Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

“Then you gotta use it on me. I need a hideout. And right now;”

  A HOPEFUL gleam came into the scientist’s eye. “Trouble with the police? Arson? Murder?”

  “Lay off,” Pete Manx muttered. “I ain’t in any mood for gags. Look at me. What do you see?”

  “A low-grade moron,” Aker began, but he was interrupted.

  “These duds,” Manx explained. “Cutaway, carnation, silk topper. Margie made me put ’em on. They’re for the wedding.”

  “Wedding?”

  “I tell you, that dame had me enchanted. I met up with her at Coney. She’s a snake charmer. First thing I knew, she started treating me as if I was one of her snakes. The strength on that frill!” Pete Manx shivered. Aker was grinning. “Go on.”

  “I dunno how I got into this scrape, anyhow. I took her out once or twice and then she decides we’ll get married.

  Ugh, the way she looks at a guy. Like needles. She figures we’ll be married and I’ll spiel for her act.” Pete Manx laughed hollowly.

  The professor seemed amused. “Why not tell her no?”

  “Look,” said Mr. Manx, “let’s say you’re in a cage with Gargantua, or maybe a giant python. Talking don’t do much good. All you can do is run like blazes. And Margie’s got detectives trailing me. I tried to skip out four times—and the last time she—talked to me.” Manx gulped. “You never been talked to by a snake charmer with gimlets for eyes and a couple of baby boas twined around her neck. I argued. I begged. I said I’d make a punk husband. ‘I’ll mould you into shape,’ she says. And today’s the wedding.”

  Aker was chuckling. “I’ll be your best man, if you like.”

  “Why don’t the Doc come back?” Mr. Manx groaned. “Margie’s been trailing me all day, First thing I know, she’ll come busting in and drag me off to the parson.”

  “I don’t see how you can get out of it.”

  “Well, I do. She can’t marry me if I’m not here. I want the Doc to let me use his time machine. Then when Margie gets here, she’ll think I’m a stiff. You know how the gadget works.”

  “Of course,” said Aker, seeing a chance to get off a little lecture. “It releases the ego from the body and sends it back to the Central Time Consciousness—the hub of the time-wheel. Then centrifugal force shoots the id to another era, where it inhabits the body of someone who was alive at that time. The—”

  “Oh-oh,” said Pete. “Here she is. In a taxi. With her snakes, too. Omigosh. I’m sunk.” He began to chew the carnation in hopeless frenzy.

  Aker came to a sudden decision. “I’ll fix it, Pete. I know how to use the time machine. Come along.”

  “Y—you will?” Pete Manx sounded incredulous. “Prof, you ain’t quite the heel I thought. But we gotta work fast.” He shot into the laboratory like a torpedo and esconced himself in a wired metal chair in one corner. “Shoot the works!”

  Aker was hurriedly manipulating switches and dials. “It won’t take long. And I’ll get rid of Margie.”

  “That’s your story,” Pete Manx remarked, bouncing up and down in the chair. “You don’t know Margie. That dame’d follow me to Frisco and drag me back by the ears. But she can’t follow me where I’m going. Make it a nice safe time, Prof. I don’t want to meet up with Lucrezia Borgia again—or Merlin!”

  There was a gleam of wicked amusement in Aker’s eyes. Pete Manx saw it too late. The Professor chuckled, “You’ll have a rest cure where, you’re going. Besides, I’ve always wondered how much truth there was in the legends of the—”

  He knifed a switch.

  “—the Amazons.”

  Swoosh!

  THERE was a crackle of electricity as the time-circuit closed. Pete Manx stiffened momentarily; then he fell back in the chair, jaw dropping. He resembled a corpse.

  Aker was laughing like mad . . .

  Pete Manx’s ego shot away with a whizz, caromed off a stray century, arcked toward Ancient Greece, and came to rest in the body of a small, meek-looking little man who was desperately trying to remove somebody’s sandaled foot from his face.

  Confusion reigned. It was extremely hot, and there was a great deal of yelling going on, together with a metallic clanking that puzzled Pete Manx a great deal. Also, he smelled blood.

  With some difficulty, he removed the foot from his face and heaved at the heavy weight that was bearing him down. Finally his head popped into view. Apparently he had been buried under a pile of—ulp—corpses.

