Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  A name.

  Whose name?

  The blue sea was becoming very shallow. Waves of troubling, strange music beat upon him. Color and light quivered and shook before his puzzled eyes. The name was—Court. Ethan Court!

  The blue oblivion washed back. It was torn asunder like a veil. It fled far away and was gone, and into the place where it had been came rushing the memories of the man who had been Ethan Court.

  For he remembered now. He was awake. And, in the moment of that awakening, he knew that he was in a new world.

  CHAPTER II

  Air Accident

  THE tense faces ringing him altered. He heard a soft “Ahh” of satisfaction from many lips. Involuntarily he scowled, his glance flicking from eye to eye. He was half-reclining in a curious sort of chair. It was a bulky chair, with coils of tubed light twining about it. A circle of men stood facing him, watching.

  His lips tightened.

  “What’s going on here?” he said in English. “Where am I?”

  One man, completely bald, with a close-fitting white garment revealing his skinny figure, waved the others back. He spoke a tongue that Court understood.

  “Leave me alone with him now. He is awake. Call Barlen. Notify the Throne. Out, now!”

  They trooped out through a door that lifted silently in the wall. Court lifted himself out of the chair where now the shining coils had dulled. His body felt like an old friend. He had been using it without realization for a long while, and he was in good physical condition. Looking down, he saw that he was wearing a blue-and-brown figured tunic of light, pliable material, and shorts of the same color. There were shoes of elastic, translucent plastic on his feet.

  The room had a strange, exotic appearance.

  The walls shimmered with color, soft pastels, abstract designs that were curiously soothing in their effect. The furnishings consisted of a few couches and a littered table. Court had never before seen such furniture or such a room.

  The bald man was coming toward him. Court, still frowning, spoke in the new language.

  “What is this? I asked you where I am? Am I a prisoner?”

  “No, you’re no prisoner,” the man said. “You’ve been a patient. I’m Tor Kassell. Can you understand me easily?”

  Court nodded, still wary. “This place is what?”

  “My home.” Kassel hesitated. “You know your name?”

  “Naturally. But that’s about all I do know.”

  “Is it?” The dark eyes were intent. “Your memories haven’t returned?”

  Court shook his head wearily. “I’m mixed up. I expected something else. But this is right, somehow.”

  “It is quite right.” Kassel’s voice was gentle. “There are a few things you should know before you can completely readjust yourself. As for your health—it is perfect. For five months you have been here, tinder my care. Let me see if my theory is correct. First, are thirsty? Or hungry?”

  “No,” Court said. “I just want to know where I am.”

  Tor Kassel rested his thin hand on the table. “You were in an underground place. There you fell asleep. You caused that sleep yourself. It was a hypnosis, self-induced.”

  “The opium,” Court said suddenly. He used the English word. Kassel stared. “Opium?”

  “A—a drug I smoked. It helped me to fall asleep. It was habit-forming.””

  “You do not have the habit now,” Kassell said. “Take my word for it. The reason—well, you slept in that hidden place, and time passed A very long time.”

  Court felt his anger rise. “I know quite well it was a long time. Don’t treat me like a child. How long? A thousand years?” Once the words were out, he felt their improbability.

  Kassel hesitated “I don’t know. We can estimate the period after you give us a few facts—the positions of the stars in your era. Our history goes back only a thousand years.”

  “Who are you? What race?”

  “We are Lyrans, That means nothing to you, does it?”

  “No.” Court mused “A thousand years. Why, only that far back? What year is this? Three thousand something?”

  “Seven-eighty-four,” Kassel told him. “Dating from the time of the First Pact, when a few wandering tribes banded together.”

  “All right. Maybe I don’t understand you.”

  “You have a barbarous accent, and you haven’t learned our colloquialisms,” Kassel said. “But you learned the language very well during your stay with the Mouranee nomads. You were—mentally asleep—then, but you must have been with the Mouranee for several years.”

