Paula remained in the room with Bell for perhaps twenty minutes, and
Bell had the feeling of eyes upon them and of ears listening to their
every word. In their first embrace, in fact, he murmured a warning in
her ear and she gasped a little whispered word of comprehension. But it
was at least a relief to be sure that she was alive and yet unharmed.
Francia had been in error when he told Bell of Paula's delivery to the
Brazilian to be enslaved or killed as Ribiera found most amusing. Or
perhaps, of course, Francia had merely wanted to cause Bell all possible
discomfort.
It was clear, however, blessedly clear and evident, that Paula's pallor
was due to nothing more than terror--a terror which was now redoubled
because Bell was in The Master's toils with her. Forgetting his warning,
she whispered to him desperately that he must try to escape, somehow,
before The Master's poison was administered to him. Outside, he might do
something to release her. Here, a prisoner, he was helpless.
Bell soothed her, not daring either to confess the plan he had formed of
a feigned submission in order to wreak revenge, or to offer
encouragement because of the message knotted in the piece of string by
Jamison. And because of that caution she came to look at him with a
queer doubt, and presently with a terrible quiet grief.
"Charles--you--you have been poisoned like the rest?"
* * * * *
The feeling of watching eyes and listening ears was strong. Bell had a
part to play, and the necessity for playing that part was the greater
because now he was forced to hope. He hesitated, torn between the need
to play his role for the invisible eavesdroppers and the desire to spare
Paula.
Her hand closed convulsively upon his.
"V-very well, Charles," she said quietly, though her lips quivered.
"If--if you are going to serve The Master, I--I will serve him too, if
he will let me stay always near you. But if he--will not, then I can
always--die...."
Bell groaned. And the door opened silently, and there were men standing
without. An emotionless voice said:
"Senorita, the Senor Ortiz will interview the Senor Bell."
"I'm coming," said Paula quietly.
She went, walking steadily. Two men detached themselves from the group
about the door and followed her. The others waited for Bell. And Bell
clenched his hands and squared his shoulders and marched grimly with
them.
* * * * *
Again long passages, descending to what must have been a good deal below
the surface of the earth. And then a massive door was opened, and light
shone through, and Bell found himself standing on a rug of the thickest
possible pile in a room of quite barbaric luxury, and facing a desk from
which a young man was rising to greet him. This young man was no older
than Bell himself, and he greeted Bell in a manner in which mockery was
entirely absent, but in which defiance was peculiarly strong. A bulky,
round shouldered figure wrote laboriously at a smaller desk to one side.
"Senor Bell," said the young man bitterly, "I do not ask you to shake
hands with me. I am Julio Ortiz, the son of the man you befriended upon
the steamer _Almirante Gomez_. I am also, by the command of The Master,
your jailer. Will you be seated?"
Bell's eyes flickered. The older Ortiz had died by his own hand in the
first stages of the murder madness The Master's poison produced. He had
died gladly and, in Bell's view, very gallantly. And yet his son.... But
of course The Master's deputies made a point of enslaving whole families
when it was at all possible. It gave a stronger hold upon each member.
"I beg of you," said young Ortiz bitterly, "to accept my invitation. I
wish to offer you a much qualified friendship, which I expect you to
refuse."
Bell sat down and crossed his knees. He lit a cigarette thoughtfully,
thinking swiftly.
"I remember, and admired, your father," he said slowly. "I think that
any man who died as bravely as he did is to be envied."
* * * * *
The younger Ortiz had reseated himself as Bell sat down, and now he
fingered nervously, wretchedly, the objects on his desk. A penholder
broke between his fingers and he flung it irritably into the
wastebasket.
"You understand," he said harshly, "the obligations upon me. I am the
subject of The Master. You will realize that if you desire to escape, I
cannot permit it. But you did my father a very great kindness. Much of
it I was able to discover from persons on the boat. More, from the
wireless operator who is also the subject of The Master. You were not
acting, Senor, as a secret service operative in your attempt to help my
father. You bore yourself as a very honorable gentleman. I wish to thank
you."
"I imagine," said Bell dryly, "that anyone would have done what I did."
He seemed to be quite at ease, but he was very tense indeed. The bulky,
round shouldered figure at the other desk was writing busily with a very
scratchy pen. It was an abominable pen. Its sputtering was loud enough
to be noticeable under any circumstances, but Bell was unusually alert,
just now, and suddenly he added still more drily:
"Helping a man in trouble is quite natural. One always gets it back.
