Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  “Good. Sampson must have had sense enough to close it. Unless—”

  Garth found the spring and pressed it. He flashed his light into the darkness, to see the familiar faces of Brown’s men staring at him. The Captain thrust him forward. Paula was instantly beside him, and then Brown himself was through the oval gap.

  “They’re coming,” he murmured. “How in hell does this work?”

  “Here.” Garth didn’t use his light. Under his deft fingers the panel slid back into place, shutting off the noise of approaching steps. He gasped a little with relief.

  “Okay,” he said in a natural voice. “These walls are sound-proof. We can use our lights. We’ll have to.”

  “What happened?” Paula’s voice said. “You said we were in a jam, Carver. Well?”

  “We’ll talk as we go. Garth, you first. Paula, stay with me. Sampson, bring up the rear, will you?”

  GARTH obediently set out down the sloping tunnel, scarcely listening to Brown’s explanation. There were side branches to the passage here and there. He had to use his memory, which seemed less accurate than he remembered. Once he almost blundered, but caught himself in time.

  Brown said, “Garth, we’ve got thirty miles of tunnel and twenty more above ground till we hit the Forest. Right? This is rough going. We won’t get out of here till daylight. So we’d better camp in the passage, at the other end, till tomorrow night.”

  “We don’t have to do that,” Garth grunted. “This isn’t Earth. Jupiter won’t rise for thirteen hours.”

  “The men have heavy packs.” Brown shifted his own big one uncomfortably. “Fifty miles is quite a way. Still, the quicker we reach the Forest, the safer we’ll be.”

  “There’s a river.” Garth’s voice was doubtful. “We might use that.”

  “Would it help?”

  “Yeah. But it’s dangerous.”

  “Why?”

  “Spouts. Geysers. The water’s apt to explode under you any time. And there are big lizards—”

  “Would it take long to make a raft?”

  Garth shook his head. “Lafo-trees are better than balsa, and they grow on the banks. Plenty of vines, too. But—”

  “We’ll do that, then,” Brown said decisively. “Speed it up. We’ve got thirteen hours. We can make it, all right.”

  Garth didn’t answer.

  After that it was pure monotony, a dull driving march through a bare tunnel, up slopes and down them, till leg muscles were aching with fatigue. Garth dropped into a state of tired apathy. He had no pack to carry, but nevertheless his liquor-soaked body rebelled at the unaccustomed exertion. But he knew that each step brought him closer to his goal.

  The thoughts swung monotonously through his brain. Doc Willard. The notebook. The cure. The Plague. Maybe—maybe—maybe!

  If he got through—if he found the notebook—if it had the cure—that was what he wanted, of course.

  But suppose he also found the skeleton of Doc Willard on an altar, with a knife-hilt protruding from the ribs?

  He couldn’t have killed Doc consciously. That was unthinkable. Yet the damnable influence of the Noctoli pollen did odd things to a man’s mind.

  Doc Willard—Moira—the Silver Plague—

  Half asleep, aching with exhaustion, he slogged ahead, moving like an automaton. And, whenever he slowed his pace, Brown’s sharp voice urged him on faster.

  Grudgingly the Captain allowed them rest periods. But by the time they reached the tunnel’s end the men were panting and sweating, and both Paula and Garth were near exhaustion. Thirty miles at a fast pace, with only occasional rests, is wearing work.

  THEY emerged from the passage to find themselves on the slope of a rocky hillock. Low ridges rose around them, silhouetted in triple-moonlight. A whitish haze hung close to the ground, filling the hollows like shining water.

  Instinctively Brown looked up. A meteor, drawn by the immense gravity of Jupiter, flamed across the sky—that was all. And that was a familiar enough sight.

  Garth, reeling with fatigue, nodded. “River—down there. Half a mile. The fog’s thicker—”

  “Okay. Let’s go.”

  This lap of the journey was nearly the hardest. But the low roar of the river steadily grew louder as they stumbled on, the luminous mist lapping their ankles, their knees, their waists. It closed above their heads, so that they moved in a ghostlike, shadowless world in which the very air seemed dimly lighted.

