Chapter XIII: In the Burned Forest (3)

Down, down, we went, till it seemed that our destination was the center of the earth. Louder and louder grew the growling roar, the ponderous thud and clank of huge machines.

We were in a huge chamber, hollowed out of the solid rock. Thousands of men bustled out among great piles of lumber and steel rails. Huge cranes rolled here and there, swinging their ponderous loads. Officers shouted crisp orders. Green-uniformed privates sprang to obey.

But no time was given me to get more than a glimpse of all this activity. From out the gaping mouth of a hundred-foot-wide tunnel a long train of flat cars came gliding. It halted and swayed on the single rail, and the whir of the gyroscopic balancers filled the cavern. A sharp order, and my companions leaped for the cars, lay prone on the steel car-beds, and passed their belts through projecting loops. I wondered, but imitated them. I buried my face in my arms, as the others were doing.

There came the eery shriek of a siren: the train was moving. Swiftly it gathered speed till it seemed as though my protesting body was being forced through a wall of air grown suddenly solid. Myriad fingers pulled at me, seeking to hurl me to destruction. Even through my protecting arms my breath was forced back into my lungs, choking me. The wind howled past with the wail of a thousand souls in torment.

Just as the limit of endurance was reached the terrific speed slackened, and the long train ground to a halt. "All off! Lively now!" came the command.

* * * * *

We were at the rail-head, and before me was the face of the tunnel. Queer, hooded figures were there bending over wheeled tripods, manipulating what appeared to be searchlights. But no shafts of light leaped from the lenses. The tripods were rolling steadily forward.

I looked at the tunnel face again, then, startled, back to the hooded men. I rubbed my eyes. Was I seeing things? No, by all that was holy, it was so! The distance between the machines and the end wall of the passage had not changed, but men and rock were ten--fifteen--twenty feet away! They were boring; boring into the solid rock at tremendous speed. _And the rock was melting, vanishing, disappearing into nothingness in the awful blast projected from those machines!_

I gaped--my pose, my danger, forgotten. Almost as fast as a man could run, the tunnel extended itself. It was phantasmal, incredible!

A rough hand seized me from behind. I whirled, my heart in my mouth. It was the burly sergeant. "What the hell are you dreaming about, Renaud? Hop to it. Over there, on that shoring job. Get busy now, or--" The threat in that unfinished sentence chilled me by its very vagueness.

My squad was hauling heavy timbers, setting them up where a fault showed in the rocky roof of the tunnel. I joined them but my thoughts were a madly whirling chaos.

The pattern was complete now. The long, curving under-water ridge on Jim's chart--this tunnel was boring through it. Whatever it was that those tripods projected--a new ray it must be--it was _melting_ a passage six hundred miles long. Under our rafts, under our fleets, under our coast defenses--to come up far behind our lines. The ridge joined the coast just south of New York. Some night, while our generals slept in smug complacency, all that gray green horde of wolves would belch forth--from the very earth.

And the Americans would follow Europe into hell!

* * * * *

Five minutes passed. I looked again at the face of the tunnel, drawn by an irresistible fascination. It had advanced a full quarter of a mile. Like fog before a cloud-piercing searchlight, the age-old rock was dissolving before the ray. At this rate America's doom would be sealed in a week. And I, alone among these thousands, was helpless to avert the climaxing menace.

A howl of rage came from the sergeant. I turned. A diminutive German, his face pale green with fatigue, had stumbled and fallen under the weight of a heavy timber.

The swarthy non-com was kicking him with a cruel boot. "Get up, you; get up before I brain you!"

The sprawling man looked up, fear staring from his deep-sunk eyes. "_Aber, ich bin krank._"--"I am sick; I can't stand the work; it is too _schwer_, too heavy," he faltered.

"Sick?" the Russian roared. "Sick? I'll sick you! You're lazy, too damned lazy to do a little work. I'm tired of this gold-bricking around here. I'm going to make an example of you that the rest of you dogs won't forget in a hurry." His face was purple with rage. He bent, seized the fallen man and dragged him out from under the crushing bulk. Then, raising the struggling wretch over his head as lightly as though he were an infant, he ran forward, toward the ray projectors.

Shriek after shriek pierced the hot air, such howls of utter fear and agony, as I hope never to hear again. The little figure, held high in the huge paws, writhed and tossed, to no avail.

The sergeant reached the nearest tripod. His brawny arms flexed; straightened. The German swept up and over the head of the operator, and dropped in front of the machine. Then--he vanished. Nothing, absolutely nothing, was there between projector and rapidly retreating wall!

A horrible retching tore my stomach; I swayed dizzily. The utter brutality, the finality of the thing! "And any more of you carrion that I catch slacking will get the same thing," the Russian said. "You, Renaud, I've got my eye on you. Watch out!" The sergeant's voice rasped through the mist about me. I shoved my shoulder under one end of an eight by eight and plunged into the back breaking labor. But one thought hammered at my reeling brain: "The _New York_! That's what happened to her!"

* * * * *

The long hours of toil at last ended. We were again in the entrance cavern, waiting for the elevator platform. It was unaccountably delayed: the last batch had gone up fifteen minutes before. The men about me chafed and swore. They were impatient for mess and bed.

