Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  Rohan’s big hand cracked sharply across the swarthy, sweating face.

  “Shut up and get going. Ahead of me. Jellaby, you too. I don’t trust you behind me. Go on—march!” He laughed on a note of exhilaration. “I’ll come last, so if he catches us I’ll be the first to go.”

  Uncertainly, on hurried, stumbling feet, the two plunged ahead of him. Rohan drew another long breath, grinned, let it out in a melodious whistle. The trembling, pale leaves conversing all around them shivered to the notes of defiance in his voice as he began to sing.

  “Swing low,” he sang to the mist and the vine-wreathed trees, “sweet chariot, comin’ for to carry me home . . .”

  THE MOUNTAIN’S tremendous shoulders loomed above the mists, monstrous, streaming with veils of cloud, naked above the clinging jungle. It was gray scoriae stone, smudged all up and down its sides with great soft blurs of color where lichens grew pink and amber, pale green, dusky blue. The peak was hidden. The pool, the treasure, the secret, drew cloud about themselves and pretended not to exist at all.

  Rohan looked up at the peak warmly and lovingly, hardly believing he stood here, so close to the goal that would make all his dreams come true. He saw the steep road winding upward and half shut his eyes, picturing himself coming down it laden with treasure. With rubies and diamonds. And wiser than the Rohan who stood here at the edge of the jungle. He would be stronger than the d’vahnyan when he came down that road. A Rohan would come down who knew the secret of the d’vahnyan who held a whole planet in submission. It would be Rohan who gave the orders, then.

  He glanced back. The following feet still came on. They had seen nothing through the whispering leaves all the way, but the follower had not faltered. Nor had he tried, Rohan thought, to overtake them. It had been enough to follow. Rohan knew he ought to feel frightened. Forsythe and Jellaby were cold and shaking with long-sustained superstitious dread as they looked back. But Rohan felt so sure of the secret which was almost in his grasp that fear did not touch him.

  By the time that unhurrying follower caught up with him, he would know more than the d’vahnyan knew. He would be stronger than the d’vahnyan. If he hurried, now.

  “All right,” he said. “Get along. Up the Mountain, boys. I promise you, once we——

  “Listen!” Forsythe said. They stood frozen. The jungle babbled with mindless, lisping voices. A wind sighed down from the heights above. Somewhere far off, thunder rolled. And then the sound came again, hollow and thin, distorted by the leaves between.

  “Ro-han,” the voice was calling. “Rohan. Red Ro-han!”

  This time a cold shiver went sharply down Rohan’s back.

  “Go on!” he said. “Up the Mountain, quick!”

  The voice called again, miraculously nearer. The follower seemed to be coming after them now in seven-league boots.

  “Ro-han, Rohan . . .”

  Rohan broke into a leaden run, the pack bumping on his shoulders. The Mountain was so near. If he could get even a little way ahead, perhaps—

  “Rohan?” the voice said from the edge of the trees. “Rohan, wait for me.”

  He turned in spite of himself. Then he let his breath out in a long, foolish gasp and said, “Crazy Joe!”

  The old man grinned at him above the ragged heard. “Sure it’s me. What did you think? Wait a minute.”

  He came striding confidently across the moss, swinging his arms. He was a stalwart old creature. No one knew how old, or how young. The bleached beard and hair might be white with age, or from some more obscure reason. Nobody knew much about Crazy Joe except that he came and went when he felt like it and answered no questions. His face was extraordinarily bland and peaceful. He did a great many very odd things at odd times, and it was probably quite true that he was mad.

  He looked immaculate, which was an unexpected part of his eccentricity. His blue jeans were spotted with dew and rain, but he wore them tucked neatly into the tops of wrapped Quai sandals, and his denim shirt was Government Issue designed at Swanport for Terrestrial wear on Venus. He had stuck a pink flower in its pocket-flap and he was probably not aware that several spotted blossoms and a pale butterfly rested on his tousled hair.

  “Thought I’d get here first,” he said, grinning his rather foolish grin. “You must have come fast.” He tilted his head back and peered up the steep road that wound about the Mountain. “Well, well,” he said softly. “Hasn’t changed at bit. Which one of you plans to go up first?” Forsythe said unsteadily, ignoring the question, “Was that you behind us all the time? There wasn’t—anybody else?”

