Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  “Why not? There’s no time like the present.”

  “You are clever at pronouncing oracles, priest. It is a good saying. I have been remiss. Excellent, I shall die and be reborn. It will not take long—a lunar cycle—a month.”

  “Good. Then what’s the program?”

  Kroo explained. It was an interesting ceremony. For thirty days Kroo agreed to hibernate. This period would usher in for his worshippers a time of mourning and abstinence from all pleasures, till the god should wake from this catalepsy.

  “Yes,” said the yak gloatingly. “Great is Kroo!”

  Danton glanced significantly at Deborah.

  “Well,” she said, “I guess I’ll go see how those floating temples are getting along.”

  “Good,” said the credulous god. “It was a clever idea.” He fell to discussing details of the ceremony with Danton, while Deborah slipped out and headed for the village.

  It had been Danton’s thought, a few days before, to create floating platforms on which Kroo could be worshipped. He had easily convinced the god of his apparent motives—the symbolic statement that Kroo was lord of the river as well as of the land. And the platforms were almost ready. One in particular had been made especially sturdy, at Danton’s order, buoyed by sealed petrol cans and equipped with a serviceable rudder. It was, in fact, built to carry a yak.

  And that would be necessary, if Danton and Deborah were to escape alive.

  The presence of the yak provided their invulnerability. Nothing could harm them in their journey down river to the nearest Allied base. And, with Kroo hibernating, no safeguards they could take would be too many.

  Everything went off without a hitch. The plan worked almost too satisfactorily. Danton could not help worrying a trifle. Kroo was unsuspicious as the ceremonial rite proceeded, and Captain Yakuni made no attempt to cause trouble. The ritual began at dawn, and lasted about two hours, culminating as usual in a drunken orgy.

  All in all, the ceremony was a success. The thundercloud hovering overhead shrank and vanished, and Danton knew that Kroo was gone.

  The god was hibernating. Presently he would rise again. But there was a lot to be done before that occurred.

  THEY headed for the river, Deborah astride the yak, Danton leading the beast. The natives followed in a capering procession. For all they knew, this was simply part of the ceremony. They did not even catch on when the yak was loaded aboard the floating platform and the Americans pushed off into midstream.

  “I go to sacrifice to Kroo in a secret place,” Danton announced to the crowd at the river-bank.

  “Should I not return by tomorrow’s sunrise, Myapur is a forbidden place. Find new homes and new villages. This is Kroo’s order.” Then he turned to Deborah. “This will save the townspeople, if Myapur should be bombed by airplanes.”

  The raft swept around a bend in the river. The last thing Danton saw was Captain Yakuni’s face, puzzled, wary, thoughtful. There was no pursuit.

  Danton examined the raft. Concealed under skins was a supply of food, as well as a gun or two and several da-knives which he had previously cached there.

  “Now, grab that pole and fend us off from the bank if we swing too close,” he told her. “This steering-rudder’s hard as blazes to work. Lucky the river isn’t fast, or we might capsize. When we come to the rapids, lower down, we’ll leave the raft, take the yak, and portage.”

  Deborah shivered.

  “I’m just wondering,” she murmured. “Wondering what’s going to happen to us when Kroo wakes up.”

  There was no pursuit from Yakuni as they drifted downstream. Crocs, lying like logs on the mud banks, watched the raft slide past on the brown, roiling flood. It was hot. The air was choking and stuffy, even on the river. The jungle walled them in with silence.

  There was a pervading odor of rotten flowers. The wind did not cool even at sunset, when the sky turned green as Burmese jade. Deborah’s cheroots were too soggy to smoke. The yak, used to a higher altitude, moaned and burbled sadly, staring at the Americans with great, sad brown eyes.

  Once they saw a plane, too far away for practical purposes, though Deborah thought it was an American P-40. And once an outburst of firing greeted them as they slid around a bend. The attackers kept hidden in the jungle, and their bullets did no harm.

  The cobra struck at Danton and Deborah and their guardian beast. The carnivores trailed them. The crocodile charged them. Kroo’s power was strong, though the god slept.

