Henry Kuttner - Clash by Night

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Also available in Hamlyn Paperbacks by Henry Kuttner

FURY

MUTANT

CLASH BY NIGHT and other stories HENRY KUTTNER with C. L. MOORE

Selected and introduced by Peter Pinto

Hamlyn Paperbacks

CLASH BY NIGHT and other stories ISBN o 600 32150 9

CONTENTS

First published in Great Britain in this arrangement by Hamlyn Paperbacks 1980

in Astounding Science Fiction, March 1943.

Publications, Inc., and originally published in Astounding Science Fiction, November 1944.

Wonder Stories, February 1947.

originally published in Space Science Fiction, May 1952.

in Astounding Science Fiction, September 1946.

Hamlyn Paperbacks are published by

The Hamlyn Publishing Group Ltd,

Astronaut House,

Feltham, Middlesex, England

Made and printed in Great Britain by

Hazell Watson & Viney Ltd,

Aylesbury, Bucks

Introduction

Clash by Night

When the Bough Breaks

Juke-Box

The Ego Machine

Vintage Season

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be

lent, re-sold; hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any

form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition

including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

INTRODUCTION

In 1940 two fine science fiction writers married. Not only did Catherine ('C.L.') Moore and Henry

Kuttner marry their lives, but they also married their writing careers. From two good writers were

born whole companies of pseudonymous great writers (Lewis Padgett, Lawrence O'Donnell . . . to

name but thirty). The number of pen-names used by the prolific partners together and apart at one

time threatened to swamp the universe of quality SF - indeed, so great was their contribution that

when Jack Vance started his illustrious career, a rumour quickly spread that this was yet another

reflection of the versatile Kuttner-Moore genius! (A rumour, I hasten to add, that had and has no

truth in it whatsoever.)

In 1958 this fruitful collaboration came to an untimely end. Henry Kuttner died at the age of

forty-four, and science fiction was sadly diminished. The two were in the midst of their first

television script at the time of Henry Kuttner's sudden death. C. L. Moore finished the work and

continued in the television field until after her second marriage six years later. She has done no

science-fiction writing since the late 19505.

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Hamlyn Paperbacks have already published Mutant and Fury, and will continue to bring back into

print the works of one of science fiction's great masters. I do not anticipate the best of Kuttner

(and Kuttner-and-Moore)'s work becoming unavailable again for any significant length of time from

now until entertaining and highly polished story-telling goes out of fashion.

I have re-edited the collections to eliminate annoying overlaps, to make up the books to

convenient lengths, and to collect stories in the same series into the same volumes.

I appreciate this may cause some Kuttner fans of long standing anguish, pain, depletion of

resources and the like, but please bear with me; you will now be able to turn your friends on to

Galloway Gallegher and Joe, the Hogbens - in a word, 'otherness' - without risking your

irreplaceable first editions.

So spread the word. Kuttner is coming back into print. It is now up to you to ensure that future

generations of fans are not denied the opportunity to sit amused, baffled, delighted, bewildered,

tickled, frightened, amazed, entertained and enthralled by the otherness of the Kuttners, Henry

Kuttner and C. L. Moore.

Peter Pinto 1980.

CLASH BY NIGHT

The whole system of which he was a part was doomed, he knew - a mercenary army that fought other

mercenary armies for cities that lay beneath Ihe seas of Venus. Yet - there was a fascination and

a reasonless loyalty to that futile system that held him.

INTRODUCTION

A half mile beneath the shallow Venusian Sea the black impervium dome that protects Montana Keep

rests frowningly on the bottom. Within the Keep is carnival, for the Montanans celebrate the four-

hundred-year anniversary of Earthman's landing on Venus. Under the great dome that houses the city

all is light and colour and gaiety. Masked men and women, bright in celoflex and silks, wander

through the broad streets, laughing, drinking the strong native wines of Venus. The sea bottom has

been combed, like the hydroponic tanks, for rare delicacies to grace the tables of the nobles.

Through the festival grim shadows stalk, men whose faces mark them unmistakably as members of a

Free Company. Their finery cannot disguise that stamp, hard-won through years of battle. Under the

domino masks their mouths are hard and harsh. Unlike the undersea dwellers, their skins are burned

black with the ultraviolet rays that filter through the cloud layer of Venus. They are skeletons

at the feast.

They are respected but resented. They are Free Companions . . .

We are on Venus, nine hundred years ago, beneath the Sea of Shoals, not much north of the equator.

But there is a wide range in time and space. All over the cloud planet the underwater Keeps are

dotted, and life will not change for many centuries. Looking back, as we do now, from the

civilized days of the Thirty-fourth Century, it is too easy to regard the men of the Keeps as

savages, groping, stupid and brutal. The Free Companies have long since vanished. The islands and

continents of Venus have been tamed, and there is no war.