  “I dunno just what you mean, son,” Crazy Joe said, blinking.

  “Was there a—did you see any—” Forsythe could not quite get the word out.

  “A d’vahnyan,” Rohan said it for him. “We think one of them’s after us, Joe. See anything?”

  CRAZY JOE TURNED and looked thoughtfully at the jungle, running his fingers through his beard. The pale butterfly struggled furiously and freed itself, blew away on a soft gust of wind.

  “He followed down the labyrinthine ways,” Crazy Joe murmured, “of my own mind.”

  “What?” Forsythe asked impatiently. Crazy Joe shook his head and his grin was vacant. “Which one of you plans to go up first?” he asked again.

  “We’ll all go, of course,” Rohan said. “What about that d’vahnyan, Joe?”

  “If he wants you, he’ll catch you,” Joe said. “I wouldn’t worry if I were you. There was a band of angels comin’ after me.” He smiled at Rohan. “I heard a lot of singing about ’em. You going up first, Rohan? You can’t all go together, you know. That’s against the rules.”

  Rohan made an impatient gesture. “I make the rules from now on. Who’s going to stop me? There’s nobody up there, is there?”

  “Oh yes. One Quai, always. Waiting.”

  “What for?”

  “Waiting to be devoured,” Crazy Joe said casually. “By the thing in the pool. You knew the treasure was guarded, didn’t you?”

  Forsythe looked at Rohan expectantly. Rohan looked away, and met Jellaby’s tense gaze on the other side. The two men spoke simultaneously.

  “So that’s it!” Forsythe and Jellaby said with a single voice.

  Rohan laughed. “Not what you’re thinking, no. I’ll dive for it if you’re afraid to. I never said it would be easy. But you’ll have to help. If somebody’s standing by with a gun, I’ll feel a lot—”

  “No, Rohan,” Crazy Joe said earnestly. “You can’t do that, you know. Only one at a time. Think it over, Rohan. Remember what’s up there.” The eyes under the faded bushes of brows were keen. “That you won’t discover unless you’re alone.”

  “What’s all this?” Forsythe demanded. “It’s a secret,” Crazy Joe said childishly. “Rohan knows.” He glanced back at the shivering jungle and his voice blended with its dreamlike soughing. “Behind, the vats of judgment brewing,” he said, “Thundered, and thick the brimstone snowed.” He looked at Rohan and smiled. “He to the hill of his undoing . . . Pursued his road . . .”

  “Ah, you’re two crackpots together,” Forsythe said, turning abruptly away. His face was thoughtful. He seemed to be evolving some new idea, and that Rohan could not—dared not—allow. There was again, as always, only one solution.

  Rohan stepped back from the little group, laying a hand on his holstered gun, tipping it up ominously. He would not have to draw it. He could shoot well enough at this range from the holster. It was a trick he liked.

  “All right, Forsythe,” he said, not troubling any more to make his voice cheerful or pleasant. “Jellaby, over here. Both of you. We’ll go up together, you two-first. Crazy Joe—”

  He looked speculatively at Crazy Joe. He was thinking that he would have to kill the old man, sooner or later. He was dangerous on too many counts. He could lead the two others back to the Terrestrial Highway, and only fear of the jungle kept them submissive to Rohan now. With Crazy Joe for a guide, they would be free of him. Also, Craz
y Joe knew too much about the Mountain. What he had babbled once he might babble again, and Rohan did not intend for anyone else to stand where he stood now. He fingered the trigger meditatively, hesitated, decided the moment was not yet. “Crazy Joe,” he said, “get back and don’t bother me. I make the rules from now on.”

  Forsythe’s heavy face wrinkled up in a thoughtful grimace. Rohan didn’t like it. He jerked the holstered gun threateningly.

  “Forsythe—” he said.

  Forsythe squinted at him, lifted his upper lip and laughed harshly.

  “Crazy Joe,” he said, without taking his eyes from Rohan’s, “is there another path down this mountain?”

  “Only this one,” Crazy Joe said tranquilly.

  “No other way to get down?”

  “No. It’s all precipices except this side, where the road is.”

  Forsythe, still holding Rohan’s gaze, stepped back deliberately, found a convenient rock and sat down, laughing his annoying harsh laugh, his eyes small and full of malice on Rohan’s.

  “Go on,” he said, goadingly. “Why don’t you shoot?”

