The Cottage By Frank Belknap Long There was a savage cruelty in Durkin's hatred of his children. Little did he know that on other worlds--cruelty boomeranged. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Fantastic Universe September 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] _Frank Belknap Long's stories have appeared in twenty-seven cloth-bound anthologies bearing the imprint of leading publishers. They run the gamut from supernatural horror--in Dashiell Hammett's_ CREEPS BY NIGHT _and August Derleth's equally famed_ SLEEP NO MORE--_to straight science fiction--in the widely popular Conklin, Wollheim, Derleth, Bleiler and Dikty volumes. We think you'll agree that this story is of anthology caliber too._ To Will Durkin it seemed to be the realization of a long-cherished dream--this return from town over a rutted dirt road, equipped and ready for a cruel duel with another man's offspring. He raised his left hand as he drove, staring at his bony knuckles, and then slashing at the empty air with a whiplash ferocity of purpose. Perhaps there had been a hard core of cruelty in Durkin at birth. Perhaps he had knotted up his fists, and cried out in resentment on first seeing the sunlight, eager to hurt and punish. It was difficult to say, difficult to be sure. But certainly the stony soil which had nourished his childhood had helped to make him what he was--a gaunt, restless-eyed man so consumed by animosity he could find no pleasure in merriment of any kind. In town he had stalked with fierce impatience from the general store to the post office, and then back down Cedar Street to his car, clutching his purchase with the greediness of a carrion crow eager to take flight. Now, beneath the leaden sky, in his asthmatic wreck of an automobile, he pictured himself as too shrewd and quick-witted to allow a woman's simpering stupidity to weaken his attachment to the land. A dust storm could stir a man to anger, and rob him of a night's sleep. It could demolish his chicken cots, and embitter him in other ways. But it could also protect him by keeping him hard. So certain was he of that hardness that the gathering clouds, the dust flurries, and the whistling wind gave him no concern. They seemed to be setting a seal on his purpose, and he was sure that if trouble descended from the sky he would know how to cope with it. Unfortunately Durkin had no way of knowing that the desert was soon to blossom in ways that were strange. He heard the dull, occasional rumbling, and saw the sky light up far to the east. But his thoughts were on other things. If he had been told that the desert was being used by the Government as an atomic proving ground he would have dismissed the matter with a shrug.