Bit by bit I had reconstructed all the elements of this unprecedented operation. The ray, the blasting ray that whiffed into non-existence all that it touched, was the keynote. The great plain had been cleared by the ray. The dim shapes floating high in that far-circling ellipse were pouring down the dreadful vibrations, thus holding back the sea in a marvelous green wall. I remembered the sea-monster that had dashed at me and vanished. That proved it. The dome of cloud was camouflage, or the product of the processes of destruction going on underneath: it didn't matter. What mattered was that it was interlaced by a network of ray beams. It was an impenetrable wall, a perfect defense. Boxed in on all sides by such a barrier, how was I to get out word of the menace? How was it to be combatted even if our forces knew of the danger? A hundred plans flooded my wearied brain, to be rejected one by one.

A mocking, ribald cheer arose from the men around me. The platform was ascending. Why the long delay? A premonition of disaster chilled me. I shrugged it aside.

We were at the top. A long line of soldiers curved about the mouth of the pit. The next shift waiting to go down? No--they made no move to approach. And each one was holding his ray-tube at the ready. This was the guard. At a table nearby a knot of officers was gathered. Papers of some sort were piled high on it. Again the icy finger of dread touched me. One of the officers moved aside, revealing the profile of his companion. The Ferret. Then I knew I was done for!

My eyes darted here and there, seeking escape. No hope--the heavily armed guard was all around; the platform blocked the shaft mouth. A dash would be self-betrayal--suicide.

* * * * *

Mechanically I obeyed the sergeant's barked commands. We were in single file. We were moving toward that ominous table where the Ferret stood, a sardonic smile on his sharp-featured face. I could make out a livid weal across his throat. I had left my mark on him. That was some satisfaction.

The head of the line reached the table. They were fingerprinting the leader! A lieutenant extracted a paper from the pile and handed it to the Ferret. He made momentary comparison of something on the paper with the mark the soldier had just made. Then the next man stepped up, while the first made off across the plain.

Of course! Simple: how very simple! And yet it had caught me! The service records of the men had their fingerprints, just as in our own forces. And each man in the area was being checked up. Trust the Ferret to think of that. He knew that I'd be somewhere in their ranks, impersonating one of their men. Well, I was in for it. The last trick in our long game was his.

My turn. No use going through the motions. I bent down a moment, then straightened. "Oh, hello, Bolton," the Ferret said, thrusting out his hand, the one with the twisted finger. I had resumed my own visage. "Didn't think you could get away with it, did you?"

Chagrined as I was, I put a good face on it. The Ferret and I had run up against each other many many times. Cheerfully, either of us would have cut the other's throat. But--we played the game.

"Hello, Rubinoff," I responded. "You seem to have me, just now. But try and hold me."

The Ferret threw back his head and laughed. "Oh, I think you'll find it a little difficult to get away this time." I thought so, too, but did not voice my thought.

The smile left Rubinoff's face. He snapped an order. A squad advanced from the guard. Handcuffs clicked around my wrists, the mates of each were fastened to the arms of two guardsmen. I was securely chained. They were taking no chances.

"Take him to the special cell in the guard-house." The lieutenant saluted. I was marched off. Then I was not to be summarily executed. I was not as much relieved as you might think. You see, I knew the Ferret. We had raided one of his hangouts once; just missed him. But we found an M.I.S. man there whom Rubinoff had been--questioning. We thanked God when he died.

* * * * *

We tramped across the plain. My eyes kept roving about: there wasn't much hope for me, but miracles have happened. Most of the scattered structures were hastily thrown together sheds of sheet iron. Barracks, they looked like. But, every so often I spied spheres of concrete, the wide open doors revealing yard-thick walls. What could be their purpose?

Something bothered me. Something about the ray projectors and the other machinery I had seen. I glanced up at one of the balloons floating high above. All these needed a power supply; tremendous power to accomplish what the ray was doing. And there were no cables running to them. How did the power get to them?

There was only one answer. Radio transmission. The required energy, perhaps the very ray vibrations themselves, were being broadcast to the points of projection. That meant a power-house and a control room somewhere in the area. _The vulnerable points!_ Where were they?

I stumbled, and was jerked roughly to my feet. The lieutenant slapped me. "Scared, Americansky? You well may be. We'll have rare sport when they throw what the Ferret leaves of you into the ray." I shuddered. To go out that way! I'll be honest--I was horribly afraid. The men to whom I was shackled laughed.

A dull throbbing beat at my ears, a vibration just too low to be sound. I looked about for its source. It came from my left--a concrete building, low lying, about a hundred yards long by as many feet wide. At the further end a squat smokestack broke the flat line of the roof. Guards, many guards, were pacing their slow patrol about it. From the center of the side nearest me, cables thick as a man's trunk issued forth. I followed them with my eye. They ended in a marble slab on which rested a concrete sphere, somewhat larger than the others. The door of this one was closed. On the roof of the queer edifice was a peculiar arrangement of wires, gleaming in the artificial daylight. This building, too, was heavily guarded.

I had found what I sought--the power-house and the transmitting station. Much good it did me--now.

* * * * *

My warders turned sharply to the right. I glimpsed another concrete structure. A heavy steel door opened, then clanged shut, behind us. The fetid odor that means only one thing the world over, folded round me.

I sprawled on the steel floor of the cell into which I was thrust. A wave of utter fatigue engulfed me. I felt great weariness of body and despair of soul. I had failed in my mission. The fate of my country had been entrusted to me--and here I was in a steel-floored, steel-walled prison cell. And that tunnel was rushing toward New York at three miles an hour; over seventy miles a day.