  Jellaby barked out a sudden, understanding burst of amusement.

  “He won’t,” he declared. “Not him.”

  “Why won’t I?” Rohan demanded, struggling hard to keep his anger in check.

  “Because you need us, that’s why,” Forsythe said flatly. “And we don’t need you. You wouldn’t have let us in on this at all if one man could have made that trip through the jungle alone. You needed us. When you come down the Mountain loaded with jewels you’ll need us worse than ever. All right, you tricked us into coming. But it was your idea, not ours. You go right ahead and wrestle with your devil-fish up there. If you get the treasure, fine, we’ll share it with you. If you don’t come down, that’s fine too. Crazy Joe will guide us back. Suit yourself, Red. You asked for it.”

  “We didn’t shoot any d’vahnyan,” Jellaby added. “We’re clear. We’ll help you carry your rubies and diamonds back, but we won’t get ‘em for you.”

  Rohan looked at Crazy Joe. The old man smiled impersonally.

  “One at a time, Rohan,” he murmured. “That’s what I said. It isn’t allowed any other way. Even if you shot me, it wouldn’t make any difference. You’ll have to go up alone.”

  THE STEEP STONE ROAD curved around a leaning monolith and wind poured downward along it like a stream of cool, invisible water. Below, through gaps in the mist, the trembling jungle showed. Stormclouds hung purple and laced with distant lightning. Rohan’s feet as he climbed left stains of pale green and pink and violet on the road, the colors of crushed lichens.

  He could not see the men below any longer. He knew what they were thinking, though. He knew what they were planning, for he would plan identically if the situation were reversed. Forsythe and Jellaby did not mean to risk the ascent, but when he came down loaded with jewels, they would shoot him as he came. Or try to.

  He thought of Crazy Joe’s mild, witless gaze, watching him up the road until mist blotted the lifted faces out. He thought of Crazy Joe’s voice, babbling old poetry.

  “Oh youth that would attain,

  On, for thine hour is short,

  It may be thou shalt gain

  The hell-defended fort . . .

  He laughed a little. He felt very sure of himself. Continents of cloud rolled beneath him like the planet he was going to conquer when he had conquered the Mountain. It was odd, how sure he was of the treasure and the secret that would make the d’vahnyan vulnerable to him. He had only a madman’s word for it, and yet he was very sure indeed. The breath burned in his chest, not wholly from the climb. He was brimmed with excitement, dread, a fierce anticipation. Crazy Joe had been right, after all—he had to be alone at this climax of his life. He must stand or fall by his own efforts. But he would not fall.

  The road turned sharply. He had reached the top.

  He stood quite still, looking about him with narrowed eyes, whistling through his teeth without being wholly aware of it. “Sweet chariot,” he whistled, “comin’ for to carry me home.”

  There was an island in the sky. A walled island with a wide, wide gate like no gate he had ever seen before. Through the strange, lacelike meshes of it he could see the flat summit of the mountain in a gray light that cast no shadows. A windy whispering sighed across the plateau. The scene was as still and colorless as a steel engraving except for the startling blue of the pool. Crazy Joe had not lied. It was sky-blue, on a world that had never seen the sky. Thirty feet across, lapping level with the smooth rim around it, colored like eternity, the pool lay waiting him.

  He stood on the lip of a wide stone semicircle with the wall beyond it. Against the wall facing him was a rickety structure like something you might see in a bazaar near the Mediterranean, back home on Earth. A roof of tree-fronds on unsteady poles leaned against the wall, sheltering a fantastic clutter of objects beneath its dripping eaves. The hut was a jackdaw’s nest of junk. Lying motionless in a huddle of fringed blankets on the ground, a Quai slept placidly.

  Waiting to be devoured, Crazy Joe had said.

  Rohan looked curiously over the bazaar-booth’s contents, taking an inventory of the trivia in a Quai’s life that had seemed important enough to bring with him to the hour of his death. Surrounded by the detritus of his incomprehensible Venusian life, the man slept on. He lay on his face and only the pink soles of his bare feet were visible beneath the tumble of blankets. His hands were clasped together on top of his seal-sleek head.

  Above him fringes and braided ribbons fluttered from pins on the wall. There was a wire cage with a captive insect like a moth crawling about inside, chirping softly. A chain of bells hung from a carved globe of deep red wood. There were three totally incoherent paintings in irregular frames. A whistle hung by a long tassel. A pot of water held three colorless flowers, each with two petals creased down by a careful hand.

