Henry Kuttner: The Creature from Beyond Infinity

Ardath was speaking, carefully explaining things that his captive already knew. While Thordred seemed to listen, he swiftly pondered and discarded plans. Zana must die, of course. As for sleeping for centuries— Well, it was not a pleasant thought. Ardath must be slain, so Thordred could return to Earth, with new knowledge.

"The giants you saw in the sky," said Ardath, "were not real. They were three-dimensional projections, enlarged by my apparatus. I recorded the originals of those beings ages ago, when they actually lived and fought cave-bears and saber-toothed tigers."

No, they were merely images, but men had seen them and remembered. The panic in the city below had died. In its place grew superstitious dread, fostered by the priests. Time passed, and neither Zana nor Thordred returned. New rulers arose to sit upon the black throne.

But on the Mountain of the Gods, men toiled under the lash of the priests. Monstrous images of stone rose against the sky, gap-mouthed, fearsome images in crude similitude of the devils who had come out of the sunset.

"They may return," the priests warned. "But the stone giants on the mountain will frighten them away. Build them higher! They will guard our city."

On the peak the blind, alien faces glared ever into the sunset. And the days fled into years, and the dark centuries shrouded Earth. Continents crumbled. The eternal seas rose and washed new shores.

But the blind gods stayed to guard that which no longer needed guarding. And still they watch, those strange, alien statues on Easter Island.

New Year's Day, 1941, was a momentous hour for Stephen Court. Most of December, 1940, he had spent in his laboratories, engrossed with a task the nature of which he explained to no one. The great Wisconsin mansion, where he lived with his staff, had been metamorphosed into a fortress of science, though from the outside it resembled merely an antique, dilapidated structure. But nearby villagers viewed with suspicion the activity around Court's home.

The local post-office was deluged with letters and packages. At all hours automobiles arrived, carrying cryptic burdens for Court.

Slyly the villagers questioned Sammy, for he often wandered into the combination store and post office, to sit by the stove and puff great, reeking fumes from his battered pipe. Sammy had not changed much with the years. His hair had turned white, and there were merely a few more creases in his brown face. Since moving to Wisconsin, Stephen had relaxed the anti-liquor restriction, but Sammy had learned the value of moderation.

"What's going on up at your place?" the storekeeper asked him, proffering a bottle.

Sammy drank two measured gulps and wiped his lips.

"The Lord only knows," he sighed. "It's way beyond me. Stevie's a swell boy, though. You can bet on that."

"Yeah!" retorted somebody, with an angry snort. "He's a cold-blooded fish, you mean. The boy ain't human. He's got ice-water in his veins. Comes and goes without so much as a howdy-do."

"He's thinking," Sammy defended sturdily. "Got a lot on his mind these days, Stevie has. He gets about two hours' sleep a night."

"But what's he doin'?"

"I don't know," admitted Sammy. "Inventing something, maybe."

"More than likely he'll blow us all up one of these fine days," grunted the storekeeper. The loungers around the stove nodded in agreement. "Here's the tram coming in. Hear it?"

Sammy settled himself more comfortably. 'There ought to be a package for Stevie, then."

There was. The old man took the parcel and left the station. He stood for a time, watching toe train disappear into the distance. Its whistle sang a seductive song that aroused nostalgia in Sammy's bosom. He sighed, remembering the old days when he had been a hungry, carefree bindle-stiff. Well, he was better off now—well fed and cared for, without any worries. But it was nice to hear a train whistle- once in awhile…

He climbed into the roadster and zoomed off toward the mansion. Ten minutes later he let himself into the hall, to be met by an anxious-eyed girl in a white uniform.

"Did it come?" she asked.

"Sure, Marion. Here it is."

He gave her the parcel. Holding it tightly, she turned and hurried away.

Since her arrival three years ago, Marion Barton had become a fixture in the house. She had been hired, at first, as a temporary laboratory assistant, during the absence of the regular one. But she had interested Court who saw surprising capabilities in her.

The fact that Marion was altogether lovely—slim, brown-eyed, dark-haired, with a peach complexion and remarkably kissable lips—meant nothing at all to Court. He merely catalogued her as a perfect physical specimen, thoroughly healthy, and concentrated on the more interesting occupation of investigating her mind. What he found there pleased him.

"She's intelligent," he told Sammy, "and she is meticulously careful. I've never seen her make a mistake. She's such a perfect assistant for me that we work in complete harmony. The girl seems to know exactly what I want, whether to hand me a scalpel or a lens, and she's completely unemotional. I shall keep her on, Sammy, and train her."

"Uh-huh," said the old man, nodding wisely. "She does all that, and she's completely unemotional, eh? Well, maybe so. Sure she ain't in love with you, Stevie?"

"Rot!" Court snapped, but it made him think it was necessary to warn Marion. "I'll pay you well," he explained to her, "and give you an invaluable training. But I have no time for emotional unbalance. I cannot afford distractions. Do you understand me?"

"Well," Marion observed with desperate levity, "I'll wear horn-rimmed glasses if you want, and hoop-skirts if my legs distract you."

"Not at all. I merely mean that there must be no question of any—well—infatuation."

Marion was silent for a moment, though her eyes sparkled dangerously.

"All right," she said quietly. "I won't fall in love with you, Mr. Court. Is that satisfactory?"

"Quite," Court said.

He turned away, obviously dismissing the subject, while Marion glared at his retreating back…

She was remembering this scene now as she went into Court's laboratory. He was bent over a table, one eye to a microscope, his lips tensely pursed. Marion waited till he had finished his count. He straightened and saw her.

"Got it?" he asked calmly. "Good."

Court ripped open the package and drew out a small, leather-bound notebook. Hastily he flipped through the pages. His strong, tanned face darkened.

"Wait a minute, Marion," he called as the girl moved to leave. "I want to talk to you."

"Yes?"

"Er—this is New Year's Eve, I know. Had you planned on doing anything tonight?"

Marion's brown eyes widened. She stared at Court in amazement. Was he trying to date her?

"Why, I did plan on—"

' I should appreciate it," he said, without a trace of embarrassment, "if you would stay and help me with some research tonight. I regret having to say this, but it's rather important. I want to verify certain tests."

"I'll stay," Marion assented briefly, but she flushed.

"Good. Stain these slides, please."

For several hours the two worked in silence. Court engrossed with his microscope, the girl busy dyeing the samples. Finally Court exhausted a small tank and conducted experiments in the vacuum he had created.

Time dragged on, till the huge old house was utterly still. The chill of a Wisconsin winter blanketed it, making frost patterns on the window panes. Inside the room it was warm enough, though snow lay thickly on the ground outside.

Presently Marion slipped out of the room and returned bearing a tray of coffee and sandwiches. She set it on a table and glanced at Court. Standing by a window, he was idly smoking a cigarette.