It's a sort of dealing with the future in which there is a profit on
every trade."
He put the slightest emphasis on the last word and waited, looking at
young Ortiz, but listening with all his soul to the scratching of the
pen. And that scratching sound ceased abruptly. The pen seemed to write
smoothly all of an instant. Bell drew a deep breath of satisfaction. In
the Trade, when in doubt, one should use the word "Trade" in one's first
remark to the other man. Then the other man will ask your trade, and you
reply impossibly. It is then up to the other man to speak frankly,
first. But circumstances alter even recognition-signs.
Ortiz had not noticed any by-play, of course. It would have been rather
extraordinary if he had. A pen that scratches so that the sound is
Morse code for "Bell, play up. J." is just unlikely enough to avoid all
notice.
* * * * *
Ortiz drummed upon the desk. "Now, Senor, what can I do that will serve
you? I cannot release you. You know that. I am not the deputy here.
There has been a set-back to The Master's plans and all the deputies are
called to his retreat to receive instructions and to discuss. I have
merely been ordered to carry out the deputy's routine labors until he
returns. However, I will be obeyed in any matter. I can, and will, do
anything that will make you more comfortable or will amuse you, from a
change in your accommodations to providing you with companions. You
observe," he added with exquisite bitterness, "that the limit of my
capacity to prove my friendship is to offer my services as a pander."
Bell gazed at the tip of his cigarette, letting his eyes wander about
the room for an instant, and permitting them to rest for the fraction of
a second upon the round shouldered, writing form by the side wall.
"I am sufficiently amused," he said mildly. "I asked to be sent to The
Master. He intends to make me an offer, I understand. Or he did. He may
have changed his mind. But I am curious. Your father told me a certain
thing that seemed to indicate he did not enjoy the service of The
Master. Your tone is quite loyal, but unhappy. Why do you serve him?
Aside, of course, from the fact of having been poisoned by his deputy."
* * * * *
Internally, Bell was damning Jamison feverishly. If he was to play up to
Ortiz, why didn't Jamison give him some sign of how he was to do it?
Some tip....
"Herr Wiedkind," said Ortiz wearily, "perhaps you can explain."
The round shouldered figure swung about and bowed profoundly to Bell.
"Der Senor Ortiz," he said gutturally, and in a sepulchral profundity,
"he does not understand himself. I haff nefer said it before. But he
serfs Der Master because he despairs, andt he will cease to serf Der
Master when he hopes. And I--I serf Der Master because I hope, andt I
will cease to serf him when I despair."
Ortiz looked curiously and almost suspiciously at the Germanic figure
which regarded him soberly through thick spectacles.
"It is not customary, Herr Wiedkind," he said slowly, "to speak of
ceasing to serve The Master."
"Idt is not customary to speak of many necessary things," said the round
shouldered figure dryly. "Of our religions, for example. Of der women we
lofe. Of our gonsciences. Of various necessary biological functions. But
in der presence of der young man who is der enemy of Der Master we can
speak freely, you and I who serf him. We know that maybe der deputies
serf because they enjoy it. But der subjects? Dey serf because dey fear.
Andt fear is intolerable. A man who is afraid is in an unstable
gondition. Sooner or later he is going to stop fearing because he gets
used to it--when Der Master will haff no more hold on him--or else he is
going to stop fearing because he will kill himself."
* * * * *
To an outsider the spectacle of the three men in their talk would have
been very odd indeed. Two men who served The Master, and one who had
been his only annoying opponent, talking of the service of The Master
quite amicably and without marked disagreement.
Ortiz stirred and drummed nervously on the desk. The round shouldered
figure put the tips of its fingers together.
"How did you know," demanded Ortiz suddenly, "that I serve because I
despair?"
Bell watched keenly. He began to see where the talk was trending, and
waited alertly for the moment for him to speak. This was a battlefield,
this too luxurious room in which young Ortiz seemed an alien. Rhetoric
was the weapon which now would serve the best.
"Let us talk frankly," said the placid German voice. "You andt I, Senor
Ortiz, haff worked together. You are not a defil like most of the
deputies, and I do not regret hafing been sent here to help you. And I
am not a scoundtrel like most of those who help the deputies, so you
haff liked me a little. Let us talk frankly. I was trapped. I am a
capable segretary. I speak seferal languages. I haff no particular
ambitions or any loyalties. I am useful. So I was trapped. But you,
Senor Ortiz, you are different."