But in periods of transition, of desperate rivalry, there is always war. The Keeps fought among

themselves, each striving to draw the fangs of the others by depriving them of their reserves of

korium, the power source of the day. Students of that era find pleasure in sifting the legends and

winnowing out the basic social and geopolitical truths. It is fairly well known that only one

factor saved the Keeps from annihilating one another - the gentlemen's agreement that left war to

the warriors, and allowed the undersea cities to develop their science and social cultures. That

particular compromise was, perhaps, inevitable. And it caused the organization of the Free

Companies, the roving bands of mercenaries, highly trained for their duties, who hired themselves

out to fight for whatever Keeps were attacked or wished to attack.

Ap Towrn, in his monumental 'Cycle of Venus,' tells the saga through symbolic legends. Many

historians have recorded the sober truth, which unfortunately seems often Mars-dry. But it is not

generally realized that the Free Companions were almost directly responsible for our present high

culture. War, because of them, was not permitted to usurp the place of peace-time social and

scientific work. Fighting was highly specialized, and, because of technical advances, manpower was

no longer important. Each band of Free Companions numbered a few thousand, seldom more.

It was a strange, lonely life they must have led, shut out

from the normal life of the Keeps. They were vestigian but necessary, like the fangs of the

marsupians who eventually evolved into Homo sapiens. But without those warriors, the Keeps would

have been plunged completely into total war, with fatally destructive results.

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Harsh, gallant, indomitable, serving the god of battles so that it might be destroyed - working

toward their own obliteration - the Free Companies roar down the pages of history, the banner of

Mars streaming above them in the misty air of Venus. They were doomed as Tyrannosaur Rex was

doomed, and they fought on as he did, serving, in their strange way, the shape of Minerva that

stood behind Mars.

Now they are gone. We can learn much by studying the place they held in the Undersea Period. For,

because of them, civilization rose again to the heights it had once reached on Earth, and far

beyond.

'These lords shall light the mystery Of mastery or victory, And these ride high in history, But

these shall not return.'

The Free Companions hold their place in interplanetary literature. They are a legend now, archaic

and strange. For they were fighters, and war has gone with unification. But we can understand them

a little more than could the people of the Keeps.

This story, built on legends and fact, is about a typical warrior of the period- Captain Brian

Scott of Doone's Free Companions. He may never have existed-

O, it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' 'Tommy, go away'; But it's 'Thank you, Mr. Atkins,' when

the band begins to play, The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play- O, ifs 'Thank

you, Mr. Atkins,' when the band begins to play.

-R. Kipling circa 1900

Scott drank stinging uisqueplus and glowered across the

smoky tavern. He was a hard, stocky man, with thick grey-shot brown hair and the scar of an old

wound crinkling his chin. He was thirty-odd, looking like the veteran he was, and he had sense

enough to wear a plain suit of blue celoflex, rather than the garish silks and rainbow fabrics

that were all around him.

Outside, through the transparent walls, a laughing throng was carried to and fro along the movable

ways. But in the tavern it was silent, except for the low voice of a harpman as he chanted some

old ballad, accompanying himself on his complicated instrument. The song came to an end. There was

scattered applause, and from the hot-box overhead the blaring music of an orchestra burst out.

Instantly the restraint was gone. In the booths and at the bar men and women began to laugh and

talk with casual unrestraint. Couples were dancing now.

The girl beside Scott, a slim, tan-skinned figure with glossy black ringlets cascading to her

shoulders, turned inquiring eyes to him.

'Want to, Brian?'

Scott's mouth twisted in a wry grimace. 'Suppose so, Jeana. Eh?' He rose, and she came gracefully

into his arms. Brian did not dance too well, but what he lacked in practice he made up in

integration. Jeana's heart-shaped face, with its high cheekbones and vividly crimson lips, lifted

to him.

'Forget Bienne. He's just trying to ride you.'

Scott glanced toward a distant booth, where two girls sat with a man - Commander Fredric Bienne of

the Doones. He was a gaunt, tall, bitter-faced man, his regular features twisted into a perpetual

sneer, his eyes sombre under heavy dark brows. He was pointing now, toward the couple on the

floor.

'I know,' Scott said. 'He's doing it, too. Well, the hell with him. So I'm a captain now and he's

still a commander. That's tough. Next time he'll obey orders and not send his ship out of the

line, trying to ram.'

'That was it, eh?' Jeana asked. 'I wasn't sure. There's plenty of talk.'

'There always is. Oh, Bienne's hated me for years. I reciprocate. We simply don't get on together.

Never did. Every time I got a promotion, he chewed his nails. Figured he had a longer service

record than I had, and deserved to move up faster. But he's too much of an individualist - at the

wrong times.'

'He's drinking a lot,' Jeana said.

'Let him. Three months we've been in Montana Keep. The boys get tired of inaction- being treated

like this.' Scott nodded toward the door, where a Free Companion was arguing with the keeper. 'No

noncoms allowed in here. Well, the devil with it.'

They could not hear the conversation above the hubbub, but its importance was evident. Presently

the soldier shrugged, his mouth forming a curse, and departed. A fat man in scarlet silks shouted

encouragement.