  They wore armor, and were all indeed dead. Other mounds and individual stiffs lay here and there on the broad plain. A battle was just ending.

  Men on horses were high-tailing it frantically, fleeing from their successful attackers. There was something decidedly odd about the victors of the battle. Not even armor could disguise their feminine figures.

  A horse cantered by, and Pete Manx automatically captured it. He was in a backwash of the battle, and nobody noticed him, for the nonce. Should he mount and flee? But where?

  The problem was solved for him by the approach of a burly, red-bearded man who crawled out from beneath a bush.

  “You are indeed a faithful orderly,” he informed Manx. “I am sorry I beat you for failing to polish my sword this morning. Well, if we meet again, I shall be kinder.”

  With that, he leaped astride the horse, drove spurs deep, and galloped away, leaving Manx with one arm extended in futile protest.

  Orderly, eh? Well, at any rate, he now knew what side he was on—the wrong side. Since there were no more horses in evidence—except, Pete Manx thought with ill-timed and atrocious humor, the ones that were hors de combat—it would be well to hide. With this in mind, he dived for the nearest pile of corpses.

  Hoofs clattered. “Ha, dog!” said a shrill, impassioned voice, and the point of a spear pricked the only visible portion of Pete Manx. “Now you die with your comrades.”

  “Guk!” Manx cried incoherently, writhing aside to meet the cold blue stare of an Amazon woman astride her battle charger. “Hold everything! I ain’t in this.”

  “Aye, hold,” a new voice broke in, deeper and more commanding. “He is no warrior, Clio, by his trappings. ’Twere shame to slay a mere slave.”

  “As you like, Thecla,” Clio grunted. Pete Manx saw, with a sudden shock of horror, that the blue-eyed, dark-haired Amazon bore a strong resemblance to Margie. There were, however, no snakes, but Clio’s muscles were enough to make anyone shudder.

  Thecla was no weakling, either, but she was better proportioned. She was a big, brawny, red-haired wench, with catlike green eyes and a snub nose. Now she was eying Pete with an interest that boded the man no good.

  “The battle’s over,” she remarked. “Those marauding Greeks won’t trouble us again for a while. Take this prize of war back to my tent, Clio. He is passing fair.”

  Pete Manx reddened to the roots of his hair. “Now listen!” he objected hotly. “I got some rights.”

  Clio interrupted him. She picked him up by the back of his tunic and flung him across her saddle. Pete Manx writhed and yelled in futile resentment.

  HE QUIETED suddenly when the point of a dagger dug into his spine.

  “Men should know their places,” Clio said, “and keep to them. One more move from you and I’ll drag you behind my horse.”

  “Don’t harm him,” Thecla urged. “ ’Twould be sad to mar his sweet face.” Pete Manx nearly fainted with horror. This could not be happening to him! Out of the frying-pan with a vengeance!

  Thecla galloped away. With an annoyed grunt, Clio cantered in the opposite direction, muttering to herself. “The Queen’s too kind to her men. The best way is to beat them hard and often. Hold still, you miserable little worm. Or I’ll take pleasure in stepping on you. Hah!”

  “B-but—” Pete Manx gurgled. “Silence!” The dagger drove deeper. Mr. Manx said no more.

  The camp of the Amazons lay in a broad valley, near a good-sized stream bordered by groves of olive and oak. It seemed to be a semi-permanent encampment, a base established t
o guard the frontiers. Queen Thecla, ruler of all the Amazons, divided her time between the main city, far to the north, and such outposts as this.

  The scene was idyllic. The gaily-colored pavilions were bright against the green meadows, and the blue sky of Greece was a canopy overhead. It reflected with sparkles of sunshine in the huge tub in which the unfortunate Pete Manx was washing clothes.

  “A fine thing,” he reflected bitterly. “Wish I had a bottle of my old Manx Cleansall. Hah.” The soap was not of the best-rate quality, and Manx was forced to use a good deal of elbow-grease. Ruefully he contemplated his reddened knuckles.

  “It ain’t fair,” he growled. “Blast Professor Aker, anyway. I hope Margie stuffed one of her snakes down his throat. Well, at least I’m still a bachelor.”

  “Not for long,” said a cold voice. It was Clio, swaggering toward him, her hard blue eyes unpleasantly malicious. “Queen Thecla will wed you as soon as she’s back. And that will be soon. Come along; she won’t be pleased to find you at this task. But you’ll get a meaner one if you try to escape again.”