I think I slept from sheer exhaustion. But something startled me into awaking. The dim light filtering in from the tiny air-hole high up on one wall showed me that I was still alone. I lay, listening. There it was again, a wailing scream of agony that rose and fell and died away.

I heard a grating sound at the door, and it opened and shut. Rubinoff, the Ferret, had entered. "Comfortable, Captain Bolton?" he asked, and there was more than a hint of mockery in the velvety voice. In the hand with the twisted finger was his ray-tube. It pointed steadily at me.

I got to my feet. I was in no mood for trifling, for that scream had shaken me. "Cut the comedy, Rubinoff." I growled. "Kill me, and let's have done with it."

He raised a deprecating hand. "Oh, come now. There's really no absolute necessity for that. You can save yourself, very easily."

"What do you mean?"

"I can use you, if you're amenable to reason."

"I don't understand."

"You're the cleverest of the American Intelligence men. The rabble they give me are well-nigh useless. Cast your lot in with us, and in a week you'll have the riches of your greatest city to dip your hands in. It's easy. There is certain information we need. Give it to us. Then I'll get you back into your lines: we'll cook up a good tale for Sommers. You can resume your post and send us information only when it is of extreme importance. Come, now, be sensible."

* * * * *

At first blush this was an astounding proposal. But I knew my man. He needed to know something. Once he had extracted the knowledge he sought from me, I should be disposed of. He'd never let me get back into our lines with what I had found out. It might have been policy to play him--but what was the use?

"No, Rubinoff. You know I won't do it."

He sighed. "Just as I thought. Honor, country, and so on. Well, it's too bad. We should have made a wonderful team. However, you'll tell me what I want to know. What are the defenses within fifty miles of New York?"

I laughed derisively.

"You'll save yourself a lot of trouble if you tell me, Bolton. After all, death in the ray isn't so bad. Whiff--and you're gone. Don't force me to other measures." There was a grim threat in his voice. But I simply shook my head.

"Stubborn, like all the other Anglo-Saxons. Well, I've got something to show you." He raised his weapon and glanced at it. "Pretty little thing, this. Not the ordinary ray-tube. Only field officers have these. Look."

He pointed it at the wall from behind which that scream had come and pressed the trigger button. A tiny round hole appeared in the steel.

"Neat, isn't it? Utilizes the same ray you saw at work in the tunnel. The Zeta-ray we call it. Just think what that would do to human flesh." I said nothing.

"But that isn't what I had in mind. Just look through that hole."

* * * * *

I wanted to see what was on the other side, so I obeyed. The Thing that lay on the floor within--could it ever have been a man? I whirled back to the Ferret in a fury, my fists clenched.

His infernal weapon was pointing straight at me. "Softly, Bolton, softly. You'd never get to me." I checked my spring, for he was right. "How'd you like that?" he purred.

"Some of your work, I suppose," I growled.

"The poor fool was fomenting a mutiny. We wanted to know the other plotters. He was stubborn. What would you? Necessity knows no law.... What are the defenses around New York?" He advanced menacingly.

No answer.

"Why be a fool? This ray hurts, I tell you, when it's properly applied. How would you like to be melted away, piece by little piece, till you're like that in there?"

I shrugged my shoulders, but kept silent.

"I tell you it hurts. You don't believe me? That in there is unconscious, seven-eighths dead. Listen."

He bored another hole in the steel, keeping his finger pressed on the trigger. Again that heart-rending scream of agony rang out, tearing its way through me. My brain exploded in red rage. I leaped for the fiend, reckless of consequences. My fist drove into the leering face with all the force of my spring, with all the insane fury that his heartless cruelty had roused in me. Smack!--he catapulted across the floor and crashed into the wall! I was on him, my hand clutching for his tube. But there was no need. He was out--dead to the world. So sudden, so unexpected was my mad attack that even he had not had time to meet it.

I worked fast. In a minute I was in Rubinoff's uniform and had assumed his face. I was a little taller; no matter. But the finger--that would be noticed immediately. There was only one thing to do. I stuck my little finger through one of the holes he had made in the wall and twisted. Crack! Beads of agony stood out on my forehead, but the break was just right. By bending the other fingers slightly I could hold that one in just the position of his.

I picked up the ray-tube with my left hand. If I went out through the guard-house entrance I might meet other officers and be engaged in conversation. That might lead to discovery. My cell was on the side of the prison away from the road; I had noticed no buildings behind it: I'd chance it. Luck had been with me so far.

* * * * *

I carved out a hole in the wall pierced by the air-hole. It was like cutting through butter with a red hot knife. I stepped out.

There was no one about. I walked carelessly around the corner of the building, my hand, holding the tube, buried deep in my pocket. Not far away was the spherical structure I had spotted as the control room. I returned salutes. No one stopped to talk to me. Would the guard before that building require a pass-word?

I heard a shout behind me. My escape was discovered! At once I broke into a run and dashed past the guard, shouting: "Prisoner escaped! Came this way!" The man gaped. The shouting behind me grew louder. I heard the thud of many feet, running. I flung open the door, slammed it shut behind me, and turned the key.