Ortiz suddenly smiled bitterly.
"It is a saying in Brazil, if I recall the words, '_A cauda do demonio e
de rendas._' 'The devil's tail is made of lace.' That is the story."
Bell said quietly:
"No."
Ortiz stared at him. He was very pale. And suddenly he laughed without
any amusement whatever.
"True," said Ortiz. He smiled in the same bitterness. "I had forgotten.
I am a slave, and the Herr Wiedkind is a slave, and you, Senor Bell, are
the enemy of our master. But I had forgotten that we are gentlemen. In
the service of The Master one does forget that there are gentlemen."
* * * * *
He laughed again and lighted a cigarette with hands that shook a little.
"I loved a girl," he said in a cynical amusement. "It is peculiar that
one should love any woman, _senores_--or do you, Senor Bell, find it
natural? I loved this girl. It pleased my father. She was of a family
fully equal to my own: their wealth, their position, their traditions
were quite equal, and it was a most suitable match. Most remarkable of
all, I loved her as one commonly loves only when no such considerations
exist. It is amusing to me now, to think how deeply, and how truly, and
how terribly I loved her...."
Young Ortiz's pallor deepened as he smiled at them. His eyes, so dark as
to be almost black, looked at them from a smiling mask of whiteness.
"There was no flaw anywhere. A romance of the most romantic, my father
very happy, her family most satisfied and pleased, and I--I walked upon
air. And then my father suddenly departed for the United States, quite
without warning. He left a memorandum for me, saying that it was a
matter of government, a secret matter. He would explain upon his return.
I did not worry. I haunted the house of my fiancee. The habits of her
family are of the most liberal. I saw her daily, almost hourly, and my
infatuation grew. And suddenly I grew irritable and saw red spots before
my eyes....
"Her father took me to task about my nervousness. He led me kindly to a
man of high position, who poured out for me a little potion.... And
within an hour all my terrible unease had vanished. And then they told
me of The Master, of the poison I had been given in the house of my
fiancee herself. They informed me that if I served The Master I would be
provided with the antidote which would keep me sane. I raged.... And
then the father of my fiancee told me that he and all his family served
The Master. That the girl I loved, herself, owed him allegiance. And
while I would possibly have defied them and death itself, the thought of
that girl not daring to wed me because of the poison in her veins.... I
saw, then, that she was in terror. I imagined the two of us comforting
each other beneath the shadow of the most horrible of fates...."
* * * * *
Ortiz was silent for what seemed to be a long time, smiling mirthlessly
at nothing. When his lips parted, it was to laugh, a horribly discordant
laughter.
"I agreed," he said in ghastly amusement. "For the sake of my loved
one, I agreed to serve The Master that I might comfort her. And plans
for our wedding, which had been often and inexplicably delayed, were set
in train at once. And the deputy of The Master entertained me often. I
plied him with drink, striving to learn all that I could, hoping against
hope that there would be some way of befooling him and securing the
antidote without the poison.... And at last, when very drunken, he
laughed at me for my intention of marriage. He advised me tipsily to
serve The Master zealously and receive promotion in his service. Then,
he told me amusedly, I would not care for marriage. My fiancee would be
at my disposal without such formalities. In fact--while I stood rigid
with horror--he sent a command for her to attend him immediately. He
commanded me to go to an apartment in his dwelling. And soon--within
minutes, it seemed--the girl I loved came there to me...."
Bell did not move. This was no moment to interrupt. Ortiz's fixed and
cynical smile wavered and vanished. His voice was harsh.
"She was at my disposal, as an act of drunken friendship by the deputy
of The Master. She confessed to me, weeping, that she had been at the
disposal of the deputy himself. Of any other person he cared to divert
or amuse.... Oh! _Dios!_"
Ortiz stopped short and said, in forced calmness:
"That also was the night that my father died."
* * * * *
Silence fell. Bell sat very still. The Teutonic figure spoke quietly
after the clock had ticked for what seemed an interminable period.
"You didt know, then, that your father's death was arranged?"
Ortiz turned stiffly to look at him.
"Here," said the placid voice, quaintly sympathetic. "Look at these."