  Rohan’s feet did not make a sound on the rock, but he was aware after a moment that a round yellow eye had opened in the shadow of the Quai’s uplifted arm and was regarding him without expression. The Quai did not move.

  Rohan shrugged a little and went on toward the gate.

  THE WALL WAS HIGH and very thick, so thick that the gate aperture was really a passage about twenty feet long. The gate itself was a web which entirely filled the passage from end to end. Some spider who spun glittering, curled metal thread had been at work here. It reminded Rohan of something. What? Curled threads—yes, like the threads woven into the wrappings the d’vahnyan wore. His heart beat a little faster in triumph at this implied confirmation of Crazy Joe’s promise.

  How you passed the Gate was another matter. He squinted up at the wall. Far too high to scale. He glanced back at the Quai, and saw that the man was now sitting up, cross-legged, clasping his ankles and watching Rohan without expression. He was a little struck by the Quai’s face. Arrogance was on it. This was a man who had wielded much power over a long period of time. The set of the mouth showed it, and the imperious gaze. How strange that such a man would forsake life among his people and climb the. Mountain with his few small valued things to bear him company until the summons came . . .

  Rohan looked back at the gate. This time it seemed to him that there was an opening which led a little way into the web, like the entry into a maze. He put out a cautious hand, tested the firm, curled lace of the metal, found a vacant space the size and shape of a man, stepped forward into it.

  He stood there, peering intently before him, searching for the next open space. He was certain that it existed, but he had to keep his mind firmly fixed on the patterns to find it. Wind blowing through the gate sang faintly among the webbings.

  After a moment Rohan saw the next opening, squirmed to the left, squeezed between vibrating traceries of bright wire, and stood in another open space several paces inside the gate.

  It was certainly, he thought, a machine. Some intricate Venusian mind had built it for some purpose no Terres
trial was likely to understand, but it was definitely a functioning mechanism. It took the most intent concentration to find one’s way through, and, the moment the mind relaxed, the gate began to press the intruder back toward his starting point, gently, resiliently, almost imperceptibly.

  Rohan pushed ahead, paused for long minutes, searching the dazzling confusion before him until suddenly the right perspective took shape and he saw the next passage opening, clear and unbarred, leading another three feet or so into the tangle. When he stepped into it, the way he had just come blended instantly into the labyrinth. Suddenly frightened, he searched for the way back, found it after a few minutes, and discovered he had lost the forward way. While he hunted again for it, he was aware of the pressure of the web, of bright curled wires moving past his face. The gate was pressing him toward its outer surface.

  Resolutely he fixed his mind on the immediate problem, found the way forward, pushed into it, paused, searched again. Very slowly he made his way toward the plateau on the far side of the wall. The pool lay placid, waiting.

  “IS THIS ALL?” HE THOUGHT, looking around the empty mountain-top. Only the wet, sighing wind hissed in his ear for answer. It was all. The encircling wall hid nothing. Bare stone overgrown with blurs of colored lichens and the pool itself, an unlidded eye staring up at infinity.

  Rohan strolled toward it, paused on the brink, looking down.

  His heart turned over.

  This much at least of Crazy Joe’s tale was true. There were stars down there in the deep sky-blue of the water, stars that winked up green and red, blue and amber. Great drifts of jewels set and unset, thicker than the sands of the pool’s floor.

  Then a shadow stirred, deep down. A vast, thick coil moved upon itself, turned over slowly, settled back to rest. It was only a part of a vaster shadow. He leaned to peer closer. But the water was milky. He could not see.

  Not very much is really known about the fauna of Venus. Terrestrial exploration has been confined to narrow corridors, and if there are dangerous beasts in the jungles they generally shun the highways and the towns. What may dwell in the seas of Venus is as unknown as the deepest secrets of our own seas. This thing was vast and sluggish, dimly gleaming where light struck it strongest. Rohan measured its bulk as well as he could, considered it with a sort of reckless caution. It was slow. It was probably not hungry, or the Quai outside the gate would not be waiting there. Presumably some kind of summons would come when the Quai was wanted. Or did they operate on some private schedule of their own?! At any rate Rohan was a strong swimmer. Also, he had a knife.