Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  “It is my belief they can. It is my belief that Alan Drake, with his knowledge and his power bequeathed by Flande, can save his beloved and the people of his beloved, and the world on which he chose to stay, because his beloved had to remain there.

  “The fountain of immortality died, and Carcasillians lives on. I shall believe it until I die myself. And one day I believe all Venus will hear the great story which I can only guess at now. The story I shall never know.”

  THE END

  PROBLEM IN ETHICS

  Marzerth is out to keep their monopoly by using ancient gangster-terrorism against all competitors. They’ve murdered our best men, and now just kidnapped your daughter, Cheever. And don’t think they’re bluffing in what they say they’ll do to her if you don’t give in. But there’s one thing that Hammond has overlooked—one way to fight Marzerth and beat it. And, believe it or not, Cheever, it’s a problem in ethics!”

  THEY found young Seton huddled under a bench on one of the cross-town movable ways. He’d been beaten up thoroughly. His face was pulp. His eyes had been gouged out. He managed to talk a little before he died, but he couldn’t name his murderers. They were hired thugs from the outlands, some hell-hole on Lower Venus or the Martian badlands.

  People who read the newstapes that evening were sickened, horrified, and frightened. Violence in the twenty-first century was unusual—so much so that there simply wasn’t any police organization any more. With the abolition of wars after the Big Smash, the world had settled down to doing things the right way. It seemed to work. Eventually capital punishment was erased from the books. Traffic guards had paralyzers, set to such a low notching that they didn’t even paralyze.

  Hiram Gale, who was a physicist with Commerce, Inc., went to see the big boss, Cheever. Gale breezed in looking malignant and angry, a scowl on his wry, wrinkled face, and a bitter gleam in his faded eyes.

  He started things off by swearing at Cheever, who didn’t do anything more than shrug.

  “Well,” the boss said, biting his lips, “I’m sorry, Hiram. But I can’t bring him back to life, can I?”

  “Blasted jellyfish,” Gale said. “I only wish I had two good legs.” He dropped into a chair and let his crutches drop. “You’re husky enough, Jay, and you’re still young. Why don’t you do something about this mess?”

  “What?”

  “Seton was one of my best men. He isn’t the first. There’ve been others. And not only here—all over the System. Pioneers who wanted to change to our new atomic fuel gadgets. What happens to them? Beaten up—or murdered!”

  Cheever said weakly, “It isn’t worth it, Hiram. Why not let Marzerth keep their monopoly—”

  Gale’s eyes went darkly cold. “Those filthy, murdering swine!”

  “Well—but—”

  “Sure, they’ve got the strangle-hold on fuel for Marzerth energizers—and they want to keep it. Even though those energizers cost so damn much only the rich can afford ’em—unless they’re leased at an exorbitant percentage from Marzerth! Which means peonage on the other planets, mister. Secondly, the energizers are dangerous. There’ve been more explosions—”

  Cheever sighed. “I know, I know. Our Atoma device is fool-proof, cheap, and plenty effective. Only we can’t get it on the market.”

  Gale said icily, “Why? Because we’re not fighting!”

  “You’re crazy! War? Good heavens, Hiram—d’you want to turn back the clock a century?”

  “If necessary. The Marzerth people have no place in this era. They’re anachronisms. They’ve gone back to Nazi gangster ideology for their methods. They’re succeeding, too, because the worlds have forgotten how to fight.”

  “Fighting is profitless. That’s been proved.”

  “It hasn’t. Not to my satisfaction, anyway.”

  “This isn’t your pie,” Cheever said. “Why mix up in it?”

  GALE sneered. I haven’t been neglecting my work, if that’s what you mean—”

  “Of course it isn’t! You know that.”

  “I’ve been fooling around with more than one experimental gadget. My temporal theories are working out; that teleportation formula is proving interesting, and—but the hell with such junk. I’m talking about Marzerth. What are you going to do?”

  “There’s nothing I can do!”

  “Indeed?” Gale said.

  “Peaceful arbitration—”

  “Has been tried. And failed. Marzerth wants to keep their stranglehold, so they can keep on dragging in money by the ton while colonists and miners on the asteroids and in the Venus swamps and under the Martian mountains are virtually their slaves! Economic peonage! Of course Marzerth knows that if Atoma goes on the open market, it’ll make their energizers obsolete. And free their slaves!”