A long row of giant electrode bulbs, as tall as a man, stretched before me--the source of the Zeta-ray. From here came the power that held back the waters, that bored the tunnel. A thunderous knocking shook the door. Someone at a huge switchboard turned toward me. Instantly my hand was out of my pocket, and the ray-tube leveled at the nearest bulb. I pressed the trigger. The bulb crashed. I swept down the line. Crash, crash, crash--they were all gone.

I whirled to meet the expected attack. It was wholly instinctive, for in a second we'd all be dead anyway. The waters would be down on us.

But the switchboard operator wasn't springing at me. Instead, he was tugging frantically, at a long lever that came down from above. There was a clang, and a steel shutter dropped across the door.

* * * * *

Then came a sound of crashing thunder that split my eardrums with its unbearable clamor. Then a mightier roar, as the mountain-high sea, held back so long by the invisible ray, poured its countless millions of tons of deep green water down into the man-made hole.

The impact was terrific. The yards-thick concrete shuddered and strained. The tremendous pressure forced trickles of water into the concrete shell: the roaring of the elements was indescribably deafening.

I was in pitch darkness, expecting every moment to be crushed under miles of ocean, when suddenly I was thrown from my feet. The floor was heaving drunkenly beneath me. In a moment I was slammed breathlessly against the shattered remnants of a huge vacuum tube. The jagged glass slashed my arms and face. I grabbed with my hand to steady myself; came in contact with an iron bar: clung like grim death.

For a huge concrete sphere was whirling, tossing, gyrating in a welter of waters. The din was terrific. I rolled over and over, my arms almost pulled out of their sockets. Then, like a ton of brick, something collided with my head. There was a blinding flare in the black void, and I knew no more.

* * * * *

Slowly I came out of a hideous nightmare.

My head ached frightfully, and my wounds smarted and stung. It was dark, but a faint luminescence from somewhere enabled me to faintly discern my surroundings. I was wedged between a steel cable-bracket and the curving wall. Across the glass strewn floor a body lay, sprawling queerly.

The room was swaying in long undulations, or was it my head? I lay helpless, unable to move. A leg dangled uselessly. There was a bump, the sound of scraping. I heard confused sounds penetrating the walls, and the jar of steady impacts.

A half an hour passed so; maybe an hour: I had no means of telling. I was weak from pain and loss of blood, and slightly delirious.

A faint whirring noise, a sudden intensity in the illumination caused me to turn my head. The steel shutter was glowing red, then a shower of white sparks broke through. The heavy steel was melting away into incandescence. It crashed.

A group of men stumbled cautiously in. Now I was sure I was delirious. For the men wore khaki uniforms! Americans! Then, in my fever, I thought I heard a familiar voice cry out my name. It was Jim's voice. A roaring curtain of blackness shut down on me.

* * * * *

When I awoke again I was lying in a clean-sheeted hospital bed. Jim was sitting at the side, staring at me with gloomy eyes.

"Hello, Jim," I gasped weakly. "How did I get here?"

It was touching to see the instantaneous delight on his weathered countenance.

"So you came to at last, you old son-of-a-gun! Thought you were cashing in on us for a while. How did you get here? That's just what I want to know. How in hell _did_ you get here?"

I was still pretty weak. "You pulled me out. What happened?"

"We're still trying to puzzle it out. Wouldn't be surprised if you had a hand in it, you blighter. We were watching that damned cloud, worrying ourselves to death. What with the _New York_ going out like a light, and not hearing anything from you, we were pretty low.

"Then, suddenly, there was a tremendous detonation. The whole cloud mass collapsed like a pricked bubble, and a bottomless pit yawned underneath the ocean--and, next thing we knew, our raft was yanked from under our feet, plunging and bucking in a swirl of waters.

"I just had time to grab hold of a stanchion, when we were sucked down into a whirlpool such as I never hope to see again. Round and round we spun, the tumbling waters mountain high above us. I was buried most of the time in crashing billows; my arms were almost pulled out of their sockets.

* * * * *

"I never expected to see daylight again," Jim went on. "My hold was being broken when at last we were spewed out somehow onto a sea that looked as if a thousand hurricanes were blowing down.

"I managed to get my men together--what was left of them. There were pitifully few. Later, I heard that our losses were enormous. Over seventy-five per cent of our rafts on a 50-mile front were lost, and the enemies' were almost totally wiped out.

"When the mile-high seas had toned down a bit, we saw a huge concrete ball tossing about like a cork. Couldn't make out what the devil it was. Then someone noticed a door. We got that open, but there was a steel one inside. We had to slice it with an oxy-hydrogen flame. Inside, snug as a bug in a rug, were you.

"Now come on, tell me how in blazes you got in there. If you don't spill it quick, I'll bust."

I sat up in my excitement. "Don't you see, they were afraid the ray might fail. They had those concrete balls stuck all around so that the officers at least could escape, if it did. Their best technical men must have been running the control room. They made sure to have that specially strong. And the wave caused by the water pouring into the hole swept me right over here, just where I started from."

Jim had both hands on my shoulders, was pushing me down. "Whoa, baby, whoa. That's just as clear as a darkness-rayed area. Count up to ten, and start all over again."

"'Ten-_shun_!"

The general himself strode into the room. And then I _had_ to tell my story straight.

A BEE'S BREATH

The breath of a bee, important because of its indication of the health of the insect in winter and of the efficiency of the sweet-producing hive in summer, was recently measured by Prof. G. H. Vansell of the University of California. To do this he conducted the air coming from the hive through a tube into bulbs containing absorbent chemicals. Allowing for the natural carbon dioxide and water of the outside air, he weighed these bulbs, getting an analysis of the breath of the hive by the amount of water vapor and carbon dioxide the chemicals in the bulbs had picked up.

