Chapter XXXIX: My Exit (4)

Dimly he sensed that the prostrate body on the floor was that of Marahna. Vaguely he knew when the form of the priest took a halting step forward. The fire his match had kindled was rising about his feet. The flames seared and stabbed with a pain that reached his dulled brain. Quivering and shaken, the body of Jerry Foster reacted again to a conscious thought. He leaped quickly as the deadly witchery left him, and he tore at the smoldering cloth about his legs.

And now he knew the thing before him for what it was. Shocking in its gigantic size, more so in the concentrated venom of its gaze, it was the flabby, scaly and crusted whiteness of the thing that filled his being with a deadly nausea. He stared with a sickened fascination at the flabby, drooping pouches beside the mouth, the distorted, bulging head and the short legs, armed with long, curving talons--legs that sprang from out the neck to clutch and tear at what the jaws might hold.

Deadly and hateful--loathsome beyond all imagining--still Jerry Foster found it was something a man could meet. Its devilish power to paralyze and still the soul of him was gone.

He snatched quickly for the gun at his belt and knelt to aim--then checked his finger on the trigger. The figure of the priest had come between him and the monster.

* * * * *

The golden robe was dragging. It fell to the floor, to gleam dully in the flickering light of the fire. Against the heaping coils of white the priest was outlined, drawn, as Jerry sensed, against the protest of every fiber of his being. Yet, one stiff step at a time, he went faltering on. The hair above his white face was torn in disarray. And the face itself, so exultantly fierce in its hour of triumph, now a mask of quivering, hopeless terror.

The head of the monster came slowly to life. It raised and raised into the air. The mouth gaped open with a hoarse, sucking sound, then struck, like a whip of light, at the doomed priest.

His screams, as the thing descended upon him, rang through the roar of the forty-five. Jerry fired again where the black eyes showed above the writhing body of their prey. The head jerked backward, to tower in the darkness overhead. The mouth disgorged its contents to the floor.

Only for a shuddering instant did the monster pause. Then it launched its great bulk in a counter-attack, while the automatic poured out the rest of its futile lead.

The gun was knocked from his grasp as the great head smashed past, swerved from its aim by the blinding bullets. Jerry knew only that his knife was in his hand as the great scabrous coils closed inevitably about him.

Vaguely he heard the shouting from behind as the writhing folds engulfed him. He stabbed blindly at the scaly mass; again and again his knife ripped slashingly at the abhorrence that drew him close. Then his arm, too, was caught in the crushing loathsome embrace....

* * * * *

He felt no pain--the pressure alone was insufferable. His head was drawn back. Above him the horrible eyes glared into his--there was blood dripping from the jaws....

He saw it in the brilliance of a light that flashed in blue heat overhead. There came in his ears a vast roaring of sound, a great heat-blast that scorched and burned at his face. The crushing pressure was relaxed. He went reeling to the floor, as the great coils whirled high into the air.

He was stunned by the fall, his body inert and relaxed. But he knew through it all that from somewhere above there was shrieking of gas--blue, roaring fires--a flame that tore blastingly into a writhing contortion beyond.

The tall figure of a priest was bending over him, but it was the voice of Winslow that was in his ears--a blessed, human voice--when he awoke.

"Thank God, I made it," the voice was saying, over and over. "Thank God, I found the ship and got back here in time!"

There was light within the cavern. The burning fungus was extinguished by the smothering coils that had crashed upon it, but beyond was a waving plume of yellow where a blue flame shot against a wall of rock.

And Jerry, through the stress and riot of emotion that overwhelmed him, laughed chokingly, wildly, at the words of his companion.

"It is sodium," Winslow was saying in explanation, as he saw Jerry's eyes resting on the light. "A hydrogen flame, but there's sodium in the rocks that turns the flame yellow. I rigged up a flame-thrower of hydrogen."

"You would," Jerry gasped through hysterical laughter. "You would do just that, and make your way back to this hell just to save me--you damn fool inventor!"

* * * * *

He clung to Winslow, who was raising him to his feet. Marahna was beside him, robed in the golden garment of the priest. She placed her hands beside his face to turn him toward the further wall. The light was fickle, but it showed him, as it rose and fell, the blackened, swollen body of the monster, still writhing in its death struggle. And beside it, blasted and charred, the head of the obscene sun god, severed by the cutting, obliterating blast, lay flabby and black in a silent heap.

"Rather effective," said Winslow complacently, "though I didn't have much to work with. Two small vials of my liquid and a hand generator to furnish the current. A tubular strut from the frame of the ship made the blow-pipe."

"And these?" Jerry questioned, and pointed to the priest's vestments that Winslow still wore.

"Oh, it was all quiet up above," said the inventor, "and I came down the rope. But there was one of them waiting at the bottom. He didn't need these any more when I left, so I took them to help get about--"

He stopped, to cross quickly and pick up the flame-thrower as the flame died away. It roared as he worked at the mechanism, then dwindled again. Its light, for an instant, was reflected in a liquid on the floor.

