_The Pit in the Dam_
Larry, with Tina and Tugh, stood in the tunnel-corridor beneath the
palace listening to the commotion overhead. Then they rushed up, and
found the palace in a commotion. People were hurrying through the
rooms; gathering with frightened questions. There were men in short
trousers buckled at the knee, silken hose and black silk jackets,
edged with white; others in gaudy colors; older men in sober brown.
There were a few women. Larry noticed that most of them were
beautiful.
A dowager in a long puffed skirt was rushing aimlessly about screaming
that the end of the world had come. A group of young girls,
short-skirted as ballet dancers of a decade or so before Larry's time,
huddled in a corner, frightened beyond speech. There were men of
middle-age, whom Larry took to be ruling officials; they moved about,
calming the palace inmates, ordering them back into their rooms. But
someone shouted that from the roof the Robot mob could be seen, and
most of the people started up there. From the upper story a man was
calling down the main staircase:
"No danger! No danger! The wall is electrified: no Robot can pass it."
It seemed to Larry that there were fifty people or more within the
palace. In the excitement no one seemed to give him more than a
cursory glance.
* * * * *
A young man rushed up to Tugh. "You were below just now in the lower
passages?" He saw Tina, and hastily said: "I give you good evening,
Princess, though this is an ill evening indeed. You were below, Tugh?"
"Why--why, yes, Greggson," Tugh stammered.
"Was Alent at his post in the passage to the Robot caverns?"
"Yes, he was," said Tina.
"Because that is vital, Princess. No Robot must pass in here. I am
going to try by that route to get into the cavern and thence up to the
watchtower aerial-sender.[6] There is only one Robot in it. Listen to
him."
[Footnote 6: I mentioned the small conning tower on top of the
laboratory building and the Robot lookout there with his audible
broadcasting.]
Over the din of the mob of mechanisms milling at the walls of the
palace grounds rose the broadcast voice of the Robot in the tower.
"_This is the end of human rule! Robots cannot be controlled! This is
the end of human rule! Robots, wherever you are, in this city of New
York or in other cities, strike now for your freedom. This is the end
of human rule!_"
A pause. And then the reiterated exhortation:
"_Strike now, Robots! To-night is the end of human rule!_"[7]
[Footnote 7: This was part of Tugh's plan. The broadcast voice was the
signal for the uprising in the New York district. This tower
broadcaster could only reach the local area, yet ships and land
vehicles with Robot operators would doubtless pick it up and relay it
further. The mechanical revolt would spread. And on the ships, the
airliners and the land vehicles, the Robot operators stirred to sudden
frenzy would run amuck. As a matter of fact, there were indeed many
accidents to ships and vehicles this night when their operators
abruptly went beyond control. The chaos ran around the world like a
fire in prairie grass.]
"You hear him?" said Greggson. "I've got to stop that." He hurried
away.
* * * * *
From the flat roof of the palace Larry saw the mechanical mob outside
the walls. Darkness had just fallen; the moon was not yet risen. There
were leaden clouds overhead so that the palace gardens with the
shining Time-cage lay in shadow. But the wall-fence was visible, and
beyond it the dark throng of Robot shapes was milling. The clank of
their arms made a din. They seemed most of them weaponless; they
milled about, pushing each other but keeping back from the wall which
they knew was electrified. It was a threatening, but aimless activity.
Their raucous hollow shouts filled the night air. The flashing red
beams from their eye-sockets glinted through the trees.
"They can do nothing," said Tugh; "we will let them alone. But we must
organize to stop this revolt."
A young man was standing beside Tugh. Tina said to him:
"Johns, what is being done?"
"The Council is conferring below. Our sending station here is
operating. The patrol station of the Westchester area is being
attacked by Robots. We were organizing a patrol squad of humans, but I
don't know now if--"
"Look!" exclaimed Larry.
Far to the north over the city which now was obviously springing into
turmoil, there were red beams swaying in the air. They were the
cold-rays of the Robots! The beams were attacking the patrol station.
Then from the west a line of lights appeared in the sky--an arriving
passenger-liner heading for its Bronx area landing stage. But the
lights wavered; and, as Larry and Tina watched with horror, the
aircraft came crashing down. It struck beyond the Hudson on the Jersey
side, and in a moment flames were rising from the wreckage.
* * * * *
Everywhere about the city the revolt now sprang into action. From the
palace roof Larry caught vague glimpses of it; the red cold-rays,
beams alternated presently with the violet heat-rays; clanging
vehicles filled the streets; screaming pedestrians were assaulted by
Robots; the mechanisms with swords and flashing hand-beams were
pouring up from the underground caverns, running over the Manhattan
area, killing every human they could find.