He found that in winter when the bees were inactive the average hourly water loss from the entire hive was thirty six millionths of an ounce. In summer when the insects were hard at work making honey and gathering nectar the water loss was twenty five times as great. The carbon dioxide output, however, did not even double in summer.

_A Meeting Place for Readers of_ Astounding Stories

_And That's That_

Dear Editor:

May I have just a little room in "The Readers' Corner" to
answer Mr. Meek's argument and defend myself from the charge
of hasty reading? You will remember that I did not write my
letter immediately after the publication of the first
Heaviside Layer story, but waited until the appearance of
the second, a "cooling-off" period of three months. In that
time I re-read the story and considered it at length. I
don't call that hasty reading. Besides, the flaw in the
story is so obvious that even a "hasty" reading should
suffice to find it.

I can't argue about the matter of meteors because Mr. Meek
has not given any figures concerning the density or
viscosity of his medium. But I can say that to my way of
thinking any astronomer could detect the effect of such
friction on the action of meteors. They should certainly be
consumed much more rapidly than if they merely struck thin
air.

That, however, is a minor point and I wouldn't even mind
conceding it to Mr. Meek. The point I now wish to make is
much more important and in my mind establishes the falsity
of Mr. Meek's premises. In the July issue of Astounding
Stories, page seven, paragraph four, sentences fourteen and
fifteen, he states that the Heaviside Layer is composed of a
liquid of high viscosity. By definition a liquid is more
dense than a gas. Therefore the Heaviside Layer, according
to Mr. Meek, is denser than the atmosphere of the earth
since the former is a liquid and the latter is a gas. The
increased refraction of light as it entered our atmosphere
would then be noticeable. Astronomers can even now detect
refraction due to the air. The sun remains visible for some
time after it has actually descended below the horizon, due
to refraction. If there was a denser substance than air
surrounding the earth the refraction would be much greater.
Finally, how could the atmosphere support a denser substance
like the Heaviside Layer? I'd sure make for cover if I
really believed that such a menace existed right over my
head.

Sorry to take up your space so much by an argument, but your
comments on my letter really called for a defense. Hope you
can find room for this.--Philip Waite, 3400 Wayne Ave, New
Your, N. Y.

Dear Editor:

Since Mr. Waite has so generously admitted the validity of
my answer to his criticism as regards meteors, I can do no
less than admit that he scored one against me in his second
argument. I used the word liquid. It was careless diction.
Had I used the phrase "composed of a SUBSTANCE of high
viscosity, of low specific gravity and with a coefficient of
refraction identical with that of air," there would have
been no argument. I am sure that Mr. Waite will admit after
reflection that such a substance could be held in position,
if its specific gravity were low enough, by a combination of
gravity and centrifugal force, somewhat in the same manner
as the ring of Saturn is held in place. Of course, any idea
that the layer rested on the air and was supported in place
by it, would be untenable. As I said in my previous letter,
I don't believe such a layer exists. If it does, I hope that
no one proves it before I get some characters off on a space
flyer for an interplanetary adventure or two.--S. P. Meek,
Capt., Ord. Dept., U. S. A.

_Right from the Shoulder_

Dear Editor:

I know for a fact that Astounding Stories is the best
Science Fiction magazine on the stands. I have read it every
issue except the first three, and have not yet found a bad
story. The characters in other Science Fiction magazines
seem like machines, but Astounding Stories' characters seem
like intimate friends. Why do ---- [censored] like some
write in and start bellyaching about the cover, pages, the
size, the edges and many other things that no one but ----
[censored] would notice? If they know so much why don't they
start a magazine and put all other publications out of
business? If they liked the stories they would not care if
the color of the cover was black or red, white and blue. I
get so interested in the stories that the edges of the paper
do not amount to anything; and people that bellyache about
such minor things prove that they do not care for the
stories, and furthermore they prove that they are ----
[censored] and ---- [censored] ready for the booby hatch.

There is only one thing wrong with the perfect magazine: it
does not come out twice a month. I have never known a bunch
of Editors that have the intelligence of the Staff of
Astounding Stories [uncensored--Ed.]. They have never
published a single story that any intelligent Reader could
kick about.

About reprints: whether the Editors think that they should
publish some or not, it is all the same to me, as they know
what they are doing. I should like very much to see some
stories by Burroughs, though.

If I were to name your best authors, I would have to name
every one that ever wrote a story for your wonderful
magazine.--H. N. Sager, R. F. D. 6, Box 419, Bessemer, Ala.

_Disposing of Old Stories_

Dear Editor:

I have observed that numerous readers request reprints. I
have a collection that goes back to 1900! Since I have no
more use for them, I have decided to dispense with them.
Here is an infinitesimal list:

A. Merritt: "Thru the Dragon Glass," "The Moon Pool," "The
Metal Monster" and "The Ship of Ishtar."

Homer Eon Flint: "Out of the Moon," "The Planeteer," "The
King of Conserve Island," "The Blind Spot" and "Flint and
Hall."

Jules Black: "Beyond the Earth Atom" and "Marooned in
Space."

John Louis Hill: "The Dimension Wizard" and "The Challenge
from Beyond."