  Trees were visible. Garth, almost spent, searched for a shelving beach, found it, and dropped in a limp heap. He saw Paula sink down beside him. The men threw off their heavy packs with relief.

  Brown—the man was made of rawhide and steel!—said, “I’ll need help to make a raft. The boys that feel tired can keep their eyes open for pursuit planes. I don’t think the Commander would send out truck-cats at night, but he’ll use searching planes.”

  “They can’t see us in this fog,” Paula said faintly.

  “They could hear us, with their motors muffled. So we’ll work fast. Garth!”

  “Yeah. What?”

  “What trees do we want?”

  Garth pointed. “Lata. Like that one, over there. They’re easy to cut down, and they float. You’ll find tough vines all around here.” He forced the words out with an effort. Brown mustered eight of his men, including the red-haired Sampson, and led them away. The sound of ringing axes presently drifted back.

  Two others had been stationed on hillocks, above the low-lying fog, to watch for planes. Garth, alone with Paula, was almost too tired to be conscious of her presence. He heard her voice.

  “Cigaret?”

  “Thanks . . . Garth took one. “Sorry I can’t offer you a drink.”

  “So am I,” Garth grunted. He could feel her eyes on him. He drew the smoke deep into his lungs, exhaling luxuriously. “Got a gun?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Oh—things come out of the river sometimes. Hunting water-lizards, carnivorous. You learn to sleep with one eye open on Ganymede.”

  “It’s a funny world,” Paula acknowledged. “Once it was highly civilized. Now it’s gone back to savagery.”

  “Conditions are bad here. Too vigorous. Jupiter gives light but not much heat. Animals and plants have to be tough to survive. This is summer-season, but it’s plenty cold.”

  “How much do you know about the Zamo?” she asked abruptly.

  Garth blinked. “Not much. Why?”

  “Not many people have ever seen them. I’m wondering. I managed to translate some inscriptions from Chahnn . . . The Zarno aren’t human, are they?”

  Garth didn’t answer. Paula went on. “The Ancients knew them, though. They tried to educate them—like Rome colonizing savage races. That’s probably why the Zarno are supposed to speak the Ancient Tongue.”

  “They do.”

  “And then the Ancients died out—somehow. The Zarno were left. They became barbarous again. I wish I knew what they were like. Natives who’ve seen them don’t seem able to describe the creatures. They wear shining armor, don’t they?”

  GARTH closed his eyes, trying to remember. A vague, dim picture was growing in his mind—man-like figures that glowed, faces that were craggy, hideous creatures . . .

  “I’ve seen them,” he said, “but I’ve forgotten. The Noctoli poison—it wrecked my memory.”

  “You don’t recall anything?”

  “I—” Garth rubbed his forehead. “Not human—no. Creatures like living statues, shining and moving . . . I don’t know.”

  “Silicate life?” Paula theorized thoughtfully. “It’s possible. And it might evolve on a planet where conditions are so tough for survival. Such creatures wouldn’t be affected by the Noctoli pollen, either, would they?”

  “No. Or they’ve built up resistance. The virus is active only in daylight, when the flowers are open. I don’t know why. Before we go too far into the Black Forest I’ll have to give everyone antitoxin shots—everyone but me. The pollen doesn’t work on m
e any more.”

  They were silent, resting. It seemed only a moment before Brown appeared, announcing that the raft was ready.

  “It’s a makeshift job, but it’s strong,” he said. “Listen-, Garth, what about the planes spotting us on the river? We’ll be an easy target.”

  “They wouldn’t fire on us?”

  “No. But they’d use sleep-gas, and nab us when we drifted ashore. We dcta’t want that.”

  Garth rose, his muscles aching. “It’s a chance. Most of the time there’ll be fog on the river. That’ll help.” He found his medical kit and shouldered it. “I’m ready.” The men were already on the raft, a big platform of light, tough lata-logs bound together by vines. Garth took his place near the pile of equipment in the center. “Keep to midstream,” he cautioned. “Watch for bubbles breaking ahead. Swing wide of those. Waterspouts.”