A hand extended a thick envelope. Ortiz took it, staring with wide,
distended eyes. The round shouldered figure stood up and seemed to
shake itself. The stoop of its shoulders straightened out. One of the
seemingly pudgy hands reached up and removed the thick spectacles. A
bushy gray eyebrow peeled off. A straggly beard was removed. The other
eyebrow.... Jamison nodded briefly to Bell, and turned to watch Ortiz.
And Ortiz was reading the contents of the envelope. His hands began to
shake violently. He rested them on the desk-top so that he could
continue to read. When he looked up his eyes were flaming.
"The real Herr Wiedkind," said Jamison dryly, "came up from Punta Arenas
with special instructions from The Master. You have talents, Senor
Ortiz, which The Master wished to use. Also you have considerable wealth
and the prestige of an honorable family. But you were afflicted with
ideas of honor and decency, which are disadvantageous in deputies of The
Master. The real Herr Wiedkind had remarkable gifts in eradicating those
ideas."
* * * * *
Jamison sat down and crossed his knees carefully.
"I looked you up because I knew The Master had killed your father," he
added mildly, "and I thought you'd either be hunting The Master or he'd
be hunting you. My name's Jamison. I killed the real Wiedkind and took
his identification papers. He was a singularly unpleasant beast. His
idea of pleasure made him seem a fatherly sort of person, very much like
my make-up. He was constantly petting children, and appeared very
benign. I am very, very glad that I killed him."
Ortiz tore at his collar, suddenly. He seemed to be choking.
"This--this says.... It is The Master's handwriting! I know it! And it
says--"
"It says," Jamison observed calmly, "that since your father killed the
previous deputy in an attempt to save you from The Master's poison, that
you are to be prepared for the work your father had been assigned. Herr
Wiedkind is given special orders about your--ah--moral education. In
passing, I might say that your father was sent to the United States
because it was known he'd killed the previous deputy. He told Bell he'd
done that killing. And he was allowed to grow horribly nervous on his
return. He was permitted to see the red spots, because he was
officially--even as far as you were concerned--to commit suicide.
"It was intended that his nervousness was to be noticed. And a plane
tried to deliver a message to him. Your father thought the parcel
contained the antidote to the poison that was driving him mad. Actually,
it was very conventional prussic acid. Your father would have drunk it
and dropped dead, a suicide, after a conspicuous period of nervousness
and worry."
* * * * *
Bell felt his cigarette burning his fingers. He had sat rigid until the
thing burned short. He crushed out the coal, looking at Ortiz.
And Ortiz seemed to gasp for breath. But with an almost superhuman
effort he calmed himself outwardly.
"I--think," he said with some difficulty, "that I should thank you. I
do. But I do not think that you told me all of this without some motive.
I abandon the service of The Master. But what is it that you wish me to
do? You know, of course, that I can order both of you killed...."
Bell put down the stub of his cigarette very carefully.
"The only thing you can do," he said quietly, "is to die."
"True," said Ortiz with a ghastly smile. "But I would like my death to
perform some service. The Master has no enemies save you two, and those
of us who die on becoming his enemies. I would like, in dying, to do him
some harm."
"I will promise," said Jamison grimly, "to see that The Master dies
himself if you will have Bell and myself put in a plane with fuel to
Punta Arenas and a reasonable supply of weapons. I include the Senorita
Canalejas as a matter of course."
* * * * *
Ortiz looked from one to the other. And suddenly he smiled once more. It
was queer, that smile. It was not quite mirthless.
"You were right, just now," he observed calmly, "when as the Herr
Wiedkind you said that I would quit the service of The Master when I
ceased to despair. I begin to have hopes. You two men have done the
impossible. You have fought The Master, you have learned many of his
secrets, and you have corrupted a man to treason when treason means
suicide. Perhaps, Senores, you will continue to achieve the impossible,
and assassinate The Master."
He stood up, and though deathly pale continued to smile.
"I suggest, Senor, that you resume your complexion. And you, Senor Bell,
you will be returned to your confinement. I will make the necessarily
elaborate arrangements for my death."
Bell rose. He liked this young man. He said quietly:
"You said just now you wouldn't ask me to shake hands. May I ask
you?..." He added almost apologetically as Ortiz's fingers closed upon
his: "You see, when your father died I thought that I would be very glad
if I felt that I would die as well. But I think"--he smiled wryly--"I
think I'll have two examples to think of when my time comes."
