Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  His voice died away. He looked more tired than before, and something like doubt showed in his thin face.

  A signal hummed. Llewelyn spoke into a nearby teleaudio, and looked up at Havers as he finished.

  “Sorry. I’ll see you again soon. Meanwhile remember what I said. About submerged conflicts. Do what you want to. You’ll be my guest for a few days. I’ll have someone show you to your suite.”

  He smiled at Havers and the two men stood up as a servant entered the room.

  “He’ll show you the way,” Llewelyn said. “Then you’re on your own.”

  Half-way to the door Mart paused as a women appeared on the threshold. She was not young, but she seemed to give an appearance of youth, perhaps because of the atmosphere of restful calm that surrounded her.

  “Margot,” Llewelyn said, hurrying toward her. He took her hand. “This is Weather Patrolman Havers,” he introduced Mart. “Havers—my wife.”

  Thus Mart Havers saw his mother again, for the first time in many years.

  He did not know her.

  And she did not recognize him . . .

  UNTIL now, Havers thought, sitting on the edge of his new bed and staring blankly at the windowed wall before him—until now the one purpose which had seemed to guide his life had been busyness. Every moment, almost, until today, had been planned to fill his time to overflowing. And the effect—the planned effect, perhaps—had been that he’d had no time to think or to worry because he could not think.

  But now he had too much time.

  This was the second day as Llewelyn’s guest. He had seen only the servants who brought his meals. He had not gone out or wished to. For long hours he had lain on his bed, arm across his eyes, striving in all the ways he could devise to push through that closed curtain which shut his own past away.

  He had tried direct chains of memory, tracing back from this moment to his last clear recollection of the past. He had tried random attacks, forcing his mind to emptiness until something strong enough to outwit the barrier swam up to the surface, and linking backward from that. He had ransacked his memory for the flotsam of early life and groped in vain, among childhood recollections. He had recollections of childhood, yes but they were not satisfying, somehow not quite real.

  And in some ways what he did remember was irrational. He knew he had grown up in an orphan institution, training all along for this weather work. And yet, dimly, he seemed to recall a fat man in bright clothes and a dark aura of hatred whenever he remembered the man.

  Some officer at the institution, perhaps?

  No. He knew that was wrong, but he did not know how or why. And surely no institution child would have been allowed the wild forays among dark byways which he could so dimly recall in fragmentary form out of his past.

  Those were dreams, he told himself wearily. They must have been dreams, of the kind a romantic boy weaves for himself to compensate for a dull life. But why did the memory of them seem so much more real than those realities he knew he must have lived in the institute?

  Llewelyn was testing him deliberately, of course, testing to see how strong the artificial barriers were in Haver’s’ mind. Because so strong a-bloc against bringing necessary disaster upon the Aleutians had somehow managed to come through the wall, there was only one way to tell him how much more might come through. Better to invite trouble now, while it could be watched and measured.

  The servants reported meticulously‘to Llewelyn all that Mart did. He made careful notes and waited.

  On the third day Daniele televised Mart. “May I come up?” she said directly, giving him a level gray stare from under her lashes.

  She wore, as always, the severe uniform of her class, the clever makeup that hid her beauty. But Havers never saw her now without superimposing upon that plain background the one brief recollection of the real Daniele which shone so much more vividly in his mind than the reality he looked on.

  “Of course.” He rubbed his eyes. “Shall I meet you somewhere?”

  “No. Anything wrong?”

  “Oh no. I’m a little drowsy is all. I’ve been trying to remember.”

  “Remember what?”

  “That’s the trouble. I—I don’t know.”

  Her voice and her manner had lost the gradually increasing intimacy which had grown up between them in the past months. Tonight she seemed as remote as when they first met.

  “I’m on my way,” she said crisply, and blanked out.

  Something was wrong. He knew her well enough to recognize that, and he waited impatiently for her to ring at the door. It should have been exciting, this prospect of being alone with her for the first time since the moment when their relationship had taken its curious turn toward intimacy. But Havers felt uneasy when the ring came at last and he opened the door to her.