"Broken!" said Winslow in an anguished voice. "The vials are gone--smashed! And I counted on this to hold off the mob, to get us safely out...."

He regarded the instrument with silent dismay. The blue flame, as he held it, flickered and died.

"Not so good!" said Jerry slowly. He stopped to retrieve the knife. This, he reflected, was their sole weapon of defense. In the dim light his eyes met with Winslow's in mutual comprehension of their plight.

* * * * *

There were caverns beyond, dark and forbidding. Did they lead to the outer world? Or, instead, was it not probable that they went to some deep, subterranean dens, from which this monster had learned to come at the priests' summons? Jerry put from his mind all thought of escape in that direction.

"And Marahna, too," he told Winslow. "What will become of her?"

The girl got the essence of the question. Fumbling for phrases that they knew, she made them believe that she was safe. Her people, she told them, would protect her.

"Yes," Jerry agreed. "I guess that's right. She's a princess, you know," he reminded Winslow, "and the great mass of the people look up to her. Only the priests and warrior gangs will be opposed. But how can we get through them?"

The question was unanswered.

"We've got to knock them cold some way," said the inventor. "Got to give them a fright that will last till they let us get through. Once at the big shaft where we came down, we can make our getaway. But how to do it...." His voice died away in dismal thought.

Jerry's eyes were casting about. The priest's robe? No, not good enough. It had brought Winslow through, but it couldn't take them back. Marahna? No help there: she had enough to do to protect herself from the fury of the priests.

* * * * *

His eyes rested again on the steaming, blackened mass that still showed the horrible features that had marked the head of the monster. The sun god! There was an idea there.

"Come!" he said to Winslow, and walked swiftly across to the severed head.

He had to steel his nerves before he could lay hands upon the vile thing. The paws were still attached behind the head. He took a grip on one and pulled. The great mass moved.

"I don't get the idea," said Winslow.

"Nor I," Jerry admitted, "but there's an idea here." His thoughts were racing in the moment's silence.

"I've got it," he shouted. "I've got it! If only I can make Marahna understand!" He led the girl nearer to the door, where his signs could be seen more plainly.

"You," he told her, "go out there." He pointed to the place where the priests had stood. "Tell your people"--he took the attitude of the orator declaiming to his audience--"we have come here from the sun." Again his signs were plain. Marahna nodded. This plainly was literal truth to her.

"Tell them," he continued earnestly, "we have saved them from this thing. Tell them it was no sun god, but a monster that the priests had kept. Monster!" he exclaimed, and pointed to the head and to the body that still writhed and jerked spasmodically. "No god--no!" And again the girl showed her understanding. Her eyes were glowing.

"Then," said Jerry, indicating Winslow and himself, "we will take the head that they have worshipped, and we'll drag it out and throw it to the priests." His gestures were graphic. The girl nodded her head in an ecstasy of comprehension.

"And then," Jerry added softly for Winslow's hearing, "we'll beat it. And, with luck, we'll make it safe."

"There's a chance," said Winslow softly, "there's a chance--and that's all we ask."

* * * * *

"It's up to you, Marahna," Jerry told her. His words were meaningless, but the tone sufficed. She drew herself proudly erect, wrapped herself closely in the robe of braided gold, and stepped firmly and fearlessly through the portal and down toward the platform of the priests.

The two men watched from the shadows. Beyond the outline of the platform they saw the warrior clans, a phalanx of protecting bodies. And beyond, drawn back in huddled consternation, were masses of white-faced people--Marahna's people--who listened, now, in wondering silence to their princess.

Marahna made her way slowly to the platform's edge. Of all the countless ones to have gone that road, she was the first ever to return. She stood silent, while her eyes found their way scornfully over the enemy below. Then looking beyond them, she began to speak.

Her soft voice echoed liquidly throughout the room. She gestured, and Jerry knew that she was giving them the message.

From the priests there came once a hoarse, inarticulate growl of hate and unbelief. She silenced them with her hand. She pointed to the heavens, and she told them of the sun and of the two who were true children of the sun, who had come to save them from their false god.

* * * * *

Her voice rose as she told her people in impassioned tones that which she had seen. And she was shouting above the tumult of the priests and pointing directly at them as she made the roof echo with the message: "_Oong devah! Oong devah!_"

"The god is dead," translated Jerry. "_Devah_ means death; she said that of herself before we left. Come on!" he shouted, and laid-hold of one great claw. "It's our turn now."

Winslow was tugging at the other foot. Between them they dragged into the light the obscene burden. Down the long ramp they took it and off upon the platform of the priests, where Marahna waited.

The priests, as Jerry's quick glance showed, were milling wildly about. It seemed that a charge was soon to follow, but the commotion ceased as the two men come upon the platform, hauling between them the great scorched head of "Oong." The vast hall was without movement or sound as they made their way out to the front. Jerry stood erect and faced the crowd.

He pointed, as had Marahna, toward the sun somewhere above those thick masses of rock; he traced it in its course across the sky; he pointed to Winslow and himself. And in loudest tones he roared throughout the room his message. "Oong," he shouted, "_Oong devah!_"

"I'll count three," he whispered in the utter silence. "Then let 'er go!"

