientist, gat himself into real trouble that time. Corpses—several of them, but all, unpleasantly, his own—kept haunting him, And the Martians he’d accidentally brought up out of Time kept insisting, somewhat plaintively, the world was theirs.

  “Let me in!” shrilled the rabbity little creature outside the window. “Let me in! The world is mine!”

  Gallegher automatically rolled off his couch, reeling under the not unexpected gravity-pull of a colossal hangover, and gazed about in a bleary fashion. His laboratory, gloomy in gray morning light, swam into visibility around him. Two dynamos, decorated with tinsel, seemed to stare at him as though resentful of their festive garments. Why tinsel? Probably the result of those Tom-and-Jerries, Gallegher thought wanly. He must have decided that last night was Christmas Eve.

  Brooding on the thought, he was recalled to himself by a repetition of the squeaky cry that had awakened him. Gallegher turned carefully, holding his head between steadying palms. A face, small, furry and fantastic, was regarding him steadfastly through the plexoglas of the nearest windows.

  It was not the sort of face to see after a drinking bout. The ears were huge, round and furry, the eyes enormous, and a pink button of a nose shivered and twitched. Again the creature cried:

  “Let me in! I gotta conquer the world!”

  “What now?” Gallegher said under his breath, as he went to the door and opened it. The back yard was empty save for three remarkable animals that now stood in a row facing him, their furry white bodies fat and pushy as pillows. Three pink noses twitched. Three pairs of golden eyes watched Gallegher steadily. Three pairs of dumpy legs moved in unison as the creatures scuttled over the threshold, nearly upsetting Gallegher as they rushed past.

  That was that. Gallegher went hurriedly to his liquor organ, mixed a quick one, and siphoned it down. He felt a. little better—not much. The three guests were sitting or standing in a row, as usual, watching him unblinkingly.

  Gallegher sat down on the couch. “Who are you?” he demanded.

  “We’re Lybblas,” said the foremost.

  “Ah.” Gallegher thought for a moment. “What are Lybblas?”

  “Us,” the Lybblas said.

  It seemed to be a deadlock, broken when a shapeless bundle of blankets in one corner stirred and exposed a nut-brown, withered face, seamed with far too many wrinkles. A man emerged, thin, ancient and bright-eyed. “Well, stupid,” he said, “so you let ’em in, eh?”

  Gallegher thought back. The old fellow, of course, was his grandfather, in Manhattan for a visit from his Maine farm. Last night—Hm-m-m. What had happened last night? Dimly he recalled Grandpa boasting about his capacity for liquor, and the inevitable result: a contest. Grandpa had won. But what else had happened?

  He inquired.

  “Don’t you know?” Grandpa said.

  “I never know,” Gallegher told him wearily. “That’s how I invent things. I get tight and work ’em out. Never know how, exactly. I invent by ear.”

  “I know,” Grandpa nodded. “That’s just what you did. See that?” He pointed to a comer, where stood a tall, enigmatic machine Gallegher did not recognize. It buzzed quietly to itself. “Oh? What is it?”

  “You made it. Yourself. Last night.”

  “I did, huh? Why?”

  “How should I know?” Grandpa scowled. “You started fiddling with gadgets and set the thing up. Then you said it was a time machine. Then you turned it on. Focused it into the back yard, for safety’s sake. We went out to watch, and those three little guys popped out of empty air. We came back—in a hurry, I recall. Where’s a drink?”

  The Lybblas began to dance up and down impatiently. “It was cold out there last night,” one of them said reproachfully. “You should have let us in. The world is ours.”

  Gallegher’s long, horselike face grew longer. “So. Well, if I built a time machine—though I don’t, remember a thing about it—you must have come out of some different time. Right?”

  “Sure,” one of the Lybblas agreed. “Five hundred years or so.”

  “You’re not—human? I mean—we’re not going to evolve into you?”

  “No,” said the fattest Lybbla complacently, “it would take thousands of years for you to evolve into the dominant species. We’re from Mars.”

  “Mars—the future. Oh. You—talk English.”

  “There are Earth people on Mars in our day. Why not? We read English, talk the lingo, know everything.” Gallegher muttered under his breath. “And you’re the dominant species on Mars?”

  “Well, not exactly,” a Lybbla hesitated. “Not all Mars.”

  “Not even half of Mars,” said another.

  “Just Koordy Valley,” the third announced. “But Koordy Valley is the center of the Universe. Very highly civilized. We have books. About Earth and so on. We’re going to conquer Earth, by the way.”

  “Are you?” Gallegher said blankly. “Yes. We couldn’t in our own time, you know, because Earth people wouldn’t let us, but now it’ll be easy. You’ll all be our slaves,” the Lybbla said happily. He was about eleven inches tall.

  “You got any weapons?” Grandpa asked.

  “We don’t need ’em. We’re clever. We know everything. Our memories arc: capacious as anything. We can build disintegrator guns, heat rays, spaceships—”

  “No’, we can’t,” another Lybbla countered. “We haven’t any fingers.” That was true. They bad furry mittens, fairly useless, Gallegher thought.

  “Well,” said the first Lybbla, “we’ll get Earth people to build us some weapons.”

  Grandpa downed a shot of whiskey and shuddered. “Do these things happen all the time around here?” he wanted to know. “I’d heard you were a big-shot scientist, but I figured scientists made atom-smashers and stuff like that. What good’s a time machine?”

  “It brought us,” a Lybbla said. “Oh, happy day for Earth.”

  “That,” Gallegher told him, “is a matter of opinion. Before you get around to sending an ultimatum to Washington, would you care for a spot of refreshment? A saucer of milk or something?”
>
  “We’re not animals!” the fattest Lybbla said. “We drink out of cups, we do.”

  Gallegher brought three cups, heated some milk, and poured. After a brief hesitation, he put the cups on the floor. The tables were all far too high for the small creatures. The Lybblas, piping, “Thank you,” politely, seized the cups between their hind feet and began to lap up the milk with long pink tongues.

  “Good,” one said.

  “Don’t talk with your mouth full,” cautioned the fattest Lybbla, who seemed to be the leader.

  Gallegher relaxed on the couch and looked at Grandpa. “This time machine business—” he said. “I can’t remember a thing about it. We’ll have to send the Lybblas back home. It’ll take me a while to work out the method. Sometimes I think I drink too much.”

  “Perish the thought.” Grandpa said. “When I was your age, I didn’t need a time machine to materialize little fellows a foot high. Corn likker did it,” he added, smacking withered lips. “You work too hard, that’s what it is.”

  “Well—” Gallegher said helplessly. “I can’t help it. What was my idea in building the thing, anyhow?”

  “Dunno. You kept talking about killing your own grandfather or some thing. Or foretelling the future. I couldn’t make head nor tail of it myself.”

  “Wait a minute. I remember—vaguely. The old time-traveling paradox. Killing your own grandfather—”

  “I picked up an ax handle when you started in on that,” Grandpa said. “Not quite ready to cash in my chips yet, young fellow.” He cackled. “I can remember the gasoline age—but I’m still pretty spry.”

  “What happened then?”

  “The little guys came through the machine or whatever it was. You said you hadn’t adjusted it right, so you fixed it.”

  “I wonder what I had in mind,” Gallegher pondered.

  The Lybblas had finished their milk. “We’re through,” said the fat one. “Now we’ll conquer the world. Where’ll we begin?”

  Gallegher shrugged. “I fear I can’t advise you, gentlemen. I’ve never had the inclination myself. Wouldn’t have the faintest idea how to go about it.”