Davidson Mortimer: "Lost in Time" and "The Amazing Empire
Lost in Time" (sequel to story previously mentioned).

Booth Langell: "The Moons of Lanisar."

As I said before, this is but a small part of the Science
Fiction stories I have. Anyone desiring stories mentioned
above, or any others, please write to me.--George Zambock,
459 E. 155th St., New York, N. Y.

_A Kind Offer_

Dear Editor:

I'm sure you will sympathize with me for reading your
magazine in study hall.

It is so very dull--I have three S.H.'s in a row--that I
have to do something to relieve the monotony, so, seeing the
latest copy of A. S. at my newsdealer's, I brought it back
to school after dinner. I am speaking of the February
number. I very much enjoyed the Dr. Bird story. Capt. Meek
is always good. "Phalanxes of Atlans" promises to be an
excellent story, also.

What I want to know is, why are so many mossbacks throwing
brickbats? What does it matter if some of the stories are
not on the scientific chalk line? A very wise man once said
that "Variety is the spice of life," so why not take a hint,
some of you would-be brickbat pitchers, and pipe down?

I have read every issue of Astounding Stories published so
far, and have not a brickbat to report as yet. I notice in
one letter to "The Readers' Corner" a request for a
department on rocket propulsion. I presume the writer meant
on propelling rocket planes. I have experimented on rocket
ships for the past three years and can give some data on
these as to the construction of models (for when I say ships
I really mean model airplanes). I have had this as my hobby
for the past four and a half years, and can give extensive
information on model building. I specialize in models
powered by power other than rubber; and I took second place
at the Atlantic City Tournament held in October by the
National Play-ground Association, in the Annual National
Championships.

Anyone desiring information on the rocket ship or any other
type of model plane will be promptly answered by addressing
their letter to me.

I hope you will find room to publish this, as I like nothing
better than helping someone get started on my favorite
hobby, aviation. I have, however, several hobbies, including
football, basket-ball, tennis, swimming, boating and hiking.
I live within ten miles of the Great Smoky Mountains
National Park, and can see from the study hall window, which
I now am seated near to, three ranges of the mountains all
covered with more than ten inches of snow.--Richard M.
Evans, Box 305, Maryville, Tenn.

_To the Defense_

Dear Editor:

Some of the letters you have printed in "The Readers'
Corner" almost burn me up. Edwin C. Magnuson asks you what
you print there: only letters praising your magazine to the
skies? or occasional brickbats? Well, I might say one thing,
and that is: if you did print all brickbats, as he seems to
want you to, the Readers would think that your magazine
wasn't of much account if that was the kind of letters you
got all the time, and would probably quit reading it.

He also said he felt like quitting several times because the
stories weren't scientific. Well, if he can show me anywhere
on your magazine where it says it is a scientific magazine,
I'll certainly beg his most humble pardon on bended knee. He
also crabbed about your artists. If he can do better, I
advise you to hire him. He also says that the paper is
rotten, and that after a few handlings goes to pieces. I
still have all my magazines, and have lent them several
times, and the paper is still there. On his fifth statement
I agree with him: you should have an editorial. Also I would
certainly like to have reprints, as there are about six
issues I didn't get, and I imagine there are several other
Readers in the same boat.

Hume V. Stephani makes a very good suggestion about a
quarterly. I certainly think it would be appreciated and
would go over big. And Robert J. Hyatt, I most certainly
agree with you in your letter printed in the February issue;
and if this letter is printed (which I hope it is) I hope
you will see it, and know that at least one person has the
same views on the magazine that you do.--Buel Godwin,
101--3rd Avenue, S. E. Le Mars, Iowa.

"_Now a Real Pest_"

Dear Editor:

I have recently been initiated into the reading of Science
Fiction, and as a result I am now a real pest to the
magazine vendor, from asking for the next copy of Astounding
Stories. I have just finished your February copy and words
can't express my enjoyment.

"The Tentacles from Below" is indeed a Science Fiction
masterpiece. I devour eagerly Captain S. P. Meek's stories
about Dr. Bird. As long as you keep Meek you can be assured
that I will purchase this magazine. "The Pirate Planet"
proved to be a story worthy to be kept as a reprint for
future issues. In fact, many of your stories are so good
that it is a shame that others can't enjoy them in future
issues of Astounding Stories.

Wesso is a great artist and I appreciate to the fullest
extent his remarkable pictures.

Yours for a continuation of your present success in editing
and publishing remarkable stories--Lester P. Lieber, 542
Dalzell St., Shreveport, La.

_Stands Pat_

Dear Editor:

Although this is my first letter to "The Readers' Corner" of
your publication, I have nevertheless been a consistent
Reader of the magazine since its inception. Contrary to many
of your correspondents I have nothing to say against your
magazine or policy. I like its size, its artists and most of
its stories. I shall not bother to name those I do not like
because I do not believe that there is a magazine to be
found that can publish stories to suit all its Readers.

I enjoy the serials and your two-part novelettes since it
gives one something to look forward to each month. I enjoyed
"The Pirate Planet" by Charles W. Diffin so much I was sorry
to see it end, and I hope there will be more of his work in
the future. I am particularly glad to see such writers as
Captain S. P. Meek, Ray Cummings, Miles J. Breuer, Victor
Rousseau and Harl Vincent as regular contributors to your
pages, but there are also a number of other writers whom I
miss seeing in "our" mag. Of these are A. Hyatt-Verrill who
writes so well of the Incas, Otis Adelbert Kline who also
gives us excellent stories and Leslie F. Stone whose "Men
with Wings" and "Women with Wings" appeared in another
magazine and which I enjoyed exceedingly. I believe that to
have these writers as regular contributors would add much to
the interest of the publication.