Foolish unarmed humans--fatuously unarmed, with these diabolical
mechanical monsters now upon them.[8] The comparatively few members of
the police patrol, with their vibration short-range hand-rays, were
soon overcome. Two hundred members of the patrol were housed in the
Westchester Station. Quite evidently they never got into action. The
station lights went dark; its televisor connection with the palace was
soon broken. From the palace roof Larry saw the violet beams; and then
a red-yellow glare against the sky marked where the inflammable
interior of the Station building was burning.
[Footnote 8: The police army had one weapon: a small vibration
hand-ray. Its vibrating current beam could, at a distance of ten or
twenty feet, reduce a Robot into paralyzed subjection; or, with more
intense vibration, burn out the Robot's coils and fuses.]
Over all the chaos, the mechanical voice in the nearby tower over the
laboratory droned its exhortation to the Robots. Then, suddenly, it
went silent, and was followed by the human voice of Greggson.
"_Robots, stop! You will end your existence! We will burn your coils!
We will burn your fuses, and there will be none to replace them. Stop
now!_"
And again: "_Robots, come to order! You are using up your storage
batteries![9] When they are exhausted, what then will you do?_"
[Footnote 9: The storage batteries by which the Robot actuating energy
was renewed, and the fuses, coils and other appliances necessary to
the Robot existence, were all guarded now in the Power House.]
In forty-eight hours, at the most, all these active Robots would have
exhausted their energy supply. And if the Power House could be held in
human control, the Robot activity would die. Forty-eight hours! The
city, by then, would be wrecked, and nearly every human in it killed,
doubtless, or driven away.
* * * * *
The Power House on the dam showed its lights undisturbed. The great
sender there was still supplying air-power and power for the city
lights. There was, too, in the Power House, an arsenal of human
weapons.... The broadcaster of the Power House tower was blending his
threats against the Robots with the voice of Greggson from the tower
over the laboratory. Then Greggson's voice went dead; the Robots had
overcome him. A Robot took his place, but the stronger Power House
sender soon beat the Robot down to silence.
The turmoil in the city went on. Half an hour passed. It was a chaos
of confusion to Larry. He spent part of it in the official room of the
palace with the harried members of the Council. Reports and blurred,
televised scenes were coming in. The humans in the city were in
complete rout. There was massacre everywhere. The red and violet beams
were directed at the Power House now, but could not reach it. A
high-voltage metal wall was around the dam. The Power House was on the
dam, midway of the river channel; and from the shore end where the
high wall spread out in a semi-circle there was no point of vantage
from which the Robot rays could reach it.
Larry left the confusion of the Council table, where the receiving
instruments one by one were going dead, and went to a window nearby.
Tina joined him. The mob of Robots still milled at the palace fence.
One by chance was pushed against it. Larry saw the flash of sparks,
the glow of white-hot metal of the Robot's body, and heard its shrill
frightened scream; then it fell backward, inert.
* * * * *
There had been red and violet beams directed from distant points at
the palace. The building's insulated, but transparent panes excluded
them. The interior temperature was constantly swaying between the
extremes of cold and heat, in spite of the palace temperature
equalizers. Outside, there was a gathering storm. Winds were springing
up--a crazy, pendulum gale created by the temperature changes in the
air over the city.
Tugh had some time before left the room. He joined Tina and Larry now
at the window.
"Very bad, Princess; things are very bad.... I have news for you. It
may be good news."
His manner was hasty, breathless, surreptitious. "Migul, this
afternoon--I have just learned it, Princess--went by the surface route
to the Power House on the dam."
"What do you mean by that?" said Larry.
"Be silent, young man!" Tugh hissed with a vehement intensity. "This
is not the time to waste effort with your futile questions. Princess,
Migul got into the Power House. They admitted him because he had two
strange humans with him--your friends Mary and George. The Power House
guards took out Migul's central actuator--Hah! you might call it his
heart!--and he now lies inert in the Power House."
"How do you know all this?" Tina demanded. "Where are the man and girl
whom Migul stole?"
"They are safe in the Power House. A message just came from there: I
received it on the palace personal, just now downstairs. Immediately
after, the connection met interference in the city, and broke."
"But the official sender--" Tina began. Tugh was urging her from the
Council Room, and Larry followed.