  “They want to maintain their monopoly—”

  “They want no competition,” Gale said flatly. “I happen to know that Marzerth, years ago, developed types of energizers far superior to the original Marzerth patent. If they wanted to convert, they could—and compete openly with us. But that’s not their plan. So they terrorize. They find out who’s buying Atomas, and use gangster tactics. They get after the men in our own plants—look what happened to poor Seton! He was warned. But he had guts, more than you have, Jay.”

  Cheever refused to show annoyance. “Violence is never justified.”

  “Ever heard of fighting fire with fire?”

  “I’m sorry. I refuse to organize strong-arm gangs—”

  “Okay,” Gale said. “Televise Hammond.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because he’s the boss of Marzerth. The so-and-so behind all this. The guy’s who’s been reading about Capone and Hitler and the twentieth century terrorists. And—” Gale hesitated a moment. When he went on, he didn’t look at Cheever. “Because your daughter’s been kidnapped.”

  Cheever’s hands froze on the edge of the desk. The color went out of his smoothly-massaged face.

  “Marla—”

  Gale kept his voice emotionless. “She was kidnapped from her sky-car half an hour ago. There were a few traffic guards around, but what could they do against organized crime? They’re not organized.”

  CHEEVER’S big frame seemed shrunken. “They wouldn’t do that. They couldn’t. Kidnapping’s unheard of. Hiram, for God’s sake, what can I do? They won’t hurt her, will they?”

  “No. Certainly not. She’s valuable as a hostage.”

  “Who did it? D’you know?”

  “I don’t know—naturally there’s no proof. Hammond’s too clever to leave clues pointing in his direction. Legally you can’t touch him. He’s above this milk-and-water law we’ve got today. But—televise him, Jay.”

  “Yes. I—what’ll I say?”

  Gale touched the stud and gave the number. He kept his hand firmly, encouragingly on Cheever’s shoulder, and the big man seemed to draw strength from the contact. But his lips were pale.

  The face of Phil Hammond showed on the screen, gray-haired, dapper, tight-mouthed, eyes arrogant as Lucifer’s. As Gale had said, he was above the law, and he knew it. He was the strong man in an effete century. Now he smiled at Cheever, nodded, and said, “Good evening, Mr. Cheever. How are you?”

  “Hammond—my daughter—”

  The gray man’s eyebrows rose. “Eh?”

  Gale’s hand tightened. Cheever took a long breath.

  “Marla’s been kidnapped,” he said. “Tonight, half an hour ago.”

  “Good lord! My sympathy! If there’s anything I can do, of course—”

  “Hammond, don’t play around with me! Have you got her?”

  “Don’t be absurd. You’re overwrought, Mr. Cheever. I am not a criminal! The libel laws . . . sorry. I didn’t mean to threaten you. I can understand how upset you must be.” Cheever made a coughing sound deep in his throat. Gale, out of range of the televisor pick-up, wrote, “Play along” on a pad and held it up.

  “Okay,” Cheever said, after a time. “Sorry, I—I thought
you might be able to suggest something, perhaps.” Hammond adjusted his neckband. “Dear me. Our police are so inefficient—merely traffic coordinators. I’ve been forced to rely on a group of special operators I employ myself, for guard duty. I’ll tell you what, Cheever—the boys hear things now and then, and it’s quite possible they may hear something about Marla. The grapevine, you know. I’ll pass the word, and let you know immediately if I can find out anything.”

  Gale winked and nodded. Cheever said, “Thanks. That—that’ll be good of you,” and broke the connection. He leaned back, sweat trickling down his cheeks.

  “I’m thinking of torture,” he said. “That was a favorite weapon of terrorists. Hiram—”

  “Take it easy. Hammond tipped his hand. He’s got Marla, and he’ll send her back, safe, if you pay off.”

  “Money? He knows I’d do that.”

  “Not money. He wants the energy monopoly. See?”

  “I see,” Cheever said dully. “I can’t believe it, though. Men can’t do such things—not in this day.”