'-want any . . . Companions here!'

Scott saw Commander Bienne, his eyes half closed, get up and walk toward the fat man's booth. His

shoulder moved in an imperceptible shrug. The hell with civilians, anyhow. Serve the lug right if

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Bienne smashed his greasy face. And that seemed the probable outcome. For the fat man was

accompanied by a girl, and obviously wasn't going to back down, though Bienne, standing too close

to him, was saying something insulting, apparently.

The auxiliary hot-box snapped some quick syllables, lost in the general tumult. But Scott's

trained ear caught the words. He nodded to Jeana, made a significant clicking noise with his

tongue, and said, 'This is it.'

She, too, had heard. She let Scott go. He headed toward the fat man's booth just in time to see

the beginning of a brawl. The civilian, red as a turkey cock, had struck out suddenly, landing

purely by accident on Bienne's gaunt cheek. The commander, grinning tightly, stepped back a pace,

his fist clenching. Scott caught the other's arm.

'Hold it, commander.'

Bienne swung around, glaring. 'What business is it of yours? Let-'

The fat man, seeing his opponent's attention distracted, acquired more courage and came in

swinging. Scott reached past Bienne, planted his open hand in the civilian's face, and pushed

hard. The fat man almost fell backward on his table.

As he rebounded he saw a gun in Scott's hand. The captain said curtly,' 'Tend to your knitting,

mister.'

The civilian licked his lips, hesitated, and sat down. Under his breath he muttered something

about too-damn-cocky Free Companions.

Bienne was trying to break free, ready to swing on the captain. Scott bolstered his gun. 'Orders,'

he told the other, jerking his head toward the hot-box. 'Get it?'

'-mobilization. Doonemen report to headquarters. Captain Scott to Administration. Immediate

mobilization-'

'Oh,' Bienne said, though he still scowled. 'O.K. I'll take over. There was time for me to take a

crack at that louse, though.'

'You know what instant mobilization means,' Scott grunted. 'We may have to leave at an instant's

notice. Orders, commander.'

Bienne saluted halfheartedly and turned away. Scott went back to his own booth. Jeana had already

gathered her handbag and gloves and was applying lip juice.

She met his eyes calmly enough.

'I'll be at the apartment, Brian. Luck.'

He kissed her briefly, conscious of a surging excitement at the.prospect of a new venture. Jeana

understood his emotion. She gave him a quick, wry smile, touched his hair lightly, and rose. They

went out into the gay tumult of the ways.

Perfumed wind blew into Scott's face. He wrinkled his nose disgustedly. During carnival seasons

the Keeps were less pleasant to the Free Companions than otherwise; they felt more keenly the gulf

that lay between them and the undersea dwellers. Scott pushed his way through the crowd and took

Jeana across the ways to the centre fast-speed strip. They found seats.

At a clover-leaf intersection Scott left the girl, heading toward Administration, the cluster of

taller buildings in the city's centre. The technical and political headquarters were centred here,

except for the laboratories, which were in the suburbs near the base of the Dome. There were a few

small test-domes a mile or so distant from the city, but these were used only for more precarious

experiments. Glancing up, Scott was reminded of the catastrophe that had unified science into

something like a freemasonry. Above him, hanging without gravity over a central plaza, was the

globe of the Earth, half shrouded by the folds of a black plastic pall. In every Keep on Venus

there was a similar ever-present reminder of the lost mother planet.

Scott's gaze went up farther, to the Dome, as though he could penetrate the impervium and the mile-

deep layer of water and the clouded atmosphere to the white star that hung in space, one quarter

as brilliant as the Sun. A star -all that remained of Earth, since atomic power had been unleashed

there two centuries ago. The scourge had spread like flame, melting continents and levelling

mountains. In the libraries there were wire-tape pictorial records of the Holocaust. A religious

cult - Men of the New Judgment -had sprung up, and advocated the complete destruction of science;

followers of that dogma still existed here and there. But the cult's teeth had been drawn when

technicians unified, outlawing experiments with atomic power forever, making use of that force

punishable by death, and permitting no one to join their society without taking the Minervan Oath.

'-to work for the ultimate good of mankind . . . taking all precaution against harming humanity

and science . . . requiring permission from those in authority before undertaking any experiment

involving peril to the race ... remembering always the extent of the trust placed in us and

remembering forever the death of the mother planet through misuse of knowledge-'

The Earth. A strange sort of world it must have been, Scott thought. Sunlight, for one thing,

unfiltered by the cloud layer. In the old days, there had been few unexplored areas left on Earth.

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But here on Venus, where the continents had not yet been conquered - there was no need, of course,

since everything necessary to life could be produced under the Domes- here on Venus, there was

still a frontier. In the Keeps, a highly specialized social culture. Above the surface, a primeval

world, where only the Free Companions had their fortresses and navies- the navies for fighting,

the forts to house the technicians who provided the latter-day sinews of war, science instead of

money. The Keeps tolerated visits from the Free Companions, but would not offer them headquarters,

so violent the feeling, so sharp the schism, in the public mind, between war and cultural

progress.