Again he took a firm hold on the flabby paw.

"One," he whispered, and swung his body with the word. "Two ... and _three_!"

* * * * *

The men heaved mightily upon the gruesome horror. The head swung ghastly in scorched whiteness into the air. The dead jaws fell open as it crashed downward among the huddled, stricken priests.

"This way!" commanded Winslow. He had been carefully appraising the openings in the crowd. "And don't hurry! Remember, you're a god to them--or something a darn sight worse."

Heads proudly erect, the two strode firmly down the pathway of golden light. The room was silent as the few they met fell back in cringing fear. Slowly, interminably, the long triumphal march was made across the rocky cavern of the moon.

Not till they reached the portal did the silence break. The shrieks of the priests and the clashing of copper were behind them, as they vanished with steady steps from out the room.

"Now run!" ordered Winslow. "Run as if the devils from hell were after you--and I think they are!" The two tore madly down the corridor whose double rows of brightness made possible their utmost speed.

There was the narrowing of the passage--Jerry remembered it--where they came out at the foot of the great shaft, the dead throat of the volcano. Behind them the shrieks and clamor echoed close. A rope was dangling from far up at the top.

Jerry leaped for it before he recalled the condition of his arm. In the excitement of the encounter he had forgotten that the arm was still in no shape for a long hand-over-hand climb.

"I can't make it," he said, and looked about quickly. There were baskets of fungus growth, already dried from the heat of the mid-day sun that had shone where it grew. He dragged one to the narrow part of the tunnel. Winslow tugged at another and threw it up as a barricade. A chalk-white figure in copper sheathing was clambering upon it as he worked at another of the nets.

* * * * *

Jerry let go the fiber basket he was dragging and drew his knife as he sprang to meet the assault. A sharp cutting edge was unknown to these workers in copper. Jerry slipped under the raised bludgeoning copper weapon to plunge the knife into a white throat. Then, without a look at the body he helped Winslow, struggling with another load.

They completed the barricade. A heap of fungus made a raised place where Jerry leaped. Commanding the top of the pile that blocked the choked throat of the passage, he was ready for the next figure that leaped wildly up.

It would take them a while, Jerry saw, to learn of this scintillant death that struck at them from close quarters. His knife flashed again and again as he took the men one at a time and let their limp bodies roll back to the passage beyond.

* * * * *

The assault was checked when Jerry shouted to his companion. "Tie the rope around me," he ordered, "up under my arms ... then you go on up. When you get there pull up--and for the Lord's sake pull fast!"

"Go on," he shouted. "I can hold them for a while--" He turned swiftly to take a leaping body upon the red point of his knife.

He felt the rope about him as he fought, knew by its twitching when Winslow started the long climb, and prayed dumbly for strength to hold his weak fortress till the other could hoist himself up to the top.

He was fighting blindly as they came on in endless succession, the figures of frenzied priests leaping grotesquely beyond. Only the strategic position he had taken allowed him to turn the wild assault again and again. They could only reach him by ones and twos, but the end must come soon. There were priests tearing at the foot of the barricade.... The cold winds that came down from above revived him, but it helped the figures ripping at the fiber cords. The dry fungus fragments whirled gaily away and down the passage in the wind.

The wind! The draft was blowing from him, directly upon his attackers. Jerry struggled and clinched with another that bounded beside him, and knew as he fought that a weapon was at hand. His knife found the lower edge of copper, and the figure screamed as he rolled it down the slope. He slipped the knife into his left hand as he fumbled with his right.

* * * * *

His precious matches! He struck one on the rock; it broke in his trembling fingers. Another--there were so few left. He drew it with infinite care on the surface of rock. The figures below tore in frenzy at the weakening barricade, while yet others stood waiting at this sign of some new form of magic.

They shouted again, as they had when, those long days ago, he had lighted a cigarette before their horrified gaze. Jerry shielded the tiny blaze in his hand to bring it beneath a papery leaf beside him.

The flame flashed and dwindled. He dared not drop back to set fire to the base of the heap. But even in the exhaustion and strain of the moment Jerry Foster still knew the value of the showman's tricks in reaching the fears of these white-faced fighters.

With grandiloquent gesture he raised another of the tindery fragments and ignited it from the first. Another, and he had the beginning of a fire. He lit another piece, and, when he had it blazing, dropped it behind him and kept on with the show.

A large piece became a flaming torch, and he waved it before him and laughed to see the warriors cringe. A cloud of smoke was billowing about him--he leaped to safety through a rising wall of flame.

The rear slope of the barricade became a furnace; the wind behind him swept the smoke clouds down the passage. He heard, and sank back weakly on the ground as it came to him, the screaming riot where a mob of terrified warriors fought and struck to turn the horde that clamored behind them and pushed them on. The blast roared over the heaped fuel and poured downward from the crest. The noise of the retreat went silent in the distance.