With the compliments of an avid reader of Science Fiction. I
salute you.--Theodore Morris, 1412 S. W. 13th St., Miami,
Fla.

"_Under My Collar_"

Dear Editor:

I have been reading Astounding Stories for a good while and
I like it fine. I noticed in your last issue that a fellow
by the name of Edwin C. Magnuson was kicking about "The
Readers' Corner." Some of his reasons, I think, for not
liking this magazine are as follows: first, the
illustrations are poor. I believe they are good. Second, he
says that he doesn't like stories such as those written by
Charles W. Diffin, Jackson Gee, Murray Leinster and Victor
Rousseau. He also has in his letter a list of authors whose
works he likes. I do not think they are so hot, with the
exception of Capt. S. P. Meek. Mr. Magnuson also says he is
disgusted with Astounding Stories and would like to quit
reading it. Well, why doesn't he?

I want to say it is a fine mag. I don't like to be a critic,
but that fellow got under my collar. The only thing that
could be done is to publish at least twice a month.

Well, reckon I will sign off. Here is to Astounding Stories.
A better mag can't be found!--Boyd H. Goodman, 2008 McKinney
Ave., Dallas, Texas.

_From Franklin to Poe_

Dear Editor:

As a Reader of Astounding Stories from the first number I
would like to comment on your magazine regarding your
stories and the subject of reprints.

First, you are publishing one of the best Science Fiction
magazines on the market, and I read three of them. And
although I agree with Mr. Magnuson and others on the subject
of reprints, I do not agree with the former that the paper
is rotten and falls to pieces. I have a complete file of
Astounding Stories to date and I have not noticed any signs
of disintegration amongst them as yet.

You could easily follow the suggestion of Mr. Stephani, and
have a space for good reprints and charge a nickel more. I
believe most of your Readers would approve of it.

The story, "The Sunken Empire," was fine, and it is to the
credit of Science Fiction that in addition to interesting
Readers in other worlds it has also created an interest in
the fate of lands from which the Atlantic Ocean received its
name. This story is reminiscent of a story which appeared in
The Saturday Evening Post about three years ago called
"Maracot Deep." In this story a party of men (three, I
believe) descended to the bottom of the Atlantic and found a
surviving colony from Atlantis, and saw reproduced on a
screen events leading up to the sinking of Atlantis. It was
written by the late Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and the only
weak spot was that Sir Arthur had to change the submergence
of Atlantis from a natural catastrophe into a "judgment" of
the gods, whose sense of propriety was outraged by the
"wickedness" of the Atlanteans. If you reprinted this story
your Readers would eat it up.

I hope that you publish this letter because I want to reply
through your "Readers' Corner" to Mr. Richard Lewis of
Knoxville, Iowa, on the subject of reprints.

Mr. Lewis says he has read most of the classic scientific
stories referred to. Well, so have I, but I should like to
read many of them again as would many of your Readers. I
have for the last twenty years been reading literary
classics but when I receive my copies of Good Literature or
The Golden Book I do not consider myself cheated because I
find some stories in them that I have read before. The best
are always worth reading at least twice.

As an illustration, has Mr. Lewis ever read the following:
the "Kasidah," by Sir Richard Burton, who gave the world its
best literal translation of "The Arabian Nights," which
differs as daylight from dark in comparison with the Lane
and Payne translations which are only edited for children to
read? Or has he read the chapter which Benjamin Franklin
added to the Bible? If Mr. Lewis read these for the first
time in any magazine he takes he would no doubt consider
them well worth the price of the magazine or more, yet they
would be reprints, the last one about as old as the United
States.

The "Kasidah" is a long poem on philosophic aspects of
evolution in which almost all Science Fiction Readers are
interested. In contains lines like the following:

"Conscience was bred
When man had shed
His fur, his tail
And pointed ears."

And as a dissertation on our caveman ancestors:

"They fought for women as for food.
When 'Mays' awoke to warm desire;
And this the lust that changed to love
When fancy lent a purer fire."

Regarding the Franklin chapter, it is stated that "Wise Old
Ben" used to insert it between the pages of the Bible and
read it to his friends in the City of Brotherly Love, and
great was the consternation of many who thought they knew
the Scriptures from "cover to cover."

Any new readers of Science Fiction would be glad to read
"The Girl in the Golden Atom," "The Fire People" and "The
Man Who Mastered Time," by Ray Cummings. I like to read this
author's work, but I believe when he wrote this trilogy of
Matter, Space and Time that he reached the heights of his
writing. I have never read any subsequent writings of his
that I thought exceeded them.

Speaking of the necessity of authors eating, Mr. Lewis
states that good stories have never been written on an empty
stomach.

Edgar Allan Poe who wrote "Shades" was one of the most
brilliant of American writers, and his stomach was empty
most of the time. And when this master of ratiocination had
on rare occasions a full stomach it was invariably full of
"hooch."