* * * * *
In the morning a bulky, round shouldered figure entered the room in
which Bell was confined.
"You will follow me," said a harsh voice.
Bell shrugged. He was marched down long passageways and many steps. He
came out into the courtyard, where the glistening black car with the
blank windows waited. At an imperious gesture, he got in and sat down
with every appearance of composure, as of a man resignedly submitting
to force he cannot resist. The thick spectacles of the Herr Wiedkind
regarded him with a gogglelike effect. There was a long pause. Then the
sound of footsteps. Paula appeared, deathly pale. She was ushered into
the vehicle--and only Bell's swift gesture of a finger to his lips
checked her cry of relief.
Voices outside. The guttural Spanish of the Herr Wiedkind. Other,
emotionless voices replying. The Herr Wiedkind climbed heavily into the
car and sat down, producing a huge revolver which bore steadily upon
Bell. The door closed, and he made a swift gesture of caution.
"Idt may be," said the Germanic voice harshly, "that you and the young
ladty haff much to say to each other. But idt can wait. And I warn you,
_mein Herr_, that at the first movement I shall fire."
Bell relaxed. There was the purring of the motor. The car moved off.
Obviously there was some microphonic attachment inside the tonneau which
carried every word within the locked vehicle to the ears of the two men
upon the chauffeur's seat. An excellent idea for protection against
treachery. Bell smiled, and moved so that his lips were a bare half-inch
from Paula's ears.
"Try to weep, loudly," he said in the faintest of whispers. "This man is
a friend."
* * * * *
But Paula could only stare at the bulky figure sitting opposite until he
suddenly removed the spectacles, and smiled dryly, and then reached in
his pockets and handed Bell two automatic pistols, and extended a tiny
but very wicked weapon to Paula. He motioned to her to conceal it.
Jamison--moving to make the minimum of noise--handed Bell a sheet of
stiff cardboard. It passed into Bell's fingers without a rustle. He
showed it silently to Paula.
We were overheard last night by someone. We don't know who or how
much he heard. Dictaphone in the room we talked in. Can't find out
who it was or what action he's taken. We may be riding into a trap
now. Ortiz has disappeared. He may be dead. We can only wait and
see.
The car was moving as if in city traffic, a swift dash forward and a
sudden stop, and then another swift dash. But the walls within were
padded so that no sound came from without save the faint vibration of
the motor and now and then the distinct flexing of a spring. Then the
car turned a corner. It went more rapidly. It turned another corner. And
another....
In the light of the bright dome light, Bell saw beads of sweat coming
out on Jamison's face. He did not dare to speak, but he formed words
with his lips.
"He's turning wrong! This isn't the way to the field!"
Bell's jaws clenched. He took out his two automatics and looked at them
carefully. And then, much too short a time from the departure for the
flying field to have been reached, the car checked. It went over rough
cobblestones, and Bell himself knew well that there had been no cobbled
roadway between the flying field and his prison. And then the car went
up a sort of ramp, a fairly steep incline which by the feel of the motor
was taken in low, and on for a short distance more. Then the car stopped
and the motor was cut off.
Keys rattled in the lock outside. The door opened. The blunt barrel of
an automatic pistol peered in.
(_To be concluded in the next issue._)
* * * * *
[Illustration: _The Readers' Corner_
_A Meeting Place for Readers of_ Astounding Stories]
_About Reprints_
From time to time the Editors of Astounding Stories receive letters,
like the two that follow, in which Readers beg us to run reprints, and
now we feel it is time to call attention to the very good reasons why we
must refuse.
We admit, right off, that some splendid Science Fiction stories have
been published in the past--but are those now being printed in any way
inferior to them? Aren't even _better_ ones being written to-day?--since
a whole civilization now stirs with active interest in science?--since
three or five times as many writers are now supplying us with stories to
choose from?--since science and scientific theory have reached so
immeasurably much farther into the Realm of the Unknown Possible?
The answer is an emphatic _Yes_. We all know it.
"A Trip to the Moon"--for instance--was a good story, but shall we keep
reprinting it to-day, when recent revolutionary theories of space-time
scream to modern authors for Science-Fiction treatment? In the last ten
years the whole aspect, the whole future of science has broadened; we
have sensed an infinity beyond infinity; and who would be so un-modern
as to cling to the oft-told stories of the older science and neglect the
thrilling reaches of the new!