  “Alone?” she asked, glancing around the room as she came in.

  “Yes. What’s wrong?”

  She wheeled sharply, looked up at him, opened her lips to speak, and then instead shook her head and turned away. Havers had never known her to show such indecision before. On an impulse he took her shoulders in his hands, turning her to face him.

  “Daniele,” he said softly. “Daniele, what is it?”

  And when she still would not speak, he released one shoulder to reach out and pull the spectacles from her nose. The blue eyes looked up at him, long-lashed, cloudy now with trouble. Gently he pushed the gray cap from her forehead until tendrils of pale gold hair showed, and the coronet of tight braids above them.

  “That’s more like it,” he said. “That’s the Daniele I really know. Do you still remember, Daniele?”

  She would not pretend to misunderstand.

  “Yes. I’ve been remembering all this time—longer than I should. All that was a mistake, Mart.”

  “BUT—” He narrowed his eyes at her, trying to understand, thinking of these months past when their growing friendship had based itself on the unspoken acceptance of the kiss they had never shared—yet.

  “It might have been a mistake, once,” he said. “But not now. Not when we know each other so well. We’ve been working toward this meeting a long time, Daniele. I’ve been going along on the idea that there was a chance for you and me. A good chance. A chance that was getting better.”

  “No!” Her voice was sharp, but he would not let her finish.

  “You’ve been talking to Kelvin, then. He’s persuaded you—”

  “No. He doesn’t know anything about all this.”

  “What’s wrong, then? Up to a few days ago I was sure things were going well between us, Daniele. From that first evening, I thought you felt as I did. I know you did. You aren’t like most women. You wouldn’t make a game of this. If you hadn’t responded to me you wouldn’t have gone on with our check-ups. You’d have handed me over to someone else. Is it because I cracked up a little over that patrol business? Did you think I was afraid, Daniele? No, you’re not such a fool.”

  “It was that, Mart. Or partly that. Let me talk.”

  She pulled free and walked away from him toward the wall, where a mutacolor picture in a heavily carved frame coiled slow tint through slow tint in a drowsy pattern.

  “Listen and let me tell you what I can,” she said, and fingered the stud that controlled the picture, speeding up the action until light followed upon light in a rhythm almost martial.

  “I did respond, as you put it, after that evening. There’s something about you different from anything I’ve ever known before. It’s exciting and—dangerous, perhaps. Andre is all I ever thought I could want, until you came along that night. But Mart, what’s wrong with you? Do you know?” She gave him an anxious, searching look.

  “I wish I did know. Do you?”

  She did not answer him. After a moment, still playing with the stud, she went on.

  “I’ll tell you frankly, Mart, you’re not the man for me. I thought you were. I know now you’re not. Isn’t that enough?”

  He drew a quick breath to
protest. And then something about the way she was watching him made him pause, and an idea leaped into his mind that was cunning and distasteful. She knew! Whatever was wrong with him, she had found it out. Llewelyn knew too. He realized that suddenly, looking back over their talk and piecing his idea together. There was some secret about himself that he could almost guess, he had come so close to recognizing it in his long, deep hours of solitude.

  What was it? He thought he could find out. And he must know, even if it meant tricking this girl he believed he loved.

  “Let’s not pretend any longer,” he said suddenly. “You didn’t have to come up here to tell me all this. You came for a reason. To see me, look at me, find out how much I know. I’ve spent the last three days lying on my back thinking, Daniele. I’ve got my answer now. You’re right—I’m not the man for you. I’m only part of a man. I’m hollow, unstable, incomplete. I know it. Is that what you want to say?”

  Her finger on the picture stud gave a sudden twist that sent color like hot flames leaping inside the frame.

