418
Nosooner did Kirby see comprehension in the girls’ faces than he swung around and let go of his perch. As he crashed, caught the next limb below him, and let go to crash to another, he had all he could do to suppress a yelp of joy. For all at once every voice in the ape congregation was raised in howls and screams of devastated terror.
He did not care how he got down from the tree. Seconds and half seconds were what counted. From the last limb above the ground he swung into space, and a split second later staggered to his feet, clutched his rifle, and started for the clearing. His lungs seemed collapsed and both ankles shattered. He did not care. Not when the ape screams were growing louder with every step he took. Not when he heard Nini and Ivana pouring down from their tree a continuation of the scorching fire he had started.
Panting, his breath only half regained, but steeled to make the fight of his life, he tore from the jungle into the clearing just in time to see a twisting, pain-convulsed seventy-foot coil of white muscle lash up and strike Naida’s cage a blow which knocked it like a ball in the air. Naida screamed and hung to the bars.
But she was all right. It was not against her that Quetzalcoatl was venting his wrath: the blow had been blind accident. As Kirby stood at the clearing’s edge, he knew to a certainty that Quetzalcoatl’s reaction to sudden pain had been all he had dared hope.
In front of him forty or fifty ape-bodies lay in a crushed heap. While yard after yard of the Serpent’s bleached length streamed out of the hole, the hundreds of feet of coils already in the clearing suddenly whipped about a whole squadron of ape-men, and with a few constrictions annihilated them as if they had been ants. Across the clearing, the leperous head reared up as high as the trees and swooped down, fangs gleaming. The howls of the ape-men trying to flee, the screams of those who had been caught, rose until they became all one scream.
ButKirby had not left the safety of the tree merely to get a ringside view of carnage. He faced his next, his final task unhesitatingly. Straight out he leaped from the shadows of the jungle into the clearing, out into the presence of the beleagured, screaming ape-men. Well enough he knew that those creatures, despite their frenzy, might sight him and fall upon him at any second; well enough he knew that a single flick of the white coils all over the clearing could crush him instantly. But the time to worry about those hazards would be when they beset him. With a yell as piercing as any in the whole bedlam, Kirby rushed forward.
High up in the moonlit vault of the night, swaying between the two poles which supported it, hung the white cage which was Naida’s prison. By the time Kirby had sprinted fifty yards, he knew that his yells had reached Naida. For she staggered to her knees and looked straight at him. A second later, though, he realized that the almost inevitable recognition of him by ape-men had come to pass.
Eight or ten of the creatures, left unmolested for a second by the Serpent, halted in the mad run they were making for the sheltering jungle, and while one pointed with hairy arm, the others let out shrieks. Kirby gritted his teeth in something like despair. Then he realized that the worst danger—Quetzalcoatl’s blurred coils—was not threatening him so far. And he went on, straight toward the ape-men.
He did not look where, how, or at whom he struck. All he knew was that his rifle blazed, and as he clubbed at soft flesh with the butt, blood spurted, and new screams filled the night. He felt and half saw big, stinking bodies going down, and clawed his way forward,419around them, over them. Then he felt no more bodies, and knew that he was through. A little farther he ran over the trampled earth, and stopped and looked up.
The howls of the living, the shrieks of the dying deafened him. Renewed shots from the rifles in the tree, made the Serpent lash about in a dazzling white blur, smashing trees, apes, everything in its path. But Kirby, finding himself still safe, scarcely heard or saw. His eyes, turned upward, saw one thing only.
“Naida!”
Shehad snapped two of the withes of the cage and was leaning forward through the opening. Her face was livid with horror and exhaustion, but she was able to look at him with eyes that glowed.
“You—you came!” she gasped. “You came to me!”
In a flash Kirby jumped over to the poles and began to cast off one of the lines which held the cage aloft.
“Get ready for a bump!” he shouted, as he lowered away, arms straining.