_The Saturday Evening Post_--again, for instance--has been publishing
good stories for years, but who would have them reprint the old ones
instead of keep giving us good new ones?
Would it be fair to 99% of our Readers to force on them reprint novels
they have already read, or had a chance to read, to favor the 1% who
have missed them? Of course it wouldn't, and all of our Readers in that
1% will gladly admit it.
And how about our authors? Contrary to the old-fashioned opinion,
authors must eat--and how will they eat, and lead respectable lives, and
keep out of jail, if we keep reprinting their _old_ stories and turning
down their _new_ ones? After all, eating is very important; those who
wouldn't simply refrain from eating would have to get jobs as
messengers, and errand boys, etc.--with the result that much of our
fascinating modern Science Fiction would never be written!
It would be much cheaper for us to buy once-used material. It would
greatly reduce our task of carefully reading every story that comes to
our office, in hopes to finding a fine, new story, or a potentially good
author. But it would be very unwise, and very unfair, as you have seen.
Many more reasons could be given, but these few are the more important
ones back of our policy of avoiding reprints. Enough said!--_The
Editor._
_Wants Reprints_
Dear Editor:
In you April issue, in answer to a correspondent, you stated that
you were avoiding reprints. Now, that's too bad. Some of the best
Science-Fiction tales are reprints. Witness:
"The Blind Spot," by Homer Eon Flint and Austin Hall; "The War In
The Air," by H. G. Wells; "The Purple Sapphire," by John Taine;
"The Conquest of Mars," by Garrett P. Serviss; "Darkness and Dawn,"
and "Into the Great Oblivion," and "The After-Glow," and "The
Air-Trust"--all by George Allan England.
You are proud--and rightfully so--of your great author, Ray
Cummings. Why not give us several stories which helped to build his
glory? Here are several:
"Tarranto the Conqueror," "The Man on the Meteor," "The Girl in the
Golden Atom," "The Man Who Mastered Time," "The Fire People."
Guess I'll sign off now and give the other fellows a
chance.--Isidore Manyon, 544 Myrtle Ave., Brooklyn, N. Y.
_What Think You All?_
Dear Editor:
There is one question I would like to ask. Perhaps some of the
other readers of Astounding Stories can answer it.
Could a person remember his own death in a former incarnation?
Some say "no," and some say "yes." If it is true that you can't,
the whole fabric of the wonderful story, one of the most beautiful,
if not the most beautiful I have ever read, "The Moon Maid," by
Edgar Rice Burroughs, is built on a fallacy. You see, I am a
believer in reincarnation and I would surely like to correspond
with others who are also! Would not that also disprove the whole
theory of reincarnation if it is true? I think it is not true, but
I may be wrong. Is reincarnation a proven theory, or unproven?
You say you are going to avoid reprints. Now that is a mistake. Of
course, some you might avoid, such as those of Wells, Verne, etc.,
though I would like you to publish Wells' short stories. There are
many that have not been published in any magazine for a long time,
or at all.
But please, oh please, do publish A. Merritt's "Through the Dragon
Glass," and give it a cover illustration. It is the only one, I
think, that I want particularly, but I do want it! If you publish
any of H. G. Wells' works, give them cover illustrations, too.
And publish a lot by Merritt, Edgar Rice Burroughs, and authors
like that; you haven't as yet printed a story of the type that A.
Merritt writes, and that is one thing this magazine needs, and lots
of them, as they are the cream of Science Fiction, and the more of
them you have, the better! They are my favorites, and next come
those that Edgar Rice Burroughs writes; also John Taine.--Worth K.
Bryant, 406 No. Third St., Yakima, Wash.
_The S: Lynn Rhorer Society_
Dear Editor:
This is to inform you that we have organized a society known as the
S. Lynn Rhorer Society of Greater Atlanta, a branch of the Science
Correspondence Club.
This Society's purpose is to first assist the Science
Correspondence Club and its affiliated branches in the promotion of
science and Scientific Fiction. Second, to create a greater
interest in science and Science Fiction among the laymen who are
already interested, and to create an interest among those who are
not at the present interested, and to hold their interest.
