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Prisoner In The Skull

Henry Kuttner & C. L. Moore




THE PRISONER IN

THE SKULL___________

by "Lewis Padgett" (Henry Kuttner, 1914-1958 and C.L Moore, 1911- )

Astounding Science Fiction, February

He felt cold and weak, strangely, intolerably, inhumanly weak with a weakness of the blood and bone, of the mind and
so'ul. He saw his surroundings dimly, but he sawтАФother thingsтАФwith a swimming clarity that had no meaning to him.
He saw causes and effects as tangible before him as he had once seen trees and grass. But remote, indifferent, part of
another world.

Somehow there was a door before him. He reached vaguelyтАФ It was almost wholly a reflex gesture that moved his
finger toward the doorbell.

The chimes played three soft notes.

John Fowler was staring at a toggle switch. He felt baffled. The thing had suddenly spat at him and died. Ten minutes
ago he had thrown the main switch, unscrewed the wall plate and made hopeful gestures with a screwdriver, but the
only result was a growing suspicion that this switch would never work again. Like the house itself, it was
architecturally extreme, and the wires were sealed in so that the whole unit had to be replaced if it went bad.

Minor irritations bothered Fowler unreasonably today. He wanted the house in perfect running order for the guest he
was expecting. He had been chasing Veronica Wood for a long time, and he had an idea this particular argument might
tip the balance in the right direction.

He made a note to keep a supply of spare toggle switches handy. The chimes were still echoing softly as Fowler went
into the hall and opened the front door, preparing a smile. But it wasn't Veronica Wood on the doorstep. It was a blank
man.

That was Fowler's curious impression, and it was to recur to him often in the year to come. Now he stood staring at the
strange emptiness of the face that returned his stare without really seeming to see him. The man's features were so
typical they might have been a matrix, without the variations that combine to make up the recognizable individual. But
Fowler thought that even if he had known those features, it would be hard to recognize a man behind such utter
emptiness. You can't recognize a man who isn't there. And there was nothing here. Some

erasure, some expunging, had wiped out all trace of character and personality. Empty.

And empty of strength, tooтАФfor the visitant lurched forward and fell into Fowler's arms.

Fowler caught him automatically, rather horrified at the lightness of the body he found himself supporting. "Hey," he
said, and, realizing the inadequacy of that remark, added a few pertinent questions. But there was no answer. Syncope