  “I want a mirror,” Court said abruptly.

  THE bald man walked to one of the shimmering walls and made an odd gesture. An oval in the bright surface dimmed and turned silver.

  “Here,” Kassel said.

  Court moved forward hesitantly, uneasily. Whatever he expected to see, it was not the old Ethan Court, of course. But neither had he expected to see a grimy, beared savage. Yes, he had grown older. There were streaks of white at his temples, and his brown face was thinner. Deep lines bracketed his lips. Under scowling dark brows his blue eyes were sparkling suspiciously.

  Kassel remained near him, talking. “An ethnologist and historian of our race found you with the Mouranee tribe. They learned what they could of your history. You had been found, half-alive, in an ancient, underground chamber. The Mouranee took you to their village and treated you.”

  “I remember,” Court said. “Yes, I remember that.” He touched his lips with hesitating fingers. This flesh—still firm and alive after more than a thousand years? Perhaps more than—ten thousand!

  But he could not believe that. Kassel had cupped something small and bright in his palm.

  “These were found with you. Our scientist could not read them, naturally, but he recognized some of the letters and figures. A very ancient tongue—it is a lost language today, except for a few transcriptions on metal that we cannot decipher.”

  He dropped the objects in Court’s hand. Newly-polished, they were shockingly familial’. Suddenly they were the only real thing in this alien place. Name—blood type typhoid shot—serial number.

  Kassel went on. “You were brought here. We guessed the possible importance of our find. Suspended animation is possible today, but that it should have existed in your era is extraordinary. When was it?”

  “Nineteen-forty-four,” Court said. “Or Nineteen-forty-five. I don’t know.”

  “Well, that doesn’t tell me much, I’m afraid. Our chronology is different. What were you?”

  The man’s meaning was clear. “Artist, once. And soldier, after that.”

  The man’s meaning was clear. “Artist, once. And soldier, after that.”

  Sudden relief showed in Kassel’s hairless face. “Good. There are artists today, but no soldiers. We have peace, or we have had, Court, you must be instructed regarding our times.”

  The door opened. Through it came a giant figure, a ruddy-faced man with a golden spade beard and mane of yellow hair. His clothes were garishly flamboyant. Sweat beaded his high cheek-bones.

  “Tor Kassel.” he said hurriedly. “I came for the patient. He saw Court. “He is awake, then!”

  “He’s awake.”

  “Good! Come with me, you! At once!”

  Kassel’s eyes gleamed. “What the devil do you mean? This is my home, Barlen! This man Court is my patient. He’ll go with you if I permit it. Not otherwise.”

  Court’s gaze moved from face to face. “Do I have anything to say about this?” he asked.

  Barlen stared. Kassel nodded.

  “Certainly. You may do as you choose. And I’ll see that no one tries to bring pressure.” He glared at the big man.

  Barlen’s teeth gleamed amid his yellow beard as he grinned.

  “So I must apologize again,” he said. “To you—my friend—and to you—Tor Kassel, I make my excuses. Forgive my impatience. But you’ll admit I have reason. Kassel.”

  “Perhaps you d
o. Yes, I think you do: Just the same, Ethan Court is still my patient.”

  “He’s something more than that.” Barlen showed his teeth. “The Throne is interested.”

  “I’ve notified the Throne.”

  “Then what are we waiting for?”

  “For a little courtesy,” Kassel snapped, and swung to Court. “The Throne—our ruler—has been much interested in your progress. There’s an interview scheduled. But it’s to be at your convenience, for I don’t want you to overexert yourself.”

  COURT could not suppress a smile. “Am I healthy now, Kassel?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Well, I’m certainly curious. I’m ready any time.”

  “Do you want me to go on my knees to him, Kassel?” Barlen said impatiently. “My car’s outside.”

  “I want nothing except a little consideration,” the doctor mumbled.

  “National emergency or not, medicine still has its rights.”