* * * * *

Spent and exhausted, Jerry Foster lay panting upon the stone floor. The breath of cold and life came down the long shaft from the crater. Had Winslow gained the top? Was he equal to the climb? Jerry hardly felt the jerking of the rope about his shoulders, but he knew as, in frantic haste, it drew him scraping up the long side of the shaft.

The biting cold above revived him, and again a scene of desolation was spread before his eyes. Winslow fumbled with the knots and released him from the rope.

"Come on!" he shouted, and extended a helping hand as they leaped and raced across the rocky floor.

Jerry again was vividly, strongly alive as the cold winds swept him. He leaped hugely through the whirling wisps of dried out vegetation--the sun had stripped the surface of every living thing. Again the rocky slopes rose naked in the rosy light of evening. The sun was hidden below a distant range of jagged hills. The long night was begun.

"You're going the wrong way," Jerry shouted. "We left it over there." He stopped to point where the sun had set. "See, that's where we fought the beasts--"

"Come on!" repeated Winslow. "Hurry! We mustn't lose out now. I flew the ship over this way while I was up here before."

A ridge of rock cut off the view where Winslow pointed. "Bully for you!" Jerry shouted and turned to follow. They stopped as the slope ahead, from its multitude of honeycomb caverns, erupted men.

* * * * *

The priests were ahead, and behind them swarmed their men. Vindictive and revengeful, the wily enemy was fighting to the end. The two stopped in consternation.

"What's the use!" demanded Jerry. His voice was tired, utterly hopeless. "And the ship's right over there...."

"A million miles away," said Winslow slowly, "as far as we're concerned." The army was sweeping down the long slope: they had found their quarry. There were other figures, too, pouring from the throat of the volcano--white, naked figures that swarmed in growing numbers and rushed across upon them from the rear.

"Trapped," said Jerry Foster savagely, "and we almost made it." He rose wearily to his feet. "We'll take it standing."

The armored warriors were approaching; in leaping triumph they raced to be the first ones at the death. The shouts of the priests were ringing encouragement in their ears.

* * * * *

But the leaders from the rear were nearer. One deep breath Jerry drew as he turned to meet them. Then stared, astonished, as the figures swept past. They streamed by in confusion. They were armed with rocks, with clubs or copper metal--some even carried bars of gold above their heads. They came in a great swarm that swept past and beyond them. And they met, like an engulfing wave, the bounding figures of the men in copper. Smothered and lost were the warriors in the horde that poured increasingly on.

The wave, before Jerry's eyes, swept on over the crest, while he still stood in amazed unbelief at the battle that raged.

It was Marahna who brought understanding. He turned to see her kneel in sobbing, thankful abasement at his feet.

Marahna! Her people! She had saved them! There was time needed for the full force of the truth to banish the hopeless despair from his heart. Then he stooped to raise the crouching figure with arms that were suddenly strong.

* * * * *

The pale rose light of the departed sun above shone softly within a rocky valley of the moon. It tipped the tall crags with lavender hues, and it touched with soft gleaming reflections a blunted cylinder of aluminum alloy.

The valley was silent, save for the hushed whispers of wondering thousands who peopled the enclosing hills, and the rushing roar from the cylinder itself where the inventor was testing his machine.

There were figures in priestly robes--scores of them--and they were surrounded by a white throng that, silent and watchful, held them captive.

Beyond, in the open, where bare rock made a black rolling floor, there were two who stood alone. The golden figure of a girl, and beside her, Jerry Foster, in wordless indecision.

Behind him was the ship. Its muffled thunder came softly to his unheeding ears. He looked at the girl steadily, thoughtfully.

Gone was all trace of her imperious dignity. The Princess Marahna was now all woman. And Jerry, looking into her dark eyes, read plainly the yearning and adoration in their depths. The Princess Marahna had forgotten her deference to the god in her love for the man. The tale was told in her flushed face, openly, unashamed.

And his gray eyes were thoughtful and tender as he gazed into hers. He was thinking, was Jerry Foster, of many things. And he was weighing them carefully. His hand clasped and unclasped at something safely hidden in his pocket. He had taken it from his pack; he had wanted something for Marahna, something she would treasure.

* * * * *

And now she was offering him herself. He could take her with him, take her to that far-off world that she never dreamed existed. He could show her the things of that world, its wonders and beauties. He could train her in its ways. He would watch over her, love her.... And she would be miserable and heartsick for the sight of this awful desolation. He knew it--he told himself it was the truth--and he hated himself for the telling.

The voice of Winslow aroused him. The inventor had come from his ship. "We had better be starting," he said.

The slim figure of the girl in her robe of pure gold trembled visibly. She knew, it was plain, the import of the words. She spoke rapidly, beseechingly, in her own tongue. The words were liquid music in the air. Then, realizing their impotence, she resorted to her poor vocabulary of their own strange sounds.

"No!" she said, and shook her head vehemently. "No--no!"

She motioned to wait, and she called loud and clear across the silence to her own people. There was a stir about the priests. One in the robes and head-dress of the high priest was brought forward, led by two others of her men. They stopped a few steps from her and bowed low.