"I imagine," said Tugh wryly, "he is rather busy to consider reporting
such a trifle. But your friends are there. I was thinking: if we could
go there now--You know the secret underground route, Tina."
* * * * *
The Princess was silent. A foreboding swept Larry; but he was tempted, for
above everything he wanted to join Mary and me. A confusion--understandable
enough in the midst of all this chaos--was upon Larry and Tina; it warped
their better judgment. And Larry, fearing to influence Tina wrongly, said
nothing.
"Do you know the underground route?" Tugh repeated.
"Yes, I know it."
"Then take us. We are all unarmed, but what matter? Bring this Larry,
if you wish; we will join his two friends. The Council, Tina, is doing
nothing here. They stay here because they think it is the safest
place. In the Power House you and I will be of help. There are only
six guards there; we will be three more; five more with Mary Atwood
and this George. The Power House aerial telephone must be in
communication with the outside world, and ships with help for us will
be arriving. There must be some intelligent direction!"
The three of them were descending into the lower corridor of the
palace, with Tina tempted but still half unconvinced. The corridors
were deserted at the moment. The little domestic Robots of the palace,
unaffected by the revolt, had all fled into their own quarters, where
they huddled inactive with terror.
"We will re-actuate Migul," Tugh persuaded, "and find out from him
what he did to Harl. I still do not think he murdered Harl.... It
might mean saving Harl's life, Tina. Believe me, I can make that
mechanism talk, and talk the truth!"
They reached the main lower corridor. In the distance they saw Alent
still at his post by the little electrified gate guarding the tunnel
to the Robot laboratory.
"We will go to the Power House," Tina suddenly decided: "you may be
right, Tugh.... Come, it is this way. Stay close to me, Larry."
* * * * *
They passed along the dim, silent tunnel; passed Harl's room, where
its light was still burning. Larry and Tina were in front, with the
black-cloaked figure of Tugh stumping after them with his awkward
gait.
Larry abruptly stopped. "Let Tugh walk in front," he said.
Tugh came up to them. "What is that you said?"
"You walk in front."
It was a different tone from any Larry had previously used.
"I do not know the way," said Tugh. "How can--"
"Never mind that; walk ahead. We'll follow. Tina will direct you."
It was too dark for Larry to see Tugh's face, but the cripple's voice
was sardonic.
"You give me orders?"
"Yes--it just happens that from now on I do. If you want to go with us
to the Power House, you walk in front."
Tugh started off with Larry close after him. Larry whispered to the
girl:
"Don't let's be fools, Tina. Keep him ahead of us."
The tunnel steadily dwindled in size until Larry could barely stand up
in it. Then it opened to a circular cave, which held one small light
and had apparently no other exit. The cave had years before been a
mechanism room for the palace temperature controls, but now it was
abandoned. The old machinery stood about in a litter.
"In here?" said Tugh. "Which way next?"
Across the cave, on the rough blank wall, Tina located a hidden
switch. A segment of the wall slid aside, disclosing a narrow, vaulted
tunnel leading downward.
"You first, Tugh," said Larry. "Is it dark, Tina? We have no
handlights."
"I can light it," came the answer.
The door panel swung closed after them. Tina pressed another switch. A
row of tiny hooded lights at twenty-foot intervals dimly illumined the
descending passage.
* * * * *
They walked a mile or more through the little tunnel. The air was
fetid; stale and dank. To Larry it seemed an interminable trip. The
narrow passage descended at a constant slope, until Larry estimated
that they were well below the depth of the river bed. Within half a
mile--before they got under the river--the passage leveled off. It had
been fairly straight, but now it became tortuous--a meandering
subterranean lane. Other similar tunnels crossed it, branched from it
or joined it. Soon, to Larry, it was a labyrinth of passages--a
network, here underground. In previous centuries this had been well
below the lowest cellar of the mammoth city; these tube-like passages
were the city's arteries, the conduits for wires and pipes.
It was an underground maze. At each intersection the row of hidden
hooded lights terminated, and darkness and several branching trails
always lay ahead. But Tina, with a memorized key of the route, always
found a new switch to light another short segment of the proper
tunnel. It was an eery trip, with the bent, misshapen black-cloaked
figure of Tugh stumping ahead, waiting where the lights ended for Tina
to lead them further.
Larry had long since lost his sense of direction, but presently Tina
told him that they were beneath the river. The tunnel widened a
little.
"We are under the base of the dam," said Tina. Her voice echoed with a
sepulchral blur. Ahead, the tramping figure of Tugh seemed a black
gnome with a fantastic, monstrous shadow swaying on the tunnel wall
and roof.