  The raft slid out from the bank, long poles guiding it. Water washed aboard and slipped away as the platform found its balance. Presently they were drifting downstream in the dimly-lighted fog, the black river murmuring quietly beneath them.

  Garth kept his gaze ahead. It was hard to see in the faint, filtered light of the moons, but a ray-lamp would have been betraying to any planes that might be searching above.

  “Swing left. Hard,” he called.

  The men obeyed. Oily bubbles were breaking the surface. As the raft moved toward the bank, a sudden geyser burst up from the river, a spouting torrent that tipped the platform dangerously and showered its occupants with icy spray.

  Garth met Brown’s eyes. “See what I mean?” he remarked.

  “Yeah. Still, if that’s all—”

  The river flowed fast. Once or twice the plated back of a giant saurian was visible, but the water-reptiles did not attack, made wary, perhaps, by the bulk of the raft. There were other waterspouts, but the men soon became adept at avoiding them.

  Sometimes they drifted through fog, sometimes the mists were dissipated by winds, though not often. During one of the latter periods a faint droning drifted down from above. It was the worst possible timing, for the two larger moons were directly overhead, blazing down on the river. The stub-winged shape of a plane loomed against the starry sky.

  Brown said sharply, “Drop flat. Don’t move.” He forced Garth and Paula down. “No, don’t look up. They’d see our faces.”

  “They can’t miss us,” Sampson muttered.

  “There’s fog ahead.”

  The sound of the plane’s motors grew louder. Abruptly there was a splash. Another. Something shattered on the raft.

  “Hold your breath!” Brown snapped.

  Garth tried to obey. A stinging ache had crept into his nostrils. His lungs began to hurt. The plane had spotted them—that was obvious. Sleep-gas works fast.

  Another soft crash. Garth scarcely heard it. He saw a stubby, cruciform shadow sweep over the raft, as the plane swooped, and then the wall of silvery fog was looming up ahead. Paula gave a little gasp. Her body collapsed against him.

  The fire in Garth’s chest was blazing agony. Despite himself, he let breath rush into his lungs.

  After that, complete blackness and oblivion.

  IV

  GARTH woke in reddish, dim twilight Instantly he knew where he was, even before he sat up and saw the black boles of immense trees rising like pillars around him. The Forest!

  “About time,” Captain Brown’s toneless voice said. “That sleep-gas put you under for hours.”

  Garth rose, glancing around. They were camped in a little clearing among the gigantic trees, and some of the men were heating their rations over radiolite stove-kits. From above, the crimson light filtered vaguely from a leafy roof incredibly far. The trees of the Black Forest were taller than California sequoias, and Jupiter-light reached the ground faintly, through the ceiling of red leaves that roofed the jungle. Paula, Garth saw, was lying with her eyes closed not far away.

  “She all right?”

  “Sure,” Brown said. “Resting is all. We got away from Benson’s plane—hit that fog-bank just in time. You’d passed out, so I took a chance and kept going. After we reached the Forest, I landed the raft and headed inland a bit. So here we are.”

  Garth nodded. “That was wise. The river goes underground a half mile further. Any—accidents?”

  Brown looked at him oddly. “This might be Yosemite, for all the danger I’ve seen so far. It’s a picnic.”

  “That,” Garth said, “is just why it’s so bad. You don’t see the trouble till after it’s happened.” He didn’t explain. “Where’s my kit?”

  “Here. Why?”

  “Before we go any further, we’ll need shots. Antitoxin against the Noctoli pollen. The flowers don’t grow on the edges of the Forest, but the wind carries their poison quite a ways sometimes.” Garth rummaged in his kit, found sealed vials and a hypo, and carefully sterilized everything over a radiolite stove he commandeered from one of the men. After that, he administered the antivirus, first to Paula and last of all to Brown. He took none himself; he had acquired a natural immunity to the pollen.

  There was barely enough to go around. Brown’s shot was slightly less than the regular dosage, which vaguely worried Garth. But the Captain, annoyed by the delay, was anxious to talk about immediate plans.

  “Benson might land at the edge of the Forest and come after us a mile or so. Not further. But we’d better start moving.” He led Garth over to where Paula sat. “It’s time for you to see the map.”