Again she called, and the leaders among the vast throng came, too, and made their obeisance before her.

* * * * *

She turned then to Jerry. And now it was Marahna, Princess of the Moon, who stood quiet and poised before him. The light, he saw, made soft wavelets of radiance in her hair, and her eyes were still glowing and tender. She stepped forward toward the priest.

The helmet of the sun god was upon his head. It marked him, Jerry knew, as the master of their world. True, they had bowed in submission to that other master, whose vile head lay horrible and harmless on the floor of the great hall--they had believed in the commands the priests had pretended to receive from him--but this emblem on the helmet marked the leader of the race, the master of this world, for these simple folk.

Marahna reached her slim hands and lifted the thing of gold. She turned, and held it above the startled eyes of Jerry Foster, and she placed it upon his head with all the dignity that became a queen. A word from her, and the men before him dropped in humbleness to the ground. The Princess Marahna was among them in honoring salutation to their king.

Jerry was beyond speech. Not so Winslow. "It looks to me," he said dryly, "as if you were being offered the kingdom of the earth--I mean the moon. Think it over, Jerry--think it over."

* * * * *

And Jerry Foster thought it over, deeply and soberly. He could rule this people, he and Marahna, rule in peace and quiet and comfort. He could bring them knowledge and wisdom of infinite help; he could make their new civilization a measure of advancement for a whole race. He could teach them, train them, instruct them. And he and Marahna--there would be children who would be princes born--could be happy--for a time. And then ... and then he would be old. Old and lonely for his kind, hungering and longing for his own people. As Marahna would be on earth, so would he be here....

His decision was formed. And with it he knew he must not hurt the heart of Marahna. She loved him, Jerry Foster, the man. He must leave her as Jerry Foster, the god, child of the sun. He stood suddenly to his full height, and who shall say that for a moment the man did not approach the stature of divinity--for he was wholly kind.

He placed a hand upon the head of the kneeling girl before him. He held her in her submissive pose, then, turning to the waiting men, he spoke in measured tones.

"I thank you," he said, and the words came from a full heart, "but my place is not here. I leave with you one more worthy."

Before their wondering gaze he removed the glowing circlet from his head; he leaned to place it on the head of Marahna, humbled before him. With strong hands he raised her to her feet. His look, so tender yet reserved, was full of meaning. She followed his every sign.

* * * * *

He waved once toward the sun, hidden behind the distant hills: he pointed again to Winslow and himself and to their shining ship: and again he marked the going of the sun. His meaning was plain--these children of the sun must return to their far-off home.

He turned now to Marahna. In his hand was the object he had taken from his pack. It was a treasured thing, this locket of platinum on its thin and lacy chain; it had been his mother's, and he thought of her now as he opened the clasp to show his own face framed within the oval. His mother--she had worn this. And she would have approved, he knew, of its disposal.

Gravely he faced Marahna. He showed her the picture within the case, then held it aloft where all might see. He closed it and taught her the pressure that released the spring. Then, with gentle dignity that made of the gesture a rite, he placed the chain about the neck of Princess Marahna--Queen, now, of the People of the Moon. And he knew that he gave into her keeping their only relic of a being from the sun. It marked her beyond all future question with a symbol of mastery. And it made of him a god.

And even a queen may not aspire to such an one.

It was well that Winslow's hand was there to guide him as he walked with unseeing eyes toward the ship.

* * * * *

Time may lose at times all meaning and measure--moments become timeless. It seemed ages to Jerry Foster when Winslow spoke in casual tones. "I'm going straight up," he said, above the generator's roar. "Then we'll swing around above the other side. We'll follow the sun--make the full circle of the moon before we start."

But Jerry neither thought nor heard. His eyes were close to a window of thick glass. Below him was a shrinking, dwindling landscape, wind-swept and desolate.

There was a multitude of faces, turned worshipping toward the sky. On one, who stood apart in tiny loneliness, his vision centered. He watched and strained his aching eyes until the figure was no more. Only the pale rose of a dying sun, and a torn, volcanic waste that tugged strangely at his heart.

"Yes," he answered mechanically, "yes, we'll go round with the sun ... a couple of sun gods."

He laughed strangely as he regarded his companion.

If Winslow wondered at the weariness in the voice he made no sign. He was busy with a rheostat that made thunderous roaring of the blast behind their ship: that swung them in a sweeping arc through velvet skies, away from the far side of the moon, to follow the path of the setting sun--homeward bound.

_The Readers' Corner_

_A Meeting Place for Readers of_

Astounding Stories

"_Second Better Than First_"

Dear Editor:

The second number of Astounding Stories is better than the
first. "Spawn of the Stars," by Charles Willard Diffin, was
the best story, closely followed by "Creatures of the
Light," by Sophie Wenzel Ellis and "The Beetle Horde," by
Victor Rousseau. I like stories of vibration as in "Mad
Music," and of acceleration, as in "The Thief of Time." I am
glad to see Harl Vincent in the pages of Astounding Stories.
I have read many good stories by him. Interplanetary stories
are my favorites, and the more you have of them the better.