  “I just wanted to take a walk,” Mr. Manx explained, not hopefully. The brawny Amazon grinned and touched her dagger-hilt.

  “By Artemis, you’d best not wander far from camp. Our archers have sharp arrows. Come.”

  Pete Manx was only too glad to relinquish his messy task. Later, however, he changed his mind, when he found himself in one of the pavilions, attended by several masculine slaves armed with strigils, ointments, combs, brushes, and perfumes. Manx felt like a Pekingese the day before a dog-show.

  “Hey!” he objected passionately. “Don’t smear that goo on me. It smells.”

  “ ’Tis myrrh,” said one of the slaves. “The Queen likes its scent.”

  “Well, I don’t,” yelped Mr. Manx and retreated into a corner of the tent. “A little after-shave lotion is my speed. But that’s all.”

  Hearing the commotion, Clio appeared, looking annoyed.

  “What’s wrong here? What? Oh, he doesn’t, eh?” She drew her dagger and moved cat-footed toward the worried Mr. Manx. “There’s no time to waste. Thecla will be here soon, and you must be ready for her.”

  SHE spoke further and profanely to Pete Manx, reminding him of an Army top-kick he once knew. Presently the slaves continued their work, while Clio went outside with a final threat.

  Pete Manx writhed. Yet he knew it was wisest to play along, for the while, till he got at least a small break. So his beard was combed and curled luxuriantly, odorous perfumes smeared on him, and his hair anointed with the Grecian equivalent of bear-grease. Eventually he staggered to a couch of furs and collapsed, moaning faintly. He had just looked in a mirror.

  “I ain’t neat,” he murmured.

  “You will please the Queen,” said one of the slaves, a meek little man with shifty eyes and a flat dish-face. “That is always wise, Zeno.”

  “Zeno?” Pete Manx looked up. “My name’s—uh—Petros Mancos.” He employed an alias he had used before in the past.

  The other smiled furtively. “You do not remember me, Antigonus? But it is wise of you to use a false name, Zeno. If your real one were known here, you would be tortured to death.”

  Pete Manx swallowed. “I expected this,” he said, glaring bitterly at nothing. “Everything happens to me. I’m allergic to trouble. So I’m in the body of a guy named Zeno, and he’s a public enemy.” He gripped Antigonus’ arm. “Now look, pal. Ever heard of amnesia?”

  “No,” said the other. “Who is she?” Pete Manx explained. “So there it is,” he ended. “I got a bump on the head and now I can’t remember anything. See? I gotta know the set-up.” Antigonus glanced around at the other slaves, who were watching interestedly. “They won’t betray you. Well, years ago we were in a distant Amazon camp, far to the west, both of us were slaves. You’re sure you don’t remember? Well, we belonged to a warrior-woman named Urganilla, called the Bear-Wrestler.”

  “Ulp,” Pete remarked. “G-go on.”

  “You betrayed that camp to the Greeks. Only a few escaped, Urganilla among them. She, I think, is the only Amazon who would recognize you. And if she does, of course, you will be torn to bits. Or perhaps sliced at with swords,” Antigonus ended reflectively. “I’m not quite sure.”

  “Where is this Bear-Wrestler?”

  “In the city. But she’s due in camp in a day or so. When she arrives, you will die, I suppose. It is sad.”

  “Sad!” Pete Manx gulped. “I got tears in my eyes already. Look, Antigonus, I gotta get out of here, double quick.”

  “You can’t. The guards are always on the alert. It is impossible to escape from the camp.”

  Manx shut his eyes and thought hard. Obviously he was in a spot. But he had been in trouble before, and his resources had not failed him. Despite their muscles and weapons, these Amazons did not seem especially bright. Perhaps he could outwit them and escape.

  Where? Manx wasn’t sure. But, after questioning Antigonus further, he realized that to remain in the camp till Urganilla arrived would be fatal. For the Amazon would recognize him and immediately denounce him as a traitor. After that—ugh!

  His reverie was interrupted by the arrival of Queen Thecla. The red-haired Amazon strode into the tent, chin arrogantly lifted, and her gaze found Manx.

  “Ah,” she said. “You are more beautiful than I had thought.”

  MANX looked desperate.

  “Now look,” he said. “I ain’t beautiful.”