Paying out the one line left the cage suspended from the second, but let it sweep from its position between the poles, down toward one pole. As the thing struck the tall support, Kirby bounded over to stand beneath it, only too sharply aware of the death waiting for him on every side, but ignoring it. Naida still hung suspended a good twenty feet above him, but there was no time to let go the other line. He braced himself and held up his arms.
“Jump!” he yelled.
Then he saw the white gown sweeping down toward him, felt the crash of a soft body against his, and staggered back. Recovered in a tenth of a second, he drew a deep breath, and looked at Naida beside him, tall and brave, unhurt.
“Are you able to run?” he snapped, and then, the moment she nodded, motioned toward the jungle.
Behind them, in front, on all sides, rose screams so horrible that he wondered even then if he would ever forget. As he started to run, he realized that when Naida had finally landed in his arms, the nearest squirming loop of the Serpent had been no more than four yards away, and that, right now, if their luck failed, a single unfortunate twist of the incredible hundreds of feet of white muscle could still end things for them.
Butluck was not going to fail. Somehow Kirby knew it as they sprinted side by side, and the sheltering jungle loomed closer every second. And a moment later, something beside his own inner faith made him know it, too.
“Look, Naida! Look!” he screeched all at once.
At the upper end of the clearing, where an unthinkable slaughter was going on, there leaped out from amongst a surging mass of apes, leaped out from almost directly beneath a downward smashing blur of white snake folds, a figure which Kirby had not seen or thought about for many seconds.
The Duca’s robe hung in tatters from his body. Blood had smeared his white hair. His eyes were those of a man gone mad from fear. And as he escaped the tons of muscle which so nearly had engulfed him, he began to run even as Kirby felt himself running.
Straight toward him and Naida, Kirby saw the man spurt, but whether the mad eyes recognized them or not, he could not tell, nor did he care. All at once his feeling that they would escape the clearing, became conviction.
For suddenly the same single twitch of Quetzalcoatl’s vast folds which might have finished them, if luck had not held, put an end to the Duca’s retreat. At one moment the man’s path was clear. The next—
Kirby, running for dear life, gasped, and heard Naida cry out beside him.
The great loops flashed, twisted, and420where had been an open way for the Duca, loomed a wall of scaly white flesh. The living wall twitched, closed in; and as the Duca dodged and leaped to no avail, a cry shrilled across the night—a cry that cut like a knife.
Kirbysaw no more. But it was likely that most, if not all, of the caciques had gone with the Duca.
Somehow, anyhow, in but a few seconds more, Kirby dove into the spot from which he had left the jungle to enter the clearing. As Naida pressed against him, winded but still strong, he found his best hopes for immediate retreat realized, for Gori, Nini, and Ivana, down from their tree, ran toward them.
“She is all right,” he said with a gesture which cut short the outbursts ready to come. “But we’ve got to keep going. Ivana, tell Gori that her people are gone, wiped out, but that if she will cast her lot with us, we will not forget what she has done. Come on!”
With Gori leading them they ran, stumbling, recovering themselves, stumbling again. To breathe became an agony. But not until many minutes later, when they plowed into the cover of a fern belt whose blackness not even the moonlight had pierced, did Kirby call a halt.
Here he swept a final glance behind him, listened long for sounds of pursuit, and relaxed a little only when none came to disturb the night stillness. However, that relaxation, now that he permitted it at last, meant something.
The complete silence gave him final conviction that what he had said about the whole ape-people being destroyed was true. As for the Serpent—well, perhaps he was destroyed even as they were. Perhaps not. In any case the grip which Quetzalcoatl held upon the imagination of the People of the Temple had been destroyed by this night’s work, and that was what counted most. The Serpent would be worshipped no longer.
Kirbyreached out in the darkness and found Naida’s hand.
“Come along,” he said to all of the party. “I think the past is—the past. And with Gori to guide us out of the jungle, and our own brains to guide us through the jungle of self-government after that, I think the future ought to be bright enough.”
Ivana and Nini both chuckled as they moved again, and Gori, hearing her name spoken in a kindly voice, twitched her ears appreciatively. Naida drew very close to Kirby.