  The raft floated on, until rapids blocked the river. After that they went afoot. The da-knives were useful then, to slash through tangled undergrowth and vines, and the yak could make an opening where none existed. But for the most part Danton followed a well-worn trail. There was nothing to fear except thirst and starvation. Even when a Japanese scouting party met them—that did not matter either.

  But the journey took time. They went blindly south, following the river, for they did not know where they could find an Allied base. Often they saw planes. Twice Danton was prepared, and built a signal fire. The first time he was too late, and the ship was gone before its pilot saw the smoke. The second time Jap planes came and the dog-fight overhead passed away to the west.

  The yak thrived on an abundance of food, though his coat grew ragged and mangy in the heat. Deborah never complained, but after the first week she began to grow thin. So did Danton. It did not matter, for too much flesh is an invitation to fever.

  RAGGED, exhausted, gaunt, they went on. One week. Two. Three. And longer. They had not yet found an Allied base.

  Then Kroo awoke.

  An animal after hibernation is starved and weak. This is not true of a god. When Kroo roused, his first conscious emotion was joyous expectation. His dreams had been pleasant, of Myapur and his people and his future, and Kroo stretched his muscular body and shouted with laughter. The dawn sun was pearly above the jungle mists. It was the day of awakening. Now Myapur should cease mourning for the sleeping god and rejoice. Kroo had risen, and there would be laughter in Myapur.

  But there was silence in the village on the river-bank. No smoke rose from the huts. There was no life.

  “Ya!” cried Kroo as he rushed down the winds. “Wake! Wake, my people.” Already the jungle had encroached on Myapur. Jackals roamed the streets, and rank weeds grew between the stones. The temple? The temple had been violated.

  The altars of Kroo were gone.

  Fallen was Myapur, as Babylon had fallen, as though a curse had blighted it. Blankly Kroo looked upon the wreckage.

  He stood motionless, towering above Myapur. A kite dipped, crying shrilly. The river sent up muffled thunder.

  “Ai—and ai! My people! My faithless priest and priestess!”

  The surprise faded from Kroo’s face. His yellow tusks gleamed in the morning sunlight. Muffled thunder snarled.

  “My great and shining altars! Ah-h—” Lightning flickered. The sky was suddenly overcast.

  Roaring, Kroo plunged southward. The gale paced him. Drumming of the thunder warned of his approach. The jungle bowed before the coming of Kroo.

  He saw his quarry at last. There was no need to search blindly, for the intangible rapport between god and priest, between god and sacred animal, drew him unerringly. Kroo saw his quarry and reached down.

  CHAPTER X

  Warrior’s Reward

  A GREAT rush of air wakened Danton. He gasped for breath, struggled, tried to sit up, and caught a sickening glimpse of the jungle dropping away below. Rising with him were Deborah and the yak.

  “Dan,” the girl reached out frantically, and Danton drew her close, whitefaced. “Dan! It—it’s Kroo!”

  “Yeah. I know.”

  Half a mile above the earth they stopped. The yak shook its shaggy head. Kroo’s voice came from the beast-throat.

  “It is Kroo. You have broken faith with your god. Myapur lies empty, my temple desecrated and gutted. My altars are gone. My people are scattered. Faithless guardians—die!”

  Dan
ton’s stomach lurched sickeningly. “Wait,” he gasped. “Kroo, listen. Give us a chance.”

  “I have listened too long. You die.” Deborah spoke suddenly. “Kroo, we couldn’t help it. The Japs broke into the temple and drove us away.”

  “You could have halted them.”

  “We tried. You were gone. They—they—”

  “Why did you flee? You are invulnerable.”

  “We were trying to get help,” Deborah said weakly, and folded up, unable to say any more. But she had given Danton a breathing-space. Now he took up the tale.

  “What she says is true. We were driven out. The Burmese tried to help us, but the Japs were too strong. We were going to get help to recapture your altars.”

  “My altars. My great and shining altars, such as no other gods ever possessed. Where are they?”

  Danton glanced at Deborah. “Yakuni dismantled the powerhouse. He knew we might get through to the Allies, and then Myapur would be bombed. He’s probably set up the dynamos somewhere else.”

  “Where?” the yak roared. “Find my altars, priest, or you perish.”

  Danton gulped. “Well, I’ll try. Can you take us back to Myapur?”