  “You know that much, then. Yes, Mart I never have lied to you. That’s true. I grew up a Leader, not a woman. I haven’t any illusions about romance. I could love you very much, too much for safety. And you—you aren’t there to love. You realize that as well as I do. Andre means safety. You . . . No, I’m afraid. It can’t be you, Mart, ever.”

  Watching her closely, he went a step further, testing every inch of the way, saying only things he had thought out in these silent hours.

  “My memory’s incomplete,” he said. “I can’t remember far back, but there’s a spot in my past where full memory seems to take up again. The ground seems solid from there on, but behind it is nothing stable. I think I know what it means, Daniele. I know what’s wrong. It could only be one thing. You know it too. How long have you known?”

  He didn’t know what he was angling for, what “one thing” he meant But he could see that she knew. And in her next words he realized he had won.

  “Only since this morning, Mart,” she said.

  “How did you learn?”

  He swallowed hard to keep the triumph out of his voice. His heart had begun to pound and his stomach knotted up with excitement It had worked! In a moment she might give herself away.

  “Llewelyn told me. I went to him. I had to find out. The thing is, Mart—”

  She gave a final twist to the stud and turned away from the picture that flared into burning crimsons and golds behind her, making a halo for the gray cap he wore still askew on the shining pale braids.

  “The thing is, Mart, what were you? You may know now what’s happened, but you don’t have your memories back. You can’t guess what sort of a man you used to be. Llewelyn wouldn’t tell me that. He wouldn’t!”

  CHAPTER XIII

  The Man Who Knew

  GRIPPED by a monstrous suspicion which was dawning in his mind, for a moment Havers ceased to hear Daniele. A name for all the vague ideas which had swum so long in his unconscious was taking shape.

  For three days the name of his malady had been nearly at tongue-tip, waiting to be spoken. But until now he had not quite dared apply it to himself.

  “But what could I have done?”

  He didn’t know if he said it aloud or not. He heard the words echoing around inside his skull like thunder, and he thought he had not spoken.

  “I’m a Leader. What terrible thing could a Leader have, done to deserve—to deserve—”

  He spoke the name of the thing aloud at last. After all it was he, not Daniele, who gave it its name in open speech.

  “The Purge,” he said, quite softly. “The Purge.”

  “Yes,” Daniele told him. He didn’t hear her. He didn’t see her. He had almost no recollection of leaving the room.

  Havers used the televisor to locate Alexis Llewelyn. They told him that the Leader was busy. Mart apparently didn’t hear them.

  His tight lips opened only far enough to snap demands. He didn’t talk much. He didn’t dare to loosen the rigid control he had managed to enforce upon himself.

  Finally he got through to Llewelyn at Mnemonic Center.

  “I want to see you,” he told the Leader.

  “Very well. In a few hours I’ll be at your disposal.”

  “Now.”

  Llewelyn seemed to notice Havers’ expression.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I want to talk to you. Not over a visor.”

  Llewelyn hesitated. He came to a quick decision.

  “Listen. I can’t leave the Center now. There’s a rather important experiment going on and I have to be on hand. I’ll be free by midnight.”

  “Now!”

  “Well—come over. I’ll send down word for you to be admitted.”

  Havers broke the connection instantly. He wheeled, tiny beads of sweat on his cheeks, and made for the elevator. His footsteps made loud, rhythmic sounds. He listened to them thudding on the carpets. He chafed, forcing himself to stand motionless as the elevator dropped, and then he. listened again to the sounds his heels made on the pavement.

  He crossed the roadway, staring straight ahead, and a red-cloaked Guardsman had to rein in his, cantering horse to avoid crashing into this grim, silent figure in the uniform of Weather Patrol.

  Other footsteps paced him. He noticed that unconsciously. But not for a few minutes did they move abreast of him.

  “Havers,” a low voice said. “Mart Havers.”

  Mart gave a quick, angry glance aside. He saw a small fat man with a sleek cap of black hair, a man dressed unobtrusively in gray, even to gray gloves. He looked away again. He kept on walking.