“What are you thinking about?” she asked presently.
“The—temple,” he answered.
“About the crown which probably is still lying on the altar there?”
Kirby looked up in surprise.
“Why, I had forgotten about that!”
“What was it, then?”
“But what could I have been thinking about except how you looked when we came together in that gloomy place, and walked forward, side by side?Nowhave I told you enough?”
Naida laughed.
“There is so much to be done!” Kirby exclaimed then. “As soon as possible, we must climb to the Valley of the Geyser, go on into the outer world, and there seek carefully for men who are willing, and fit, to come here. And that is only one task. Others come crowding to me every second. But first—”
“What?” Naida asked softly.
“The temple. Naida, we will reach the plateau sometime to-morrow. All of the girls who kept watch there will be waiting for us, and it will be a time of happiness. May we not, then, go to the temple? There will be no priests. But we will make our pledges without them. Tell me, may I hope that it will be so—to-morrow?”
Naida did not answer at once. She did not even nod. But presently her shoulder, still fragrant with faint perfume, brushed his. She clasped his hand then, and as they walked on in silence, Kirby knew.
421The Reader’s Corner
Dear Editor:
After comparison with various other magazines which specialize in the publication of Science Fiction, we—The Scientific Fiction Library Ass’n, of 1457 First Ave., New York City—have found that your magazine, Amazing Stories, publishes stories to which the term “literature” may be applied in its real sense. A fine example of this is the story “Murder Madness,” by Murray Leinster. Others of the finer novels are: “The Beetle Horde,” by Victor Rousseau, and, up to the present installment, “Earth, the Marauder,” by Arthur J. Burks. “Brigands of the Moon,” by Ray Cummings, was interesting and well-written, but it was not literature (not a story which you will remember and read over again). Of the shorter stories, the novelettes, the best are: “Spawn of the Stars,” by Charles W. Diffin, “Monsters of Moyen,” by Arthur J. Burks, and “The Atom Smasher,” by Victor Rousseau.
Since the magazine started, there are only three stories that did not belong in the magazine, and were not even interesting. These are: “The Corpse on the Grating,” by Hugh B. Cave; “The Stolen Mind,” by M. Staley, and the last (I wonder that the editors who used such good sense in picking the other finer stories, let it pass), “Vampires of Venus,” by Anthony Pelcher. May you keep up the high standard of fiction you are publishing at present.—Nathan Greenfeld, 873 Whitlock Ave., New York City.
Dear Editor:
Firstly, let me say that I am sending a year’s subscription to Astounding Stories, which will tell you that they are good.
On the average, the stories are of good literary merit and plot. However, there is one thing that seems to be getting rather pushed into the background and that is the second part of your title, “Super-Science.” If this is to be a Science Fiction magazine let us have it so. I am kicking against stories like “Murder Madness” and the like. They are really excellent in every way but just need that tincture of a little scientific background to make them super-excellent. “Brigands of the Moon” and “The Moon Master” seem to me more the type of story “our mag” should publish, from its name.
No doubt this criticism will leave you cold and this effusion find its way into the nearest waste paper basket, but I find that a number of your readers in Australia think somewhat the same as I do.
422
More brickbats—I hope not! and more bouquets—I hope so! the next time I write.—N.W. Alcock, 5 Gaza Rd., Naremburn, N.S.W., Australia.
Dear Editor:
I shall be glad to take advantage of your cordial invitation to come over to “The Readers’ Corner.” In the first place, I find your magazine the best of its kind on the market, and you are to be congratulated on having such excellent authors as Ray Cummings, Murray Leinster and Captain S. P. Meek. Nevertheless, there are so many things to be criticized that I hardly know where to begin.