  “Aye.” This time Kroo did not travel slowly. Instantly he transported his prisoners to the Burmese village. “Lo! Look down and see the ruin of my temple.”

  “Blame the Japs for that,” Danton said, licking his lips.

  “Find my altars.”

  “I’ll do my best. Can we—uh—fly down the river, about sixty miles per hour?”

  Kroo made no answer, but Danton, Deborah and the yak began to move downstream, high in the air.

  “Uh, a little less altitude would help. Thanks.”

  Deborah’s lips were trembling. “Wish I was some place else. How are we going to do this?”

  Danton squeezed her hand. “Buck up. I haven’t an instruments, but I can guess where Yakuni went.”

  “Where?”

  “Down the river. He had to transport the dynamos. Even dismantled they’re plenty heavy, so he must have used rafts. Obviously he didn’t go upstream.”

  “But we can’t search the whole river, Dan.”

  “We won’t have to. Dynamos convert energy. Yakuni needs water-power. He’ll set up the dynamos near a fall. Remember, he’s had more than a month to do the job.”

  “But—even a month—”

  “You know how the Japs work. Yakuni had trained engineers in his gang. The Tokyo machine’s efficient. Maybe the new powerhouse isn’t quite finished yet, but Yakuni’s certainly working on it. It’ll be camouflaged, of course. He wouldn’t move the dynamos out of Myapur to avoid our bombers without planning to hide ’em carefully. Keep your eyes open.”

  BUT it was Kroo, in the end, who found their goal. As Danton had expected, it was near a falls, and concealed cement channels supplied the necessary pressure.

  The group swooped down. For an instant leaves lashed their faces. Then they were in the impromptu powerhouse Yakuni had constructed. It was a rough job, but expert technicians had worked on it, laboring night and day under Yakuni’s threats, and Kroo’s altars had been installed.

  More than that, they were in operation. The turbines roared with chained energy converted from the water-pressure of the river. Yes, Yakuni had worked fast.

  One glimpse Danton had, and that was all. Gasping for breath, he found himself on the opposite bank above the falls. Deborah and the yak beside him. There was silence. Kroo said nothing.

  “He’s done it,” Deborah gulped, “Tojo’s making those devlish bombs again.”

  Before Danton could reply, the yak spoke.

  “Priest, what is this? What thing dwells in my altars? What has happened to them?”

  Suddenly Danton saw the way. He flashed Deborah a warning glance.

  “The yellow-skinned men are faithless, Kroo. He drove away your faithful Burmese and cursed Myapur. He said—he said you were a weakling and would run away and hide when you woke.”

  “Dan,” Deborah whispered.

  “Do I speak the truth, priestess?” Danton glared at the girl.

  “Y-yes. That’s what happened.”

  “My altars!” groaned Kroo.

  “Kroo.” Danton’s face was deathly pale. “Drive out this evil god. You’re powerful. Fight him. Destroy him.”

  “Fight him?”

  “He does evil. He makes the death that slays your people. Are you—afraid?”

  “Wait,” the yak said. “Remain here. Watch.”

  “You’ll—fight the other god?”

  “Wait,” Kroo said, “and watch.”

  Kroo looked down on the dynamos. They throbbed with life. Their roar mounted to a monotonous threnody. Around them the yellow men scurried, serving and worshipping. Worshipping the new god, who had cursed Myapur.

  “I am afraid,” Kroo said to himself. “A-i, I’m afraid.”

  Suddenly he hated the new god.

  The smell of incense rose to his nostrils. Danton was smoking Deborah’s last cheroot, soggy as it was. And Danton was praying.

  “Avenge your people, Kroo. Drive out the usurper. Challenge him to battle.

  Great is Kroo.”

  One worshiper, where there had been many. Only one—no, two, for Deborah was praying too. Kroo’s yellow tusks gleamed. From his height he stared down at the powerhouse.

  And then, softly at first, he began to curse. To human ears it sounded like the wind, a deep, throbbing gale. Kroo cursed the new god. He challenged the new god.

  “Kroo is great. Kroo is greater than any usurper. You have stolen my altars. Will you fight to keep them? Will you fight? Will you battle Kroo? Ya—for I am a, great god and I shall crush you.”