Under Scott's feet the sliding way turned into an escalator, carrying him into the Administration

Building. He stepped to another way which took him to a lift, and, a moment or two later, was

facing the door-curtain bearing the face of President Dane Crosby of Montana Keep.

Crosby's voice said, 'Come in, captain,' and Scott brushed through the curtain, finding himself in

a medium-sized room with muralled walls and a great window overlooking the city. Crosby, a white-

haired, thin figure in blue silks, was at his desk. He looked like a tired old clerk out of

Dickens, Scott thought suddenly, entirely undistinguished and ordinary. Yet Crosby was one of the

great sociopoliticians on Venus.

Cine Rhys, leader of Doone's Free Companions, was sitting in a relaxer, the apparent antithesis of

Crosby. All the moisture in Rhys' body seemed to have been sucked out of him years ago by

ultraviolet actinic, leaving a mummy of brown leather and whipcord sinew. There was no softness in

the man. His smile was a grimace. Muscles lay like wire under the swarthy cheeks.

Scott saluted. Rhys waved him to a relaxer. The look of subdued eagerness in the cinc's eyes was

significant - an

eagle poising himself, smelling blood. Crosby sensed that, and a wry grin showed on his pale face.

'Every man to his trade,' he remarked, semi-ironically. Tsuppose I'd be bored stiff if I had too

long a vacation. But you'll have quite a battle on your hands this time. Cine Rhys.'

Scott's stocky body tensed automatically. Rhys glanced at him.

'Virginia Keep is attacking, captain. They've hired the Helldivers - Flynn's outfit.'

There was a pause. Both Free Companions were anxious to discuss the angles, but unwilling to do so

in the presence of a civilian, even the president of Montana Keep. Crosby rose.

'The money settlement's satisfactory, then?'

Rhys nodded. 'Yes, that's all right. I expect the battle will take place in a couple of days. In

the neighbourhood of Venus Deep, at a rough guess.'

'Good. I've a favour to ask, so if you'll excuse me for a few minutes, I'll-' He left the sentence

unfinished and went out through the door-curtain. Rhys offered Scott a cigarette.

'You get the implications, captain - the Helldivers?'

'Yes, sir. Thanks. We can't do it alone.'

'Right. We're short on manpower and armament both. And the Helldivers recently merged with

O'Brien's Legion, after O'Brien was killed in that polar scrap. They're a strong outfit, plenty

strong. Then they've got their speciality -submarine attack. I'd say we'll have to use H-plan 7.'

Scott closed his eyes, remembering the files. Each Free Company kept up-to-date plans of attack

suited to the merits of every other Company of Venus. Frequently revised as new advances were

made, as groups merged, and as the balance of power changed on each side, the plans were so

detailed that they could be carried into action at literally a moment's notice. H-plan 7, Scott

recalled, involved enlisting the aid of the Mob, a small but well-organized band of Free

Companions led by Cine Tom Mendez.

'Right,' Scott said. 'Can you get him?'

'I think so. We haven't agreed yet on the bonus. I've been telaudioing him on a tight beam, but he

keeps putting me off - waiting till the last moment, when he can dictate his own terms.'

'What's he asking, sir?'

'Fifty thousand cash and a fifty per cent cut on the loot.'

'I'd say thirty per cent would be about right.'

Rhys nodded. 'I've offered him thirty-five. I may send you to his fort- carte blanche. We can get

another Company, but Mendez has got beautiful sub-detectors - which would come hi handy against

the Helldivers. Maybe I can settle things by audio. If not, you'll have to fly over to Mendez and

buy his services, at less than fifty per cent if you can.'

Scott rubbed the old scar on his chin with a calloused forefinger. 'Meantime Commander Bienne's in

charge of mobilization. When-'

'I telaudioed our fort. Air transports are on the way now.'

'It'll be quite a scrap,' Scott said, and the eyes of the two men met in perfect understanding.

Rhys chuckled drylyx.

'And good profits. Virginia Keep has a big supply of korium . . . dunno how much, but plenty.'

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'What started the fracas this time?'

'The usual thing, I suppose,' Rhys said disinterestedly. 'Imperialism. Somebody in Virginia Keep

worked out a new plan for annexing the rest of the.Keeps. Same as usual.'

They stood up as the door-curtain swung back, admitting President Crosby, another man, and a girl.

The man looked young, his boyish face not yet toughened under actinic burn. The girl was lovely in

the manner of a plastic figurine, lit from within by vibrant life. Her blonde hair was cropped in

the prevalent mode, and her eyes, Scott saw, were an unusual shade of green. She was more than

merely pretty -she was instantly exciting.

Crosby said, 'My niece, Ilene Kane - and my nephew, Norman Kane.' He performed introductions, and

they found seats.

'What about drinks?' Ilene suggested. 'This is rather revoltingly formal. The fight hasn't started

yet, after all.'