  The girl nodded in agreement. She took out a folded flex-paper and extended it. Garth squinted down in the red twilight.

  “Map?”

  “More like a treasure hunt,” Paula explained. “There’s a series of guide-points, you see. So far we’re okay—narva means west, in the Ancient Tongue, doesn’t it?”

  “Narva.” Garth gave the word a slightly different pronunciation. “Yeah. Well—

  three sallags north-west to the Mouths of the Waters Below—”

  “Mouths of the Singing Below, I made it.”

  Garth shook his head. “I can’t read the stuff. I just know the spoken language. Read the whole thing out loud, so I can get it.”

  Paula obeyed. Her pronunciation made some words unfamiliar to Garth, but by experiment he found what was meant.

  “Uh-huh. A sallag is less than three miles, as far as I can judge. I think I know the place. It’s a hill honeycombed with little caves. You can hear water running underneath it.”

  “That fits,” the girl agreed. “This won’t be so hard, after all.”

  Garth grunted. He turned to Brown.

  “I want a gun. And a knife. I’ll need both.”

  “Sampson!”

  The red-haired man approached, squinting. “Yeah?”

  “Rustle up a knife and gun for Garth.”

  “Check.”

  Paula was staring at Garth. “You expect trouble, don’t you?”

  “I do.”

  She made a gesture. “This all seems so peaceful—”

  “LISTEN,” Garth said, “the Black Forest is the worst death-trap in the System. Here’s why. The struggle for existence is plenty tough here. Brute strength isn’t enough, nor agility. A tiger or a deer wouldn’t last long here. In the Forest, the survival of the fittest means the plant or animal that can get the most food. That sort of thing has been going on here for a million years. The beasts developed super-quick reactions. They could smell danger a mile away. So they had to have strength, agility, and something else—to get close to their prey.”

  Brown stared. “What?”

  “Invisibility. Or its equivalent. Ever heard of protective coloration? Camouflage? Well, the creatures of the Forest are the most perfect camouflage experts that exist. They don’t simply trick your eyes, either. They trick the other senses. If you smell perfume, take it easy, or you’ll find yourself asleep, while your head’s being chewed off by a lizard that looks as nasty as it smells good. If you see a path and it feels solid, don’t walk to
o far on it. Things have made that path. A carnivorous moss that feels exactly like smooth dirt underfoot—till their digestive juices start working. If you hear me yelling your name, take it easy. There are birds like harpies here that imitate sounds the way parrots do.”

  Garth’s grin was tight. “You’ll find out. It’s camouflage carried to the last degree, for offense and defense. I know the Forest pretty well; you don’t. You haven’t developed a sort of sixth sense—an instinct—that tells you when something smells bad, even though it looks like a six-course dinner.”

  “All right,” the Captain said. “This is your territory, not mine. It’s up to you.”

  It was, Garth decided later as he led the way through the black columns of the trees, very much up to him. Brown and the others were tough, hard fighters, but they didn’t know the subtleties of this hell-hole, where death lurked everywhere disguised. He had got a drink from Sampson and his nerves were less jagged, but physical exhaustion still gripped him. He’d been on the skids for a long time, and was in rotten bad shape. But if the girl could stand it, he could.

  It was warmer in the Forest; the trees seemed to exhale heat and moisture, and there was no snow on the ground. Great ebony pillars of giant trees, rising hundreds of feet into the air, made the place a labyrinth. And the deceptive reddish twilight made walking difficult, even to Garth’s trained senses.

  There was trouble, though. When a gorgeously-colored butterfly, flame-red and green, fluttered down toward Paula, Garth hastily slapped at the insect with a thick leaf he was carrying. “Watch out for those,” he told the girl, nodding toward the crushed body. “They’re poisonous. Bad medicine.”

  And once, as Brown was about to seat himself on a rounded grayish boulder, Garth whirled the man away just in time. A hole in the rock gaped open, and a pair of fanged mandibles snapped out, clicking together viciously. Garth put a bullet in the thing. It heaved itself up on spidery legs, revealing that the “rock” was a carapace covering an insect-like body. And it took a long time to die.