Let’s start of with stories of future warfare. Although this class is potentially one of the most interesting, it is at the same time one of the most abused. Ray Cummings can write classics in this field, but the efforts of most the others are atrocities. I’ll wager that their favorite childhood sport was mowing down whole regiments of lead soldiers with oxy-acetylene torches. It shows in their writings. Why can’t they think of something original? Why can’t they make their stories logical? The merits of a story are not dependent on the number of people wiped out by one blast of a death ray! But they all stick to the same old plot. A merciless but well-meaning scientist, or hordes from a foreign planet, wipe out thousands of American citizens at one blow. Hundreds of airplanes are disintegrated before they discover that the enemy is invulnerable. An ultimatum in domineering tones gives the terror-stricken populace forty-eight hours in which to surrender. But, all unknown to the dastardly villains, an obscure young scientist labors to save his country and the girl he loves. Fifteen minutes before the time set in the ultimatum he perfects a new weapon that soon sends the invaders to their well merited fate.
Surely you realize how ridiculous the whole affair is. It is only slightly less nauseating than the plot used in the stories of advanced civilizations where the hero is conducted on a sight-seeing tour by the individual in whose path he popped upon entering this new world. I can’t believe that more than a handful of my fellow beings are of such low intelligence that they can find enjoyment in such trash. You will notice that although every reader has a different list of favorite authors, Ray Cummings has his name in practically every list. He is easily your favorite author. Ray Cummings does not wipe out whole cities at one time. His heroes do not save the world by inventing a new weapon at a moment’s notice. His wars are not of forty-eight hours’ duration. His conquerors do not attempt to win the war by one great attack on New York City. Do try to have your authors write logical stories.
I would now like to criticize the love element in your stories. I do not claim that there should be none whatever from cover to cover of your magazine, but I do claim that there should be none unless it really helps the plot. Most of your authors seem to think that a girl is necessary in every plot and so they bring her in, disregarding the fact that they do not know how to handle such material. The way it stands now, the heroine is introduced in a lame, routine fashion; is rescued once or twice; and accepts the hero as a husband in an altogether lame fashion.
There are many other points but they can wait. Logical war stories, no Utopias or sight-seeing tours, sensible love element, plus your present policy will make a corking magazine.—Philip Waite, 3400 Wayne Ave., New York, N.Y.
Dear Editor:
Thanks for the new color cover. It certainly is a big improvement. The picture on the front of “our” magazine was just as astounding as the story by R. F. Starzl from which it was drawn. Let’s have more stories from the pen of Mr. Starzl.
In my opinion “Beyond the Heaviside Layer” is the best story I have read in Astounding Stories to date. I am very pleased that you intend to print a sequel to it.
Now I would like to ask you a question. Do you intend to print an Annual or Quarterly, or do think you will ever enlarge the size of this magazine? I don’t care so much whether you enlarge the magazine or not, but I certainly would like to read an Annual or Quarterly.
Even though this letter meets the fate of thousands of other such letters and sees the inside of your wastebasket, I will at least have had the pleasure of writing to you and wishing “our” magazine success to the nth degree.—Forrest J. Ackerman, 236½ N. New Hampshire, Los Angeles, Calif.
Dear Editor:
I notice a large number of subscribers are giving their opinions of Astounding Stories. I hate to be with the crowd, but I have to side with the majority in this case and say it’s just about right.
My favorite writers are R. F. Starzl (that “Planet of Dread” was a peach). Chas. W. Diffin, A. Merritt, Ralph Milne Farley, Murray Leinster and Ray Cummings.
Now as to the August issue, here is how I rate them:
“Planet of Dread”—more than 20c. worth at the first crack. A real story.
“Lord of Space”—excellent. I meant to include Victor Rousseau in my list of favorites above.
“The Second Satellite”—so-so.
“Silver Dome”—so.
“Earth the Marauder”—too deep for me. And that Beryl stuff is sheer bunk.
“Murder Madness”—a real story. Get more like this.
“The Flying City”—too much explanation and description and not enough action.
Perhaps it looks like I’m sort of critical423after all, but I didn’t mean it just that way. What I’m driving at is that Astounding Stories is by far superior to its competitors, and I’m telling you so because it might make you feel better to know it. If you want to print this testimonial, go to it. To tell the truth, I’ll be looking for it.—Leslie P. Mann, 1227 Ogden Ave., Chicago, Illinois.