I wish that you would put Astounding Stories out twice a
month or put out a quarterly containing twice as much
reading material as the monthly. In this you could put one
book-length novel and a few shorter stories.

Are you going to start a department containing the readers'
letters soon?--Jack R. Darrow, 4225 N. Spaulding Avenue,
Chicago, Ill.

_Size and Paper_

Dear Editor:

I certainly am glad to see your magazine appear on the
newsstands. I also view with appreciation the fact that you
have such brilliant authors as Harl Vincent and Captain S.
P. Meek, U. S. A., on your list of contributors. Your
stories are of the very highest value in the line of Science
Fiction. However, I did not like "The Corpse on the
Grating." It did not have an inkling of scientific
background. I really am surprised it was published in a
Science Fiction magazine. Aside from the fact that the idea
of the story was merely a fantastical surmise I was very
favorably impressed with the author's style and his use of
the English language.

Why don't you try for some more of the works of the other
well-known authors in this line of fiction?

My main object in writing this letter was that I think you
rub the name of Science Fiction in the dust by printing it
on such paper and in such a small magazine. If you intend to
compete with your several contemporaries, you will almost
have to alter your size and quality of your paper.

You might include a full page Illustration for each story
also, but, you will admit, that to combat these other
influential Science Fiction magazines, you will have to put
your magazine on a par materially with the others in your
line.

I admire the type of stories which you publish and want to
see your magazine get ahead.--Warren Williams, 545
Dorchester, Chicago, Illinois.

_They Will!_

Dear Editor:

I am a monthly reader of your Astounding Stories and I am
greatly interested in them.

The best story I have so far read is "Creatures of the
Light." It is a story of Super-science indeed. If the author
of this story would write more like it, I am sure they would
be greatly appreciated.

Here is hoping that more of their kind appear in the very
near future. Yours for more good stories.--Quenton Stockman,
245 Dixon Street, Portland, Oregon.

"_Surpasses the First_"

Dear Editor:

I have just finished the February issue of your magazine. It
surpasses the first issue by far. I am glad to see that you
have eight stories in this issue. That is just enough. I
like one serial (not too long), one or two novelettes, and
five or six short stories in each issue. Tell Captain S. P.
Meek to write more adventures of Dr. Bird.

I have arranged the stories of the first two issues
according to my own liking. Excellent: "The Beetle Horde"
and "Phantoms of Reality." Good: "The Care of Horror,"
"Tanks" and "Invisible Death." Fair: "The Stolen Mind" and
"Compensation."

In the second issue: Excellent: "Creatures of the Light,"
"Old Crompton's Secret," "The Beetle Horde" and "Spawn of
the Stars." Good: "The Thief of Time" and "Mad Music." Fair:
"The Corpse on the Grating" and "Into Space."

I hope there will be more stories under "Excellent" next
month--Ward Elmore, 2012 Avenue J, Ft. Madison, Ia.

"_Only One Trouble_--"

Dear Editor:

I have just finished reading your new magazine and think
it's great. The only trouble with it is that it doesn't have
enough stories.

I liked "Phantoms of Reality," by Ray Cummings, best, and
"The Cave of Horror," by Capt. S. P. Meek, next best. "The
Beetle Horde," and "Tanks" were also good.

Ray Cummings and S. P. Meek are among my favorite Science
Fiction authors.

I like best interplanetary stories and stories of the
aircraft of the future. I would like to see a good
interplanetary story by R. H. Romans in this magazine pretty
soon.

Other good authors whose stories I would like to read are:
Dr. David H Keller, Dr. Miles J. Breuer, Lilith Lorraine, Ed
Earl Repp and Walter Kateley.

In your editorial you mention the fact that some day in the
future a person can disintegrate his body in New York and
reintegrate it in China. I would like to see a good story
about that by either Ray Cummings or S.P. Meek.

Something else: why not make your magazine a little bigger
and include a scientific article or two once in a while?--J.
W. Latimer, 1000 East 8th Street, National City, Calif.

"_No Horror Stories_"

Dear Editor:

I am taking this opportunity to let you know what I think of
Astounding Stories. The worst fault is the tendency to print
terror stories. Please don't do this. If I never see another
story like "The Corpse on the Grating" in your magazine it
will be too soon.

Don't print so many detective stories. Capt. Meek's splendid
stories are plenty. Please start a discussion column and put
Wesso's drawings inside the magazine, too.

Are you planning on any reprints? I would like to see some
reprints of Ray Cummings', A. Merritt's, H. G. Wells',
Garret Smith's and George A. England's stories soon.

"Phantoms of Reality," "The Beetle Horde," "The Cave of
Horror," "Into Space," "Creatures of the Light," and "Old
Crompton's Secret" were splendid.

I hope for fewer detective stories and no horror
stories.--Joe Stone, 123 20th Street, Toledo, Ohio.