Crosby shook his head at her. 'You weren't invited here anyway. Don't try to turn this into a

party - there isn't too much time, under the circumstances.'

'O.K.,' Ilene murmured. 'I can wait.' She eyed Scott interestedly.

Norman Kane broke in. 'I'd like to join Doone's Free Companions, sir. I've already applied, but

now that there's a battle coming up, I hate to wait till my application's approved. So I thought-'

Crosby looked at Cine Rhys. 'A personal favour, but the decision's up to you. My nephew's a misfit

- a romanticist. Never liked the life of a Keep. A year ago he went off and joined Starling's

outfit.'

Rhys raised an eyebrow. 'That gang? It's not a recommendation, Kane. They're not even classed as

Free Companions. More like a band of guerrillas, and entirely without ethics. There've even been

rumours they're messing around with atomic power.'

Crosby looked startled. 'I hadn't heard that.'

'It's no more than a rumour. If it's ever proved, the Free Companions - all of them - will get

together and smash Starling in a hurry.'

Norman Kane looked slightly uncomfortable. 'I suppose I was rather a fool. But I wanted to get in

the fighting game, and Starling's groups appealed to me-'

The cine made a sound in his throat. 'They would. Swashbuckling romantics, with no idea of what

war means. They've not more than a dozen technicians. And they've no discipline - it's like a

pirate outfit. War today, Kane, isn't won by romantic animals dashing at forlorn hopes. The modern

soldier is a tactician who knows how to think, integrate, and obey. If you join our Company,

you'll have to forget what you learned with Starling.'

'Will you take me, sir?'

'I think it would be unwise. You need the training course.'

'I've had experience-'

Crosby said, 'It would be a favour, Cine Rhys, if you'd skip the red tape. I'd appreciate it.

Since my nephew wants to be a soldier, I'd much prefer to see him with the Doones.'

Rhys shrugged. 'Very well, Captain Scott will give you your orders, Kane. Remember that discipline

is vitally important with us.'

The boy tried to force back a delighted grin. 'Thank you, sir.'

'Captain-'

Scott rose and nodded to Kane. They went out together. In the anteroom was a telaudio set, and

Scott called the Doone's local headquarters in Montana Keep. An integrator answered, his face

looking inquiringly from the screen.

'Captain Scott calling, subject induction.'

'Yes, sir. Ready to record.'

Scott drew Kane forward. Thotosnap this man. He'll report to headquarters immediately. Name,

Norman Kane. Enlist him without training course - special orders from Cine Rhys.'

'Acknowledged, sir.'

Scott broke the connection. Kane couldn't quite repress his grin.

'All right,' the captain grunted, a sympathetic gleam in his eyes. 'That fixes it. They'll put you

in my command. What's your speciality.'

'Flitterboats, sir.'

'Good. One more thing. Don't forget what Cine Rhys said, Kane. Discipline is damned important, and

you may not have realized that yet. This isn't a cloak-and-sword war. There are no Charges of

Light Brigades. No grandstand plays - that stuff went out with the Crusades. Just obey orders, and

you'll have no trouble. Good luck.'

'Thank you, sir.' Kane saluted and strode out with a perceptible swagger. Scott grinned. The kid

would have that knocked out of him pretty soon.

A voice at his side made him turn quickly. Ilene Kane was standing there, slim and lovely in her

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celoflex gown.

'You seem pretty human after all, captain,' she said. 'I heard what you told Norman.'

Scott shrugged. 'I did that for his own good - and the good of the Company. One man off the beam

can cause plenty trouble, Mistress Kane.'

'I envy Norman,' she said. 'It must be a fascinating life you lead. I'd like it - for a while. Not

for long. I'm one of the useless offshoots of this civilization, not much good for anything. So

I've perfected one talent.'

'What's that?'

'Oh, hedonism, I suppose you'd call it. I enjoy myself. It's not often too boring. But I'm a bit

bored now. I'd like to talk to you, captain.'

'Well. I'm listening,' Scott said.

Ilene Kane made a small grimace. 'Wrong semantic term. I'd like to get inside of you

psychologically. But painlessly. Dinner and dancing. Can do?'

'There's no time,' Scott told her. 'We may get our orders any moment.' He wasn't sure he wanted to

go out with this girl of the Keeps, though there was definitely a subtle fascination for him, an

appeal he could not analyse. She typified the most pleasurable part of a world he did not know.

The other facets of that world could not impinge on him; geopolitics or nonmilitary science held

no appeal, were too alien. But all worlds touch at one point - pleasure. Scott could understand

the relaxations of the undersea groups, as he could not understand or feel sympathy for their work

or their social impulses.

Cine Rhys came through the door-curtain, his eyes narrowed. 'I've some telaudioing to do,

captain,' he said. Scott knew what implications the words held: the incipient bargain with Cine

Mendez. He nodded.

'Yes, sir. Shall I report to headquarters?'