  “Be not afraid,” the Queen murmured. “You will not be harmed. Now I must go. There are reports to be dictated, and plans to be made. Later we must have a friendly talk.” With that she departed, leaving Pete Manx to claw at his curled beard.

  “She likes you,” Antigonus smiled. “Shut up,” howled Mr. Manx, crimson with futile fury. “I’m no lap-dog. I’m no gigolo. I’m getting out of here.”

  It was, however, easier said than done. Antigonus and the other slaves were friendly enough, and willing to help, so long as they were not involved in trouble. At nightfall Pete Manx slipped away through an olive grove and headed for the hills.

  Some time later he came back, unwillingly, across the back of a horse ridden by an Amazon guard. Queen Thecla was considerate but firm. She lectured Manx on the uselessness of attempting escape, and told him that the next time it happened, he would be whipped soundly. Then she patted the miserable man’s cheek, gave him a sweetmeat, and sent him back to the other slaves, chattering inarticulately.

  “I told you so,” Antigonus said helpfully.

  Pete Manx barked sharply and went off to brood in a corner. After a while he got an idea. He came back to the group of slaves.

  “Look,” he said, “I saw a movie once about Amazons—”

  “Movie?”

  “Let it lay. I got a hunch. How’d you boys like to get the upper hand on these Amazons?” He explained at length. His words were greeted with surprisingly little enthusiasm.

  “But we like it this way,” Antigonus objected. “We don’t work hard, we don’t have to fight or run risks, and we get plenty to eat.” Well, obviously only the weakest specimens of the Greeks were ever captured by Amazons. The strong ones either died in battle, or escaped to fight again.

  “Where’s your self-respect?” Mr. Mann said sharply. “Woman’s place is in the home. Equal rights for everybody, that’s what we want. Why should men have to do all the drudgery? Now listen—” He was a persuasive talker. He pointed out the advantages of conquering the Amazons.

  “Conquering them?”

  “Peacefully. Propaganda, that’s the stuff. Passive resistance. Equal rights. A man oughta be the master in his own tent.” He talked on, smoothly and convincingly. There was no point in explaining all his plans, of course. Equal rights would not be enough. What Pete Manx was working for was a complete reversal of the Amazonian social scheme. Men, not women, must be the masters.

  It could be done. Pete Manx had read stories, and seen a film or two, that dealt wit
h exactly the same subject. A guy was captured by the Amazons, got busy, and pretty soon the apple-cart was upset, and the women were doing the washing. That was what Pete Manx wanted. It was the only way he could save his own life.

  If the Amazons were still in charge when Urganilla arrived and denounced him, it would be just too bad. But if the women were powerless, the men in charge, he would be safe.

  It looked like the long way around; yet it was the only way. For by this time Manx was convinced of the impossibility of escape. His job was to persuade the slaves to help him.

  “We’ll be whipped,” Antigonus objected.

  “Not if we play smart. I got some tricks up my sleeve that ought to help. If we get the Amazons worried enough, the war’s half won. Boring from within, see?”

  “No,” said Antigonus.

  PETE MANX made a large gesture.

  “Just leave it to me.” He was not too pleased with his companions. They did not seem to have enough backbone. But he had to use the tools that lay ready to his hand. “I’ll try psychology. The Amazons are plenty superstitious. Suppose their goddess—”

  “Artemis?”

  “Yeah—Artemis. Suppose she says that men have to be the masters, and puts a curse on the Amazons till the change is made?”

  Antigonus blinked. “One cannot make a goddess speak.”

  Pete Manx smiled happily. “Wait and see. She’s the moon-goddess, eh? Well, maybe I can make a moon—”

  He brooded briefly over storage batteries, electric lights, and a public-address system.

  Pretty complicated, but he would try what he could.

  “We’ll want some signs painted. Now listen . . .”

  It was dawn before Pete Manx slept. And by that time his plans were made. It would take several days at least, he knew, to prepare his materials. Even then, something might conceivably go amiss. It usually did. Yet Pete Manx’s round face bore a seraphic smile as he dropped into audible slumber on a pile of silks and furs.

  The war was over, for the nonce—at least until the next attack. There was little for the male slaves to do. Thus Manx found it not too difficult to enlist helpers. He worked with them under the noses of the Amazons, who, of course, did not know what it was all about.