Dear Editor:
I have just finished the August issue, and I would like to tell you my opinion of it and the magazine as a whole.
The stories in order of merit were:
1—“The Second Satellite”; 2—“The Flying City”; 3—“Silver Dome”; 4—“The Lord of Space”; 5—“The Planet of Dread.”
I won’t pass judgment upon the serials, as I have not read all the parts.
In “The Flying City” there are a number of points I am hazy about. How could Cor speak English? However, this could be cleared up by saying that Cor sent out men to get the language, etc.
As a whole, Astounding Stories is a good magazine. There are too many serials, however, but since other readers like them I won’t complain.
You have a fine array of Science Fiction authors. With such writers as Vincent, Meek, Hamilton, Starzl and Ernst, your magazine can’t be anything but a success.
The September layouts look good to me. I hope it is.—E. Anderson, 1765 Southern Blvd., New York, N.Y.
Dear Editor:
Somewhat belatedly I am writing to commend you most heartily on the August issue of Astounding Stories, which I consider by far the finest number since the inception of the magazine last January. The authors whose work appeared in this issue are among the greatest modern writers of fantasy and scientific fiction. Leinster, Burks, Hamilton, Rousseau—what a brilliant galaxy! And Starzl, Vincent, Rich; all writers of note. If ever a magazine merited the designation “all-star number,” your August issue filled the bill.
However, I am confident that even this superb achievement will be surpassed by some future edition of Astounding Stories, for each succeeding number to date has improved on the one before. And with a new Cummings novel in the offing, it seems the August issue, despite its excellence, will speedily be eclipsed.—Allen Glasser, 1510 University Ave., New York, N.Y.
Dear Editor:
This is the first time that I have ventured to air my views to any magazine, but as yours interests me greatly I hereby shed my reticence.
I believe, of all magazine of your type, you have come nearest perfection. But there are just a few things that bother me, and, no doubt, others like me. In the first place, must you make your covers as lurid and as contradictory to good design as they are? Really, I blush when my newsdealer hands me the gaudy thing. People interested in science do not usually succumb to circus poster advertising.
Then there are the stories. I realize that you must cater to all tastes, but some of them are very childish, slightly camouflaged fairy tales. Science Fiction can be written very convincingly, as is testified by the stories of H. G. Wells, Ray Cummings, Jules Verne, and others. These writers attain their effects by the proper use of the English language, without silly and obviously tacked-on romance, the use of known scientific facts elaborated sensibly and by not trying to make a novel out of a short story.
The stimulation of the imagination from Science Fiction is most enjoyable and I shall continue to read your magazine even though my fault finding is not considered, for, as I said before, you certainly have come nearer my ideal than any of the others.—Hector D. Spear, 867 W. 181st St., The Tri-Sigma Fraternity, New York City.
Dear Editor:
I am taking advantage of your invitation to write to you. Since Astounding Stories is available you have given me a lot of pleasure, and I hope you may get a little pleasure out of reading this.
First, I want to say that you’re hitting the ball as far as I’m concerned. I could hardly suggest an improvement.
In the August issue I liked “Planet of Dread,” by R. F. Starzl, best. When that thing in the “pipe” grabbed me, I mean Gunga, wow! And it gave me a lot of satisfaction to see the Master in “Murder Madness,” by Murray Leinster, get it in the neck. “Lord of Space” was good, too. In fact all the stories were good. I have only read two or three I really did not like since you started.
Say, I never heard of a planet named Inra. Don’t you think your author ought to brush up on his astronomy? I also noticed some other authors are a little weak on astronomy; not that I’m complaining. The stories are O. K. with me.—Harry Johnson, 237 E. 128th St., New York City.
Dear Editor:
As I am a constant reader of Astounding Stories I wish to say that though S. P. Meek is one of my favorite authors his story, “Cold Light,” was a little wrong when he called the “Silver Range” by the name of “Stillwater Range.” I also think it would have been better if he had had a car take Dr. Bird and Carnes out to the hills, became even in Fallon a burro is a strange sight.