  “Havers,” the man said, without moving his lips. “Don’t you know me?”

  Mart took three more steps before realization came to him. He had never seen this man before in his life. But how little he knew of what had happened before this new, artificial life had been given to him! Had he known this man before his Purge?

  The coincidence was too obvious. Was it some trick of Llewelyn’s?

  He had paused.

  “Dangerous,” the fat little man said urgently. “Go in there—that restaurant. I’ll join you. Quick.”

  Mart nodded briefly.

  Across the table they took he looked at the little man and tried to remember. He shook his head.

  “No,” he said. “I don’t know you.”

  “You’ve been Purged.”

  “I’ve just learned that. I can’t remember what happened before.”

  The other man held his right hand under the table, where only Havers could see, and stripped the glove from a gleaming contraption of plastic and steel.

  “Remember this?”

  “No.”

  The glove was replaced.

  “I dyed my hair black since you saw me last time. And I shaved my mustache. You wouldn’t remember—Pusher Dingle?”

  “No.”

  Mart still suspected Llewelyn’s intervention. He ignored his drink and watched Pusher intently. Dingle’s plump face twisted in a grimace.

  “You’ve got to get me out of Reno,” he said. “La Boucherie—he needs you.”

  “Who is La Boucherie?”

  “That blasted mnemonic treatment,” Dingle said. “You don’t remember a thing? How you and Georgina planted that Sherlock in Avish’s apartment? Something went badly wrong. I got away by the skin of my teeth. I’ve been hiding out for months.”

  “Yes?” Havers said noncommittally.

  THIS man, he thought, was a potential enemy, as every man might be now. He, Mart Havers, was blindfolded.

  Dingle sighed.

  “You don’t trust me.”

  “Why should I?”

  “Well, how efficient is the Purge? You can’t remember anything of your past life? No, I guess not. I’ve run into other people who’ve been through the Purge—usually they knew it, though.” Pusher examined Mart’s uniform. “Weather Patrol. I thought they only took Leaders in that.”


  “Right.”

  Dingle whistled. “Anyway,” he said, “you’ve got to help me.”

  “Why?”

  “If you had your real memories back, you’d know why.”

  “I’m going to get them back,” Havers said suddenly, his intent crystalizing. “Somehow. I’ve got to.”

  Dingle looked skeptical.

  “I’ll find a way,” Mart repeated. “I’m going to see Llewelyn now. I’m going to ask him questions.”

  “Which he may not answer,” Pusher said. “You can’t see a big shot like that and push him around. You probably won’t even get past the office boy.”

  “He’s expecting me.”

  “Where?”

  “Mnemonic Center.”

  Dingle put his gloved artificial hand on the table and studied it A new light had come into his eyes.

  “There could be a way,” he said, “but you’d need my help. Don’t you realize what you’re up against? Suppose you ask Llewelyn to give you your memories back and he says no? Suppose he says yes? The treatment takes months. You can’t hold a smash-gun on him while you’re under pentothal.” He paused, then added significantly, “But I can.”

  Mart stared.

  “Right,” Pusher said. “You help me, I’ll help you. I need you, Havers—especially in that uniform. You can get me out of the spot I’m in. I’m under guard right now.”

  “What?”

  Dingle’s plump face creased in a sly smile. “I was hiding out in the Aleutians. I got word there was a dig there the Cromwellians had already searched once. Some of us figured they wouldn’t bother to search again. Only they did—a few hours ago. I was brought down here with the others by jet. And they let me escape, after making sure I’d seen you walking along the street.”

  “We’re watched now?”

  “Sure. I don’t know all the angles, but I’ve been in the rackets for years, and I know some of ’em. They let me see you, and then they made sure I was given a chance to escape. Don’t ask me why. If you’ve had the Purge, you’re not supposed to remember me.”

  “I don’t. That’s funny. The Weather Patrol job I turned down was . . . Yes, it involved the Aleutians. And that’s where you say you were?”