  The booming gusts crashed down from the cloudy sky. Within the powerhouse Yakuni looked up, puzzled. A storm?

  ABRUPTLY he glanced at the dynamos. Was it his imagination, or was their tone changing? Were they actually roaring as though in harmony with the shouting wind—as though in answer?

  As though the wind bellowed challenge? And the turbines replied!

  The gale mounted to a crescendo. It became almost articulate. And the dynamos—

  Yakuni’s eyes widened. He swung around to the power switches, but his motion was never completed.

  Down the winds came Kroo. Invisible, mighty, terrible, Kroo lowered his shaggy head and charged to do battle with the god of the dynamos.

  The explosion rocked the jungle! Above the falls, Danton picked himself up, blood trickling from ears and nostrils. He helped Deborah to her feet. Behind them the yak struggled up, grunting and moaning. It collapsed suddenly, to lie motionless, its mountainous bulk inert.

  Deborah was crying.

  “He’s dead, Dan. Kroo, I mean. We—we—”

  “How do you think I feel?” Danton asked hoarsely. “Sending that—that tremendous savage off to commit suicide . . . But it was the only way out.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Of course it was,” Danton said, rubbing his forehead. “I—I didn’t quite expect this. I thought either Kroo would destroy the dynamos, or be destroyed himself. This way is better. Yakuni and his men are dead, and the dynamos are scrap metal.”

  “The yak’s dead, too.”

  “He died when Kroo died. Debby, are you sure about Kroo? That he—isn’t here any more?”

  She nodded slowly. “I’m sure, Dan. I can feel he’s gone. Can’t you?”

  “Yes, I can feel it, too. He was a Neanderthaler at heart, but I hated to play such a trick on him.” Danton managed to shrug, though the gesture was abortive.

  The girl looked up at the clouds. “Dan, is that a plane?”

  A speck grew in the western sky.

  “It is,” Danton said after a while. “One of ours, too. Must have seen the explosion. No wonder, either.” He stripped off his shirt and began to wave it.

  The plane dipped its wings in acknowledgement. It began to circle down, looking for a landing place.

  Dan
ton picked up his discarded cheroot and relighted it, with a glance at the sky. Deborah smiled at him shakily, understanding the gesture.

  “The plane’s landed,” Danton said. “Let’s go, Debby.”

  He flicked the cheroot into the river, and the fires died forever upon Kroo’s altar.

  * * * * *

  The fog was thick. It clung dankly, choking in its chill moisture, but as Kroo rode onward upon the yak he saw that it was drifting apart into rags and tatters. And now four tall figures were visible through the mist, guarding a bridge. Beyond them an arched span led into infinity. Silently the giants waited.

  Bull-thewed and terrible they stood. They greeted Kroo with strange, formal gestures of welcome.

  They gave their names.

  Marduk and Ormgzd the Flame—Osiris and Allatu of Babylon. Ormazd shook his red head and grinned at Kroo.

  “We greet you, Kroo the Warrior.”

  But Kroo could not speak, for a little while.

  “This could not be Godsheim,” he said. “I am a little god—”

  “This is the bridge to Godsheim,” Marduk told him. “Dead gods pass this way, if they are not weaklings. There is a place for you.”

  Kroo’s hairy hands went out in a gesture of disbelief. “Ormazd! Tall Osiris—Marduk and Allatu! But I am not great—I might have been, in a thousand years, but I died too soon.”

  “You fell in battle,” Osiris said. “You challenged the mightiest entity in all the universes. None of us has dared to meet such an opponent as slew you. Hai—you are one of us, brother. Come!”

  Marduk and Ormadz flanked him. Allatu went before. Osiris followed.

  And Kroo the Warrior rode across the bridge to Godsheim.

  TROPHY

  Major Satura, Cruel Jap Surgeon, Is Pitted Against a Marine and a Visitor from Space!

  MAJOR SATURA was a logical man. As a representative of the Japanese Empire, he had for years been following the supremely logical instructions of his warlords—as a medical student in Vienna, an intern in New York, and a practicing surgeon in the important centers of the world. Also, as ordered, he had kept his eyes open, and Tokio had received plenty of valuable inside dope from handsome Major Satura.