But Meek, Cummings, Burks and all the rest of our famous authors’ stories should be424in the magazine often. If Verrill, Wells, Nathenson and Hamilton would also write, the magazine would be perfect.
I like all the stories, though some seem to be copies, and others lack science.
Here is for a long life for Astounding Stories!—Frank Yetter, 369 Railroad Ave., Fallon, Nevada.
Dear Editor:
Let me congratulate you. I have just read “The Planet of Dread,” by R. F. Starzl, in your August issue of Astounding Stories.
Real science, you know, is pretty rigidly limited, but super-science of the kind you seem to run has a freshness and charm all its own.
I came upon your magazine quite by accident, and from now on no doubt will look for it as I stand before the racks of magazines, trying to decide upon something to read—Anton J. Sartori, 1330 W. 6th St., Los Angeles, Calif.
Dear Editor:
You will have to excuse this old telegraph office typewriter. It is all I have to express my appreciation to you for the tremendously interesting magazine you put out. I have only read the last three issues, but those are enough to convince me that Astounding Stories fills a long-felt want. I read all the others too, but from now on I’m going to look over their offerings at the stand before I buy. They have to go some to come up to the standard set by you, especially in the August copy.
That story, “The Planet of Dread,” was the most weird, exciting, thrilling, satisfying—in short, the most “astounding” story I have ever read. Nothing has seemed so real since I first read Wells’ stories. I liked the characters. Poor Gunga. I could just see him, trying to sacrifice the man he obviously worshipped to stop that horrible noise. The picture of Gunga on the cover was just exactly what I would expect the Martian to look like. You have a good artist. I liked Mark Forepaugh, too. He didn’t lose his nerve for one minute—not Mark. Who says civilization is going down, when the future holds men like that?
Next to “The Planet of Dread” I liked “The Lord of Space.” That was a vivid and well-drawn story, too. Those two, I think, were the outstanding stories for August. But I must not forget “Murder Madness,” the serial; it was thrilling and convincing. That’s the only kick I have: so many stories sound thin. I don’t believe them when I read them. I also want to mention “The Forgotten Planet” and “From An Amber Block.” Good, exciting, and you can believe them without too much strain.
Oh, by the way, the author of “The Planet of Dread” made a mistake when he chose a mythical planet for his terrific adventures. Why not Venus or Mercury? If they have water the conditions on them would be similar to what he described for Inra. There ain’t no such planet. But why expect perfection! I’m satisfied.
I wish you success. That’s a late wish. You’re a success already.—Tom P. Fitzgerald, Newcastle, Nebraska.
Dear Editor:
This is my first letter to your magazine, and right away I’m asking for a pair of sequels. One of these is to “The Moon Master,” by Charles W. Diffin. These sad endings depress me greatly, but if I looked at the ending first to see whether or not it was sad it would ruin the story; and besides sad endings usually have good stories in front of them. The other sequel I want is to “From The Ocean’s Depths,” by Sewell P. Wright, and its sequel “Into The Ocean’s Depths.”
In looking over my back copies of the magazine I find that I have not disliked a single story. Thus endeth my quest for a brickbat.
Are you going to put out a quarterly? Both the other Science Fiction magazines that I get do so, and I observe that it gives opportunity for a story of full novel length all in one piece. Not that I object to serials, but I like once in a while to sit down to a long story without having to dig out three or four magazines. However, please continue the long serials, for what is life without the element of suspense?—Hugh M. Gilmore, 920 N. Vista St., Hollywood, Cal.
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 forReaders, 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.
Transcriber NotesTypographical and hyphenation inconsistencies have been standardized.Otherwise, archaic and variable spelling is preserved, including ‘obsidion’ and ‘tyranosaur’.
Transcriber Notes
Typographical and hyphenation inconsistencies have been standardized.
Otherwise, archaic and variable spelling is preserved, including ‘obsidion’ and ‘tyranosaur’.