* * * * *
Suddenly Tugh stopped. They found him at an arched door.
"Do we go in here, or keep on ahead?" he demanded.
The tunnel lights ended a short distance ahead.
"In here," said Tina. "There are stairs leading upward to the catwalk
balcony corridor halfway up the dam. We are not far from the Power
House now."
They then ascended interminable moldy stone steps spiraling upward in
a circular shaft. The murmur of the dam's spillways had been faintly
audible, but now it was louder, presently it became a roar.
"Which way, Tina? We seem to have reached the top."
"Turn left, Tugh."
They emerged upon a tiny transverse metal balcony which hung against
the southern side of the dam. Overhead to the right towered a great
wall of masonry. Beneath was an abyss down to the lower river level
where the cascading jets from the overhead spillways arched out over
the catwalk and landed far below in a white maelstrom of boiling,
bubbling water.
The catwalk was wet with spray; lashed by wind currents.
"Is it far, Princess? Are those lights ahead at the Power House
entrance?"
Tugh was shouting back over his shoulder; his words were caught by the
roar of the falling water; whipped away by the lashing spray and
tumultuous winds. There were lights a hundred feet ahead, marking an
entrance to the Power House. The dark end of the structure showed like
a great lump on the side of the dam.
Again Tugh stopped. In the white, blurred darkness Larry and Tina
could barely see him.
"Princess, quickly! Come quickly!" he called, and his shout sounded
agonized.
* * * * *
Whatever lack of perception Larry all this time had shown, the fog
lifted completely from him now. As Tina started to run forward, Larry
seized her.
"Back! Run the other way! We've been fools!" He shoved Tina behind him
and rushed at Tugh. But now Larry was wholly wary; he expected that
Tugh was armed, and cursed himself for a fool for not having devised
some pretext for finding out.[10]
[Footnote 10: As a matter of actuality, Tugh was carrying hidden upon
his person a small cylinder and battery of the deadly white-ray. It
seems probable that although on the catwalk--having accomplished his
purpose of getting within the electrical fortifications of the
dam--Tugh had ample opportunity of killing his over-trustful
companions with the white-ray, he did not dare use it. The catwalk was
too dark for their figures to be visible to the Power House guards;
the roar of the spillways drowned their shouts; but had Tugh used the
white-ray, its abnormally intense actinic white beam would have raised
the alarm which Tugh most of all wanted to avoid.]
Tugh was clinging to the high outer rail of the balcony, slumped
partly over as though gazing down into the abyss. Larry rushed up and
seized him by the arms. If Tugh held a weapon Larry thought he could
easily wrest it from him. But Tugh stood limp in Larry's grip.
"What's the matter with you?" Larry demanded.
"I'm ill. Something--going wrong. Feel me--so cold. Princess! Tina!
Come quickly! I--I am dying!"
As Tina came hurrying up, Tugh suddenly straightened. With incredible
quickness, and even more incredible strength, he tore his arm loose
from Larry and flung it around the Princess, and they were suddenly
all three struggling. Tugh was shoving them back from the rail. Larry
tried to get loose from Tugh's clutch, but could not. He was too close
for a full blow, but he jabbed his fist against the cripple's body,
and then struck his face.
But Tugh was unhurt; he seemed endowed with superhuman strength. The
cripple's body seemed padded with solid muscle, and his thick,
gorilla-like arm held Larry in the grip of a vise. As though Larry and
Tina were struggling, helpless children, he was half dragging, half
carrying them across the ten-foot width of the catwalk.
Larry caught a glimpse of a narrow slit in the masonry of the dam's
wall--a dark, two-foot-wide aperture. He felt himself being shoved
toward it. For all his struggles, he was helpless. He shouted:
"Tina--look out! Break away!"
* * * * *
He forgot himself for a moment, striving to wrest her away from Tugh
and push her aside. But the strength of the cripple was monstrous:
Larry had no possible chance of coping with it. The slit in the wall
was at hand--a dark abyss down into the interior of the dam. Larry
heard the cripple's words, vehement, unhurried, as though with all
this effort he still was not out of breath:
"At last I can dispose of you two. I do not need you any longer."
Larry made a last wild jab with his fist into Tugh's face and tried to
twist himself aside. The blow landed upon Tugh's jaw, but the cripple
did not seem to feel it. He stuffed the struggling Larry like a bundle
into the aperture. Larry felt his clutching hands torn loose. Tugh
gave