_We Liked It, Too!_

Dear Editor:

Just a line to tell you that I bought my first copy of
Astounding Stories and they certainly are good, especially
"Creatures of the Light," by Sophie Wenzel Ellis. It's the
best short story I've read in ages. I hope to read more by
her in the future. Yours for success.--F. J. Michaslow,
Battery "D," Ft. Hancock, N. J.

"_Strikes a Mystic Chord_"

Dear Editor:

I think that your Astounding Story Magazine is a fine
magazine. It seems to strike a mystic cord within me and
makes me respond to it.

One thing lacking--I believe, that is--a department for
letters from your readers.

"Spawn of the Stars" is certainly a fine scientific story.

I wish that the author of "Into Space" would write a sequel
to his story.--Ronald Bainbridge, Rockford, Illinois.

_We're Avoiding Reprints_

Dear Editor:

I am writing again about Astounding Stories. It seems more
people are interested in science to-day than ever before,
and an easy and interesting way to gain this knowledge is
through reading an entertaining science story.

Regarding stories in your February issue, will list them
according to my likes and dislikes. "Into Space" and "Mad
Music" contained science maybe not impossible in the future.
"Spawn of the Stars," "The Beetle Horde," "Creatures of the
Light," "The Thief of Time" and "Old Compton's Secret" were
very interesting science, and good reading, but "The Corpse
on the Grating" did not appeal to me.

I like interplanetary stories and stories of what might be
on other planets.

I notice some familiar names among your authors. Why not
print some (not too many) stories from H. G. Wells, E. R.
Burroughs and Jules Verne? Some of their stories which were
considered just wild dreams of the author at the time of
writing have actually become a reality, as, for instance,
the submarine. If you keep on as you started or improve I
can see only success--C. E. Anderson, 3504 Colfax Avenue
South, Minneapolis, Minn.

_A Few Favorites_

Dear Editor:

I am an electrical engineer. I read the last two issues of
your magazine. I liked it very much. It is thrilling and
very well edited. I will buy it regularly.

I liked "Invisible Death" best. "The Beetle Horde" was good,
"Phantoms of Reality," good. "Into Space" and "Mad Music,"
very good. "Creatures of the Light," "Old Crompton's Secret"
and "Spawn of the Stars," good.--Adolph Wasserrogel, Gedden
Terrace, Waterbury, Conn.

"_Going Some!_"

Dear Editor:

I purchased one of your magazines when I first saw them. I
always had a liking for Super-science stories, but your
magazine was the best I ever got hold of. Thought I could
never wait until the next issue to finish "The Beetle
Horde." I believe "The Cave of Horror" was the best story in
that issue. It really seemed as if it could be true.

Due respect must be paid the author of "The Corpse on the
Grating," for it was exciting and fantastic. "Phantoms of
Reality" was good.

All the stories in the second magazine seemed as good as the
best of the first number, and that's going some.

May you succeed in getting the same good and better stories
as you have in the first two issues of a magazine that I am
sure will grow to fame.--Harold Rakestraw, Box 25, Winthop,
Wash.

_We Intend To_

Dear Editor:

Having read the first two issues of your new magazine, I
find it has a larger variety of stories than any of the
other Science Fiction magazines now found on the newsstands.
Why not keep it that way? It will be unique.

Mr. Wessolowski, your artist, is great. He is one who can
draw when it comes to a good scientific background.

I consider "Tanks" your best story as yet, with "Spawn of
the Stars" close second. "Invisible Death," "Creatures of
the Light" and "Mad Music" were also good. Try to give us
some stories by Edgar Rice Burroughs and A. Merritt. Did not
think much of "The Beetle Horde"--too many like it--Ted
Shatkowski, 812 Hoffman St., Hammond, Ind.

_Some Good Suggestions_

Dear Editor:

I received the pleasure of purchasing a copy of Astounding
Stories the other day, the first copy I have seen. I have
not yet read it, but I am unable to wait that long to inform
you of my great joy in greeting a new magazine of this type.

I am a reader of other magazines similar to A. S., Stories
of Harl Vincent, Capt. S. P. Meek, Murray Leinster, and
others appear in these magazines, also, so I am familiar
with your authors.

But you have asked me what sort of stories I'd like to see
in A. S., so here goes. First of all, I would earnestly beg
you not to print such stories as those that deal with
ghosts, etc., because in my opinion there are far too many
good stories available to cast them aside for trash.

The type of story I prefer is the kind that is fanciful, odd
and interesting. Some tales deal with a new invention of
some sort, but contain no action or plot. However, I fail to
see any like that in the present A. S., unless it's "Mad
Music."

A few utterly impossible stories are so interestingly told
that it is worth while to publish them. Some examples are
stories by A. Merritt (whose stories are the most
fascinating I have ever read). H. P. Lovecraft (master of
the bizarre and the grotesque) and G. A. England.

My letter seems to be mostly composed of suggestions, but
that is only because I am interested in anything pertaining
to stories of imagination, or Science Fiction, as it is
called. However, Astounding Stories seems to be very
satisfying to me. I am glad that you have Wessolowski on
your artist's staff. I hope that you will have a story
contest some time in the future, as they are very
interesting, and often uncover hitherto unknown talent in
the contestants.