  “Some will. If they’re permitted. The trouble is—” Gale was talking fast, as though to keep Cheever from thinking of his daughter. “—men today, as a rule, aren’t conditioned to such vicious tactics. We’re peaceful. We don’t know how to fight. We can scarcely handle weapons. Only the scum like Hammond’s thugs are capable of violence—so they’ve got the upper hand. The worst of it is that the law’s on their side. It hasn’t teeth any more. And Hammond has such a batch of attorneys and winds himself up in such a hell of a lot of red tape that we can’t touch him. Law suits would drag on for years, even if we had legal evidence. And meanwhile, there’d be terrorism still going on.”

  “BUT you can’t fight people like that,” Cheever argued. He was trembling a little.

  “It’s possible to learn.”

  “I wonder. I—I don’t think I could. If I could save Marla by sacrificing myself—or anything—I’d do it.”

  “Men like Hammond count on that,” Gale said drily. “Luckily, I’ve a chap who doesn’t think as you do. His name’s Broom, Richard Broom, and I’ve been training him—specialized training—for quite some time, Jay. I’ll admit, I expected something like this to happen.”

  “You expected they’d kidnap Marla?”

  “No. Not that. But I knew there’d be a blow-off eventually. So—my assistant, Broom. You say the art of fighting has been conditioned out of the race. Well, Broom seems to have learned how to use weapons—and a lot more—in a few weeks. Why not let him try his luck now?” Cheever shook his head decidedly. “You forget that Marla’s life is at stake.”

  “That’s what Hammond’s counting on.”

  “I will not employ a gangster to fight gangsters, Hiram.”

  “Broom doesn’t feel that way about it. He liked young Seton. Did you see the kid, by the way?”

  Cheever licked his lips. “Yes, Yes. But—”

  “Not very pretty.”

  The televisor hummed. Hammond’s face appeared on the screen, bland and expressionless. “Cheever?” he said. “I’ve had good luck. Unexpectedly good. I think my men have got on the track of Marla.”

  Gale’s eyes hooded. He swung his shrunken body slightly on his crutches, listening intently.

  “Well?” Cheever said. “Where is she? Tell me, man!”

  “I can’t tell you that. I said—only a clue. It may lead to nothing. But—drop into the Blue Planet tonight. You might find out something, or you might not. That’s all I can say.” The face vanished. Gale, smiled mirthlessly.

  “He’s protecting himself. Maybe he wants to make you squirm a little, too.”

  Cheever stood up. “All right, all right! What’s the Blue Planet?”

  The televisor directory gave the address; a cheapjack neighborhood on the wrong end of town. Cheever shrugged into an overcoat.

  “Want a gun?” Gale said. “I’ve got one.”

  “What good would a gun do me against trained killers?” Cheever asked logically. “Even if I wanted to take a chance on losing Marla? No, I’ll do what they say.”

  “Even if it means promising to give up the Atoma patents—transferring them to Marzerth? Hammond will never use ’em, you know.”

  CHEEVER made a wry face and went out. Gale used the televisor to call a number in his laboratory. As the screen sprang to life he made out in its depths the lumina-lighted, white expanse of one of his big workrooms, with machinery cluttering it. In the distance was a tall, broad-shouldered figure, back turned to Gale.

  It whirled row and came catfooted toward the receiver set—a big man, barrel-chested, with a tawny golden beard and light-blue, piercing eyes. Not a handsome man, but a ruddy-cheeked, strong, dangerous-looking one, somehow.

  “Oh, Hiram,” the man said. “Well?”

  “Hammond’s done it,” Gale said. “Listen. You’ll have to move fast—I only hope I taught you enough in these few weeks—”

  “I learn swiftly,” said the other, with a broken-toothed grin. “Well?” Gale explained. “The Blue Planet,” he finished. “You have the address? Good. Then I’ll leave the rest to you—I can’t tell you any more than I have already.”

  “Very well,” Broom nodded. His face vanished. Over the beam Gale heard a door shut with a slam. He dropped into Cheever’s chair, idly running one hand up and down his crutches, and looked into nothingness.

  Gangster tactics, he thought. Phil Hammond, ruthlessly reviving the ancient brutal methods of the twentieth century, in a world of peace and plenty—a world helpless against this first, germinating seed of discord. Such seeds grow, Gale knew. In the past they had grown. Tyranny, war, fury—and because one man, armed, was so much stronger than another that he could take unfair advantage.