At the present time we have in our library over three hundred
scientific books; a large collection of ores and rocks from
different states and countries, classified; a large collection of
fossilized bones; a three-inch refracting telescope, and a ten-inch
one in the course of construction; and a large club-house.
Any information regarding this society can be obtained by
addressing R. A. Marks, Jr., 893 York Ave., S. W., Atlanta,
Georgia, or the undersigned.--F. B. Eason, 400 Jefferson Avenue, E.
Point, Ga.
_Unused to the Smaller Size_
Dear Editor:
I have but one comment on your magazine and that is: Having
complete sets of other Science Fiction magazines I would also like
to save Astounding Stories, but in its present size and condition
it looks like trash. Why not have a ballot to what size the
magazine shall be? By having the price raised to 25 cents it can
cover the extra expense. I would surely like to add another
magazine to my collection. Am hereby hoping you will do this for
the sake of Science Fiction lovers all over the country.--Sidney
Mack, 1676 59th Street, Brooklyn, New York.
_"The Scienceers" Broadcasts_
Dear Editor:
For the benefit of the readers of Astounding Stories who live in
New York, a club known as The Scienceers has recently been formed.
Its purpose is to promote informal fellowship among Science Fiction
fans and to foster discussion of modern developments, theories and
projects in the realm of science.
The organization is open to all persons over sixteen years of age
who are interested in Science Fiction and its relation to the
various fields of present day science. Since regular weekly
meetings are held, the membership is necessarily restricted to
residents of New York City and vicinity.
A cordial invitation to join the Scienceers is hereby extended to
all interested. Further information may be obtained by writing to
the undersigned.--Allen Glasser, 961 Forest Avenue, New York, N. Y.
"_Congratulations for Both_"
Dear Editor:
Congratulations for us both. Your company for publishing this
magazine, myself for being able to buy same.
Have just finished reading the second issue. It is very good. I
read every story in both issues. You bet I am going to be a steady
reader from now on. I like this type of story very much--in fact,
read two other magazines that publish stories of this type every
month. I note with great pleasure that in the March issue you are
starting to publish the first quarter of an interplanetary story by
Ray Cummings. This is, indeed, good news. I have had the pleasure
of reading five of his novels this past year and I greatly enjoyed
all of them. Along with Edgar Rice Burroughs, Ray Cummings is an
"ace high" author on these "unpredictable-future" stories.
Some four or fives years ago I read in a magazine a portion of two
interplanetary stories by Ray Cummings. Now to the point, I wonder
if it is possible for you to obtain Mr. Cummings' permission to
have your company publish these two stories? Their names I believe
are "Tarranto the Conquerer" and "Into the Fourth Dimension." I,
for one, would greatly appreciate this favor. Please do your best
to try and publish these novels this coming year. Thanks.--Wm. L.
Ebelan, 3906 Springdale Avenue, Baltimore, Md.
_Likes the Small Size_
Dear Editor:
I received a pleasant surprise when I first bought your wonderful
magazine. I started in with the second issue, but I wish I could
get the first.
All the stories are good. The best of them, I think, is Ray
Cummings' story, "Brigands of the Moon." I have read the first
three parts and am eagerly waiting for the last.
And now for something about the make-up of the magazine. I like the
small size, and holding the magazine together with two staples is
good.
The cover designs are very good, but the pictures inside could be
improved on. H. Wesso is a good artist.
How about publishing the magazine twice a month?--Charles Barrett,
135 Spring St., Woodbury, N. J.
_Thanks, Anyhow!_
Dear Editor:
I hope that you are not going to have a blue cover every month. I
would like to see a different colored background every month. The
cover on the March issue should have been black because space is
black.
I wish that you would have a full-page picture for each story.
Wesso is the best artist you have. The others haven't enough
imagination.
I gave "Brigands of the Moon" by Ray Cummings first place in the
March issue of Astounding Stories. It promises to be his best story
since "Tarrano the Conqueror."
The places of other stories are as follows: 2. "Vandals of the
Stars"; 3. "The Soul Master"; 4. "Cold Light"; 5. "From the Ocean's
Depths."
If you would enlarge Astounding Stories to 11-3/4 by 8-1/2 it would
be seen more easily on the newsstands and its circulation would
increase. Please publish it on the first of the month instead of
the first Thursday.--Jack Darrow, 4225 N. Spaulding Avenue,
Chicago, Ill.
"_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._