I sincerely wish you the utmost of success in Astounding
Stories and hope that it will live a long, enduring life.

I hope, as time goes on, you will favor us with more
illustrations, for this type of story needs a large amount
of drawings so that the readers won't overwork their
imaginations.

Astounding Stories seems to be very shy, for I heard of it
from a friend and got the February, 1930 issue only after an
exhaustive search. The place where I got it appears to be
about the only one in town selling it. I hope more stores
will handle your great magazine. (I didn't intend the words
"great magazine" to be sarcastic. I really think it's
great!)

I hope you will have a department in which the readers may
discuss the merits or lacks of stories published. Or at
least print excerpts now and then.

Enclosed find twenty cents in stamps for which please send
me the first issue.--A. W. Bernal, 1374 E. 32 Street,
Oakland, Calif.

"_Stories I Like Best_--"

Dear Editor:

The stories I like best in your Astounding Stories of
Super-science were "The Beetle Horde" by Victor Rousseau,
"The Cave of Horror," by Capt. S. P. Meek, "Compensation,"
by C. V. Tench, "Invisible Death," by Anthony Pelcher. I
have just bought your second copy of Astounding Stories. I
like the book very much, and expect to buy it every
month--Issac Dworkowits, 1262 Valentine Avenue, Bronx, N. Y.

"_Just What Is Needed_"

Dear Editor:

I have read the first two copies of your new magazine and I
would like to make a few comments and criticisms. This
magazine is very popular in my community and is just what is
needed to instill scientific interest in the mind of the
general public. Science Fiction will arouse more interest
and will be read by more people than any amount of dry
science and cold facts. Since you would like to have a
reader's opinion, I will say that "The Beetle Horde" is the
best story that I have read in a long time and was based on
the most excellent science; "The Thief of Time" was good;
try to get some more stories by Capt. S. P. Meek; one in
every copy would not be too many. I could not get all "het
up" over "Spawn of the Stars," it was a little vague; I do
not think the author had a very distinct idea about the
nature of the invaders.

The stories do not have to stick to cold science, but should
not violate an established fact without a reasonable
explanation, as this might cause a mistaken idea in the
minds of the readers. A few good authors are: Dr. Keller, A
Hyatt Verrill, Walter Kately and R. H. Romans.--Wayne Bray,
Campbell, Missouri.

"_Literature That Typifies New Age_"

Dear Editor:

As a member of an organization whose existence was founded
through the medium of Science Fiction, I have watched your
magazine closely, and here are the results:

It is all Science Fiction, virile, interesting and new.

A popular edition of these stories with the name of a great
publishing house behind it.

The authors you have acquired are supreme in this field. Ray
Cummings and Captain Meek need no introduction. And Harl
Vincent is a notable addition whose stories of "Indefinite
Extension" and interplanetary travel are well known to
Science Fiction fans.

Science Fiction, first introduced by Verne, Poe, Wells,
Haggard and other old masters in this line, is a type of
literature that typifies the new age to come--the age of
science. And, in conclusion, may I say that the Science
Correspondence Club extends to your new and most acceptable
publication heartiest wishes for continued and increasing
success. I subscribe myself to the advancement of science
and Science Fiction.--Walter P. Dennis, F. P. S., 4653
Addison Street, Chicago, Ill.

"_Keep Up the Good Work_"

Dear Editor:

I have just completed the perusal of the first issue of
Astounding Stories and am immensely pleased. I am a high
school senior, and though have only a rudimentary knowledge
of science, the subject impresses me and I am eager to gain
new facts and food for thought.

I compliment you on securing the services of such writers of
scientifiction as Ray Cummings, Harl Vincent, and R. F.
Starzl. They are good! Ray Cummings' impressive style, his
vivid imagination, and his knowledge of his subject seem to
me invincible. His stories are always welcome.

Now, concerning the services of other writers of Science
Fiction, I think the majority of the readers would be well
pleased with the following list: Edgar Rice Burroughs, A.
Hyatt Verrill, H.G. Wells, David H. Keller, Otis Adelbert
Kline and Stanton Coblentz. The above mentioned, I am sure,
would greatly please your readers. I believe it would
greatly improve the circulation of your magazine to try to
secure the services of such writers (especially E. R.
Burroughs).

I am greatly interested in the future of your magazine and
wish it every bit of luck in the world. You have made an
astounding start. Keep up the good work.--A. G. Jaweett,
Jr., 132 Murdock Avenue, Asheville, N.C.

"_The Readers' Corner_"

All Readers are extended a sincere and cordial invitation to "come over in 'The Readers' Corner'" and join in our monthly discussion of stories, authors, scientific principles and possibilities--everything that's of common interest in connection with our Astounding Stories.

Although from time to time the Editor may make a comment or so, this is a department primarily for _Readers_, and we want you to make full use of it. Likes, dislikes, criticisms, explanations, roses, brickbats, suggestions--everything's welcome here; so "come over in 'The Readers' Corner'" and discuss it with all of us!

--_The Editor._