Rhys' harsh face seemed to relax suddenly as he looked from Ilene to Scott. 'You're free till

dawn. I won't need you till then, but report to me at 6 a.m. No doubt you've a few details to

clean up.'

'Very well, sir.' Scott watched Rhys go out. The cine had meant Jeana, of course. But Ilene did

not know that.

'So?' she asked. 'Do I get a turn-down? You might buy me a drink, anyway.'

There was plenty of time. Scott said, 'It'll be a pleasure,' and Ilene linked her arm with his.

They took the dropper to ground-level.

As they came out on one of the ways, Ilene turned her head and caught Scott's glance. 'I forgot

something, captain. You may have a previous engagement. I didn't realize-'

'There's nothing,' he said. 'Nothing important.'

It was true; he felt a mild gratitude toward Jeana at the realization. His relationship with her

was the peculiar one rendered advisable by his career. Free-marriage was the word for it; Jeana

was neither his wife nor his mistress, but something midway between. The Free Companions had no

firmly grounded foundation for social life; in the Keeps they were visitors, and in their coastal

forts they were - well, soldiers. One would no more bring a woman to a fort than aboard a ship of

the line. So the women of the Free Companions lived in the Keeps, moving from one to another as

their men did; and because of the ever-present shadow of death, ties were purposely left loose.

Jeana and Scott had been free-married for five years now. Neither made demands on the other. No

one expected fidelity of a Free Companion. Soldiers lived under such iron disciplines that when

they were released, during the brief peacetimes, the pendulum often swung far in the opposite

direction.

To Scott, Ilene Kane was a key that might unlock the doors of the Keep - doors that opened to a

world of which he was not a part, and which he could not quite understand.

I, a stranger and afraid In a world I never made.

-Housman

There were nuances, Scott found, which he had never known existed. A hedonist hike Ilene devoted

her life to such nuances; they were her career. Such minor matters as making the powerful, insipid

Moonflower Cocktails more palatable by filtering them through lime-soaked sugar held between the

teeth. Scott was a uisqueplus man, having the average soldier's contempt for what he termed

hydroponic drinks, but the cocktails Ilene suggested were quite as effective as acrid, burning

amber uisqueplus. She taught him, that night, such tricks as pausing between glasses to sniff

lightly at happy-gas, to mingle sensual excitement with mental by trying the amusement rides

designed to give one the violent physical intoxication of breathless speed. Nuances all, which

only a girl with Ilene's background could know. She was not representative of Keep life. As she

had said, she was an offshoot, a casual and useless flower on the great vine that struck up

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inexorably to the skies, its strength in its tough, reaching tendrils - scientists and technicians

and sociopoliti-cians. She was doomed in her own way, as Scott was in his. The undersea folk

served Minerva; Scott served Mars; and Ilene served Aphrodite - not purely the sexual goddess, but

the patron of arts and pleasure. Between Scott and Ilene was the difference between Wagner and

Strauss; the difference between crashing chords and tinkling arpeggios. In both was a muted

bittersweet sadness, seldom realized by either. But that undertone was brought out by then-

contact. The sense of dim hopelessness in each responded to the other.

It was carnival, but neither Ilene nor Scott wore masks. Their faces were masks enough, and both

had been trained to reserve, though in different ways. Scott's hard mouth kept its tight grimness

even when he smiled. And Ilene's smiles came so often that they were meaningless.

Through her, Scott was able to understand more of the undersea life than he had ever done before.

She was for him a catalyst. A tacit understanding grew between them, not needing words. Both

realized that, in the course of progress, they would eventually die out. Mankind tolerated them

because that was necessary for a little time. Each responded differently. Scott served Mars; he

served actively; and the girl, who was passive, was attracted by the antithesis.

Scott's drunkenness struck psychically deep. He did not show it. His stiff silver-brown hair was

not disarranged, and his hard, burned face was impassive as ever. But when his brown eyes met

Ilene's green ones a spark of- something-met between them.

Colour and light and sound. They began to form a pattern now, were not quite meaningless to Scott.

They were, long past midnight, sitting in an Olympus, which was a private cosmos. The walls of the

room in which they were seemed nonexistent. The gusty tides of grey, faintly luminous clouds

seemed to drive chaotically past them, and, dimly, they could hear the muffled screaming of an

artificial wind. They had the isolation of the gods.

And the Earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep- That was, of

course, the theory of the Olympus rooms. No one existed, no world existed, outside of the chamber;

values automatically shifted, and inhibitions seemed absurd.

Scott relaxed on a translucent cushion like a cloud. Beside him, Ilene lifted the bit of a happy-

gas tube to his nostrils. He shook his head.

'Not now, Ilene.'

She let the tube slide back into its reel. 'Nor I. Too much of anything is unsatisfactory, Brian.

There should always be something imtasted, some anticipation left- You have that. I haven't.'

'How?'

'Pleasures - well, there's a limit. There's a limit to human endurance. And eventually I build up

a resistance psychi-

cally, as I do physically, to everything. With you, there's always the last adventure. You never

know when death will come. You can't plan. Plans are dull; it's the unexpected that's important.'