  “Ruthlessness,” Gale said, under his breath. “Hammond counts on that. But I wonder—somehow—if he knows what ruthlessness means?”

  RICHARD BROOM touched the electro-gun in his pocket and grinned faintly in his beard. A simple weapon. Pressing the button meant that a charge of energy would leap from the muzzle and kill. Or maim, depending on the aim. The knife concealed in his belt seemed more reliable, somehow. He downed a whiskey straight, said “Ah-h-h!” in a pleased fashion, and watched, from the corner of his eye, Jay Cheever, at a distant booth in the tavern.

  Behind Broom was a televisor cubicle, sound-proofed and without windows. Gale had said that the communication would probably be made by visor. Broom, pouring another whiskey, drank it in a hasty gulp, picked up the bronze-table lamp, and smashed it against the plastic panel of the cubicle. He had strength. The lamp-base broke a jagged hole in the panel. At the sound of the crash heads turned, and a waiter came hurrying over to investigate the damage. He had one hand in his pocket.

  Broom carefully replaced the lamp and smiled up at the waiter. “Sorry,” he said.

  “Listen, whiskers, are you trying to tear up the place? We don’t stand for—”

  Silently Broom poured coin-units on the table-top. “Enough?” he asked finally, nodding toward the wrecked panel.

  It was far more than enough. The waiter grimaced, and then, deciding in favor of the immediate profit, pocketed the money and departed. Broom drank more whiskey and watched Cheever without seeming to do so.

  The televisor hummed. The bartender, being nearest to the cubicle, answered. He came out calling, “Cheever. Call for Mr. Cheever.”

  The executive got up and hurried forward. He gave Broom a wary, suspicious glance, and another at the hole in the panel. But there was nothing to be done about that now. He vanished into the booth. Something—his hat, probably—covered the break from within. Broom leaned down under the table, as though to recover a dropped coin. He heard Cheever’s voice.

  “Where? Meet you where?”

  “Corner of 96th and Grand. We’ll pick you up. Come alone.”

  Click.

  Broom sat up. Cheever came out of the booth, gave him another wary look, and headed for the door. As he disappeared, Broom ros
e. He saw a thick-bodied, dark-haired man walking forward, a man with a broken nose and the sharp, furtive eyes of a killer. Broom had seen such eyes before. He was not surprised to find his exit blocked.

  “What’s your hurry, fella?” the squat man asked.

  “Hurry?”

  “Yeah. You weren’t intending to follow that guy that just went out, maybe, were you?”

  BROOM looked at him. The man said, “Why not sit down and keep drinking?” His hand slipped into a pocket.

  “Yes,” Broom said, and sat down again. He poured another drink from the bottle, and thrust the little glass across the table toward the squat man. As the latter’s glance flicked down, Broom threw the whiskey into the man’s eyes.

  He had done this with his left hand. The fingers of his right had already closed lovingly around the neck of the bottle. The squat man swore thickly and tried to pull something out of his pocket. Broom, suddenly on his feet, swung the bottle in a long, vicious arc and crashed it murderously on his opponent’s face. Blood, whiskey, and glass flew. The man screamed in unbelieving terror and agony.

  Forgetting his gun, he clawed at his eyes. “God!” he yelled. “You blinded me! You—”

  “Yes,” Broom said. Others were coming toward him, but they had been taken by surprise; moreover, they probably considered this merely a drunken brawl—though even that was cause for surprise, now that there were so few inhibitions for liquor to release. Broom went out of the door with cat-footed swiftness. No one had time to stop him. He ran a few paces, paused, and signalled the lights of a surface taxi.

  “Where to, bud?”

  “96th and Grand. No. 95th and Grand.”

  Men were pouring out of the tavern. The taxi driver hesitated, craning over his shoulder.

  “Trouble?”

  A huge hand closed on his neck, bruising muscles and cracking tiny bones.

  “95th and Grand.”

  The taxi started with a jolt. The huge hand went away. But the driver did not look back till he drew up at his destination. Then he found himself too hoarse to speak; he could only whisper and point to the figures marked in the illuminated band above Broom’s head.