As Mr. Lewis speaks as a pedagogue, is it not a
physiological fact that an empty stomach clears the mind by
diverting the blood stream from the necessity of digesting
food? And while I am not advocating any fast cures for
authors, some of them (although few in Astounding Stories)
would be greatly benefited by trying it.

In conclusion I should like to say to Mr. Lewis and others
who take the same slant on reprints, that there are many of
the finest writings in Science Fiction and the classics
which you and I have never even heard of, much less read.

I will close with best wishes for your continued
success--Joseph R. Barnes, Cache Junction, Utah.

_Now Feeling Better_

Dear Editor:

Well, I guess I've just about gotten you exasperated with
all the brickbats I've been cannoning into your office.
However, I believe this letter will make you feel a little
better.

The latest issue was fine. There wasn't a story in it that I
didn't enjoy. "The Tentacles from Below" was a surprisingly
good story, especially when you consider that I don't like
sea stories. I liked this one very much.

Another extremely great surprise was "Werewolves of War."
From the few notes about it I surmised that it was another
one of those hero-dying-and-saving-his-country stories; and
it was--but not the kind I expected it to be. The author's
narrative and descriptive abilities were such that I forgot
all about the plot running throughout the story. Hang on to
that fellow.

The other complete story was also good. The conclusion of
the "The Pirate Planet" was also good, as were its preceding
instalments. The first instalment of "Phalanxes of Atlans"
was unusual. That's gonna turn out to be one of the best
stories you've yet published, or I miss my bet.--G.
Kirschner, Box 301, Temple, Texas.

"_Paper Is Durable_"

Dear Editor:

While reading "The Readers' Corner" in your January issue I
noticed a bit of criticism by Edwin Magnuson of Duluth,
Minn. In it he said that you have printed some stories
containing little or no science. But, first, most of your
Readers like a little change in a subject and I advise one
or two of these about two or three months apart. Second, the
paper is of durable material, for I pass my magazine to my
friends who read it and then return it with very few pages
torn. Third, I agree that reprints would be a blessing, for
most of your readers have not read stories by Cummings,
Breuer, Wells and Vincent. Fourth, the fact that some
stories have not a sound scientific basis is quite all right
because every fair reader likes his stories fired with some
imagination.--Walter Witte, 960 Duchess St., St. Paul,
Minn.

_Suggestions_

Dear Editor:

Although I have read every issue of A. S. since it came out,
I have never written about it, and this is what I have to
say:

First, it is just as good or better than two other Science
Fiction magazines that I can name.

Second, in my opinion you have some of the best modern
authors, such as Cummings, Meek, Rousseau, Diffin, Vincent
and Hamilton. Also others.

The stories have been A-1 with the exception of "Murder
Madness," which, in my opinion, does not belong in a
magazine of this type, but in a detective story magazine,
because that is all it was--a detective story. And when are
you going to have a sequel to "The Gray Plague," by L. A.
Eshbach which appeared in the November issue? It deserves
one.

The best author on your staff is Captain S. P. Meek, whose
Dr. Bird stories cannot be equalled. They are science
stories plus.

A few suggestions: an occasional reprint. It would not
affect the living conditions of our present day authors and
would give us all a chance to read a classic of yesterday.

Do not change the size (i. e. width and length); but as for
enlarging it in the thickness direction, you have my
heartiest encouragement. I notice that one of the other
magazines has changed its size, so now you are not alone.
Evening up the edges of the sheets would improve the looks,
however. And now that you have had your first birthday, when
are you going to start a quarterly? In it you could publish
a complete book length novel and seven novelettes. By novel,
I mean a story of about one hundred pages or more of your
present size, and novelettes fifty pages or more. You could
double the price because a quarterly is worth double what a
monthly is worth.

Your artists are great, but you could still improve by
having them make a full page illustration at the start and
one more exciting one as the story progresses.

Well, I think I've said enough good things about you and
enough suggestions, so until January 1932, adios, au revoir,
etc.--Henry Benner, Cowithe, Wash.

_Ouch!_

Dear Editor:

Personally I would rather read a good short story than the
ten pages of instructions by Readers published in the March
issue. Two pages are plenty, especially when half the
criticisms concern paper, size, edges of paper, etc. A. S.
is O. K!

How about that other short?--Don Ward, 6 Ketchel St.,
Auburn, N. Y.

_Likes Action_

Dear Editor:

I have just finished the February issue of Astounding
Stories. All of the stories were so good I couldn't tell you
which one is the best. "The Phalanxes of Atlans" and "The
Tentacles from Below" were very good. I liked "The Black
Lamp," too. It is up to the standard of the rest of the Dr.
Bird stories. "The Pirate Planet" ended very beautifully.
However, I did not like that about Sykes getting killed.
"Werewolves of War" was good. It ended differently from most
of the other stories. Most of them end with the hero
escaping, but in this the hero was killed. It had a very
good plot.

I got my first copy of Astounding Stories last July and I
haven't missed a copy since. Why not put out Astounding
Stories twice a month, or make it a weekly? I hate to have
to wait a whole month before I get another copy.

I believe that the best story I have ever read in this
magazine was "The Invisible Death," by Victor Rousseau.

The reason I like Astounding Stories better than any other
Science Fiction magazine is that most of the other magazines
have too much science and not enough action.--Dale Griffith,
437 Carson St., San Antonio, Texas.

"_To Satisfy Myself_"

Dear Editor:

It has been long since I read the February issue of your
magazine and I'm waiting anxiously for the March issue.