Scott shook his head slightly. 'Death isn't important either. It's an automatic cancellation of

values. Or, rather-'He hesitated, seeking words. 'In this life you can plan, you can work out

values, because they're all based on certain conditions. On - let's say - arithmetic. Death is a

change to a different plane of conditions, quite unknown. Arithmetical rules don't apply as such

to geometry.'

'You think death has its rules?'

'It may be a lack of rules, Ilene. One lives realizing that life is subject to death; civilization

is based on that. That's why civilization concentrates on the race instead of the individual.

Social self-preservation.'

She looked at him gravely. 'I didn't think a Free Companion could theorize that way.'

Scott closed his eyes, relaxing. 'The Keeps know nothing about Free Companions. They don't want

to. We're men. Intelligent men. Our techniques are as great as the scientists under the Domes.'

'But they work for war.'

'War's necessary,' Scott said. 'Now, anyway.'

'How did you get into it? Should I ask?'

He laughed a little at that. 'Oh, I've no dark secrets in my past. I'm not a runaway murderer. One-

drifts. I was born in Australia Keep. My father was a tech, but my grandfather had been a soldier.

I guess it was in my blood. I tried various trades and professions. Meaningless. I wanted

something that . . . hell, I don't know. Something, maybe that needs all of a man. Fighting does.

It's like a religion. Those cultists - Men of the New Judgment - they're fanatics, but you can see

that their religion is the only thing that matters to them.'

'Bearded, dirty men with twisted minds, though.'

'It happens to be a religion based on false premises. There are others, appealing to different

types. But religion was too passive for me, in these days.'

Ilene examined his harsh face. 'You'd have preferred the church militant- the Knights of Malta,

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fighting Saracens.'

'I suppose. I had no values. Anyhow, I'm a fighter.'

'Just how important is it to you? The Free Companions?'

Scott opened his eyes and grinned at the girl. He looked unexpectedly boyish.

'Damn little, really. It has emotional appeal. Intellectually, I know that it's a huge fake.

Always has been. As absurd as the Men of the new Judgment. Fighting's doomed. So we've no real

purpose. I suppose most of us know there's no future for the Free Companions. In a few hundred

years- well!'

'And still you go on. Why? It isn't money.'

'No. There is a ... a drunkenness to it. The ancient Norsemen had their berserker madness. We have

something similar. To a Dooneman, his group is father, mother, child, and God Almighty. He fights

the other Free Companions when he's paid to do so, but he doesn't hate the others. They serve the

same toppling idol. And it is toppling, Ilene. Each battle we win or lose brings us closer to the

end. We fight to protect the culture that eventually will wipe us out. The Keeps- when they

finally unify, will they need a military arm? I can see the trend. If war was an essential part of

civilization, each Keep would maintain its own military. But they shut us out- a necessary evil.

If they would end war now!' Scott's fist unconsciously clenched. 'So many men would find happier

places in Venus- undersea. But as long as the Free Companions exist, there'll be new recruits.'

Ilene sipped her cocktail, watching the grey chaos of clouds flow like a tide around them. In the

dimly luminous light Scott's face seemed like dark stone, flecks of brightness showing in his

eyes. She touched his hand gently.

'You're a soldier, Brian. You wouldn't change.'

His laugh was intensely bitter. 'Like hell I wouldn't, Mistress Ilene Kane! Do you think

fighting's just pulling a trigger? I'm a military strategist. That took ten years. Harder cramming

than I'd have had in a Keep Tech-Institute. I have to know everything about war from trajectories

to mass psychology. This is the greatest science

the System has ever known, and the most useless. Because war will die in a few centuries at most.

Ilene - you've never seen a Free Company's fort. It's science, marvellous science, aimed at

military ends only. We have our psych-specialists. We have our engineers, who plan everything from

ordnance to the frictional quotient on flitterboats. We have the foundries and mills. Each

fortress is a city made for war, as the Keeps are made for social progress.'

'As complicated as that?'

'Beautifully complicated and beautifully useless. There are so many of us who realize that. Oh, we

fight - it's a poison. We worship the Company - that is an emotional poison. But we live only

during wartime. It's an incomplete life. Men in the Keeps have full lives; they have their work,

and their relaxations are geared to fit them. We don't fit.'

'Not all the undersea races,' Ilene said. 'There's always the fringe that doesn't fit. At least

you have a raison d'etre. You're a soldier. I can't make a lifework out of pleasure. But there's

nothing else for me.'

Scott's fingers tightened on hers. 'You're the product of a civilization, at least. I'm left out.'

'With you, Brian, it might be better. For a while. I don't think it would last for long.'

'It might.'

'You think so now. It's quite a horrible thing, feeling yourself a shadow.'

'I know.'

'I want you, Brian,' Ilene said, turning to face him. 'I want you to come to Montana Keep and stay

here. Until our experiment fails. I think it'll fail presently. But, perhaps, not for some time. I

need your strength. I can show you how to get the most out of this sort of life - how to enter

into it. True hedonism. You can give me- companionship perhaps. For me the companionship of

hedonists who know nothing else isn't enough.'