  “Come on, Court,” Barlen said. “If you’re ready.” Clutching his dog-tags, Court followed the huge Barlen through the doorway, Kassel at his heels. Down a winding spiral ramp they went, past walls that shivered and murmured with sound and color, and emerged into a porte-cochere where a car stood—a huge, sleek bath-tub, apparently—with a padded bench circling its interior. A simplified control-pedestal rose in the center, easily reached from any point within the car. Barlen stepped in, the others following. and waved them to seats.

  “We fly,” he said, with simple pride. Court looked at him.

  “So did we,” Court said, and the giant blinked.

  “Well.” He touched levers. “You’ll see.” The car slid out into darkness. Then there was the odor of green growing things and cool, fresh night air, and Court felt the car rising. Without a sound it slanted up. He sat motionless, staring at the loveliness of the city spread below. It was a city of rose and pearl.

  “What could I expect?” he told himself. “This is the future. Naturally things are different. Naturally.”

  Valyra, the central city of Lyra, lay clustered about a low mountain, spreading down from its slopes into the distant darkness. It glowed with a warm radiance that outlined the gracious curves of domes and roadways, and the dreams of a hundred architects had made the city into a single unit of beauty. Each curve subtly led the eye to the central mountain. There, on the summit, stood a domed palace, fragile looking and shining.

  “Did you have this?” Barlen’s voice held smug triumph.

  “No,” Court said. “Nothing like this. No.” His hand tightened on two bits of metal, for abruptly the elfin city was horrible to him. He didn’t want perfection. He wanted craggy, dirty blocks of concrete, granite, brick and steel, towering above Sixth Avenue. He wanted to hear the nerve-grinding roar of a subway. He wanted to smell of hot-dogs roasting in an open-front Nedick’s shop. He wanted to look down at a city that wasn’t perfectly planned and executed—a place with the homely name of New York or Pittsburgh or Denver, where brownstone stood next to chrome, and where pushcarts stood beside sleek limousines. He didn’t want this. It wasn’t fair. He was an ordinary man. There had been a war, and he’d been in it. But this wasn’t all right.

  It was wrong that he should have fallen into some sort of mystic sleep in a dungeon in China and wakened after thousands of years had passed. Mother-of-pearl—bah! It was a fine set-up for a hero, maybe, but he wasn’t a hero and he didn’t want to be one.

  Court flung himself forward, straight at the man with the ray-gun All that he had seen was fairy-tale stuff. That covered it. He didn’t fit into fairy tales. This golden-bearded giant, beside him, probably lived on a steady diet of romance. But it wasn’t Court’s meat.

  He gripped his dog-tags desperately and shut his eyes, wishing and praying to be back in the familiar yellow mud of China. Anywhere, in fact, but this cake-icing city in a time that wasn’t Ethan Court’s time.

  “Look out, Barlen!” he heard Kassel say. “That car’s coming too close!”

  “Fools!” Barlen rumbled. “They’ll hit us.” The big man raised a warning shout. “Grapples! Hold them, Kassel! I’ll protect Court.” Mighty arms swept about Court, lifting him from his seat. One glimpse he had of an aircar sweeping forward. Silvery rods, like tentacles were reaching out, and dark faces were intently watching. Then Barlen sprang over the side, gripping Court to his barrel chest, and the two of them went plunging downward through the emptiness of the night.

  CHAPTER III

  The Blue-Eyed Girl

  BY INSTINCT he reached for the ring of a rip-cord that wasn’t there. He heard himself automatically counting. They turned over slowly as they fell, but Barlen kept his strong grip on Court. Above them the unlimited aircars were lost against the sky.

  Court felt Barlen writhe. The city was rushing up at them with sickening speed, so close now that details were visible. But as Barlen moved, a coruscating shell of color blotted out vision. Hands of iron seemed to seize every part of Court. Next came a wrenching jolt so violent that it threatened to dislocate his neck. But soon he was floating down slowly through a curtain of light.

  Faster now—and faster.