Scott was silent. Ilene watched him for a while.

'Is war so important?' she asked at last.

'No,' he said, 'it isn't at all. It's a balloon. And it's empty, I

know that. Honour of the regiment!' Scott laughed. 'I'm not hesitating, really. I've been shut out

for a long time. A social unit shouldn't be founded on an obviously doomed fallacy. Men and women

are important, nothing else, I suppose.'

'Men and women - or the race?'

'Not the race,' he said with abrupt violence. 'Damn the race! It's done nothing for me. I can fit

myself into a new life. Not necessarily hedonism. I'm an expert in several lines; I have to be. I

can find work in Montana Keep.'

'If you like. I've never tried. I'm more of a fatalist, I suppose. But . . . what about it,

Brian?'

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Her eyes were almost luminous, like shining emeralds, in the ghostly light.

'Yes,' Scott said. Til come back. To stay.'

Ilene said, 'Come back? Why not stay now?'

'Because I'm a complete fool, I guess. I'm a key man, and Cine Rhys needs me just now.'

'Is it Rhys or the Company?'

Scott smiled crookedly. 'Not the Company. It's just a job I have to do. When I think how many

years I've been slaving, pretending absurdities were important, knowing that I was bowing to a

straw dummy- No! I want your life- the son of life I didn't know could exist in the Keeps. I'll be

back, Ilene. It's something more important than love. Separately we're halves. Together we may be

a complete whole.'

She didn't answer. Her eyes were steady on Scott's. He kissed her.

Before morning bell he was back in the apartment. Jeana had already packed the necessary light

equipment. She was asleep, her dark hair cascading over the pillow, and Scott did not waken her.

Quietly he shaved, showered, and dressed. A heavy, waiting silence seemed to fill the city like a

cup brimmed with stillness.

As he emerged from the bathroom, buttoning his tunic, he saw the table had been let down and two

places set at it. Jeana came in, wearing a cool morning frock. She set cups down and poured

coffee.

'Morning, soldier,' she said. 'You've time for this, haven't you?'

'Uh-huh.' Scott kissed her, a bit hesitantly. Up till this moment, the breaking with Jeana had

seemed easy enough. She would raise no objections. That was the chief reason for free-marriage.

However-

She was sitting in the relaxer, sweetening the coffee, opening a fresh celopack of cigarettes.

'Hung over?'

'No. I vitamized. Feel pretty good.' Most bars had a vitamizing chamber to nullify the effects of

too much stimulant. Scott was, in fact, feeling fresh and keenly alert. He was wondering how to

broach the subject of Ilene to Jeana.

She saved him the trouble.

'If it's a girl, Brian, just take it easy. No use doing anything till this war's over. How long

will it take?'

'Oh, not long. A week at most. One battle may settle it, you know. The girl-'

'She's not a Keep girl.'

'Yes.'

Jeana looked up, startled. 'You're crazy.'

'I started to tell you,' Scott said impatiently. 'It isn't just - her. I'm sick of the Doones. I'm

going to quit.'

'Hm-m-m. Like that?'

'Like that.'

Jeana shook her head. 'Keep women aren't tough.'

'They don't need to be. Their men aren't soldiers.'

'Have it your own way. I'll wait till you get back. Maybe I've got a hunch. You see, Brian, we've

been together for five years. We fit. Not because of anything like philosophy or psychology- it's

a lot more personal. It's just us. As man and woman, we get along comfortably. There's love, too.

Those close emotional feelings are more important, really, than the long view. You can get excited

about futures, but you can't live them.'

Scott shrugged. 'Could be I'm starting to forget about futures. Concentrating on Brian Scott.'

'More coffee . . . there. Well, for five years now I've gone

with you from Keep to Keep, waiting every time you went off to war, wondering if you'd come back,

knowing that I was just a part of your life, but - I sometimes thought - the most important part.

Soldiering's seventy-five per cent. I'm the other quarter. I think you need that quarter - you

need the whole thing, in that proportion, actually. You could find another woman, but she'd have

to be willing to take twenty-five per cent.'

Scott didn't answer. Jeana blew smoke through her nostrils.

'O.K., Brian. I'll wait.'

'It isn't the girl so much. She happens to fit into the pattern of what I want. You-'

'I'd never be able to fit that pattern,' Jeana said softly. 'The Free Companions need women who

are willing to be soldiers' wives. Free-wives, if you like. Chiefly it's a matter of not being too

demanding. But there are other things. No, Brian. Even if you wanted that, I couldn't make myself

over into one of the Keep people. It wouldn't be me. I wouldn't respect myself, living a life

that'd be false to me; and you wouldn't like me that way either. I couldn't and wouldn't change.

I'll have to stay as I am. A soldier's wife. As long as you're a Dooneman, you'll need me. But if

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Henry Kuttner - Clash by Night

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