  He struck hard, tangled with Barlen, and the shimmering colors faded and were gone. The giant jerked him to his feet, and gave a swift glance around.

  “They may follow. In here, quick.”

  “But Kassel! What of him?”

  “I don’t know. He’s either dead, or a captive. Hurry!”

  They had landed on the rounded dome of a roof that glowed with pale pink. With Barlen guiding him. Court slid down precariously to a ledge and crept along it to a window that appeared to be made of mother-of-pearl. Barlen kicked a hole in the oval pane. With a wary glance at the sky, he jumped through the gap, pulling Court after him. They were in a big, empty room furnished with sybaritic magnificence.

  Barlen made for the door. As it slid upward at his approach, a man appeared on the threshold, wide-eyed and excited. He was middle-aged and had coal black wooly hair.

  “Who’re you? What does this mean?”

  “Acting for the Throne,” Barlen said. “Where’s your visor?”

  “It’s in here. I’ll show you. Come.”

  The man scuttled along the corridor, leading the way. Barlen dragged Court with him. The visor was simply a blank oval in the wall. Barlen made signaling gestures before it. The oval hummed. A pattern of lines like Persian script appeared.

  “Acknowledged,” a toneless voice said. “Report.”

  “Enemy aircar directly overhead.” Barlen turned to his inadvertent host “Where are we?”

  “Sector Forty, Gamma Three.”

  “Forty Gamma Three. Possible spies. Not Lyrans, I think. Physician Tor Kassel trying to hold them. Action.”

  “Acknowledged and action,” the voice said. The light faded. Barlen turned away with a shrug.

  “They’ll send up aircars to investigate,” he said. “I doubt if they’ll find anything.”

  “What about Kassel?” Court asked.

  Barlen gestured. “We have enemies, and they’re ruthless. They were after you. Word leaked out, I suppose.” He hesitated, then looked at the wooly-haired man. “Would you drive us to the palace? Or let us have one of your servants, friend? It’s for the Throne.”

  “Gladly,” was the answer. “Are you hurt, Den Barlen?”

  “Oh—you know me. No, I’m not hurt. The car?”

  “This way.”

  “We’ll go by surface,” Barlen explained, as the tub-like vehicle whisked them through glowing streets. “It’s safe, I suppose. My repulsor charge is exhausted, anyway. I’ll have to get you a tube.”

  “What was it?” Court asked.

  “Anti-gravity. It’s not too perfect—you noticed the jolt—and it requires delicate timing. Don’t push the stud till you’re two hundred feet from the ground. If you release the charge when you’re too high, it won’t last long enough to bring you down slowly. The mechanisms are bulky. There’s room for t
he complete device in an aircar like this, but in a pocket safety tube, all we can do is install a short charge. It has to be renewed after each use.”

  “Who were those men?” Court asked.

  THE man at the controls, his face angry, turned his head.

  “They must have been the enemy,” he said. “Deccans, perhaps. Is that right, Den Barlen?”

  “Maybe,” Barlen said. “I don’t know. Didn’t get a good look at them.”

  “Deccans. They have spies everywhere.”

  “Well, Deccans or not, they were after you, Court,” Barlen said. “I’d have preferred to stay with Kassel and fight, but your life’s more important.”

  “Why?” Court asked.

  The giant winked and glanced toward the driver.

  “Here’s the palace. Thanks, friend. You’ve helped the Throne tonight.”

  “And harmed the Deccans, I hope,” the man said. He brought the car to a stop.

  A few guards, not many, were at this door of the hill-palace. Barlen exchanged a few words with one of them, and was waved inside. Court had an impression of immense spaces and bright colors—then he was in an elevator that rose swiftly. He stepped out, with Barlen, into a good-sized room where a man was awaiting them. Thin, undersized, with a clever, fox-handsome face, the man brushed back his red hair nervously with one hand and smiled at them. Behind him, a spiral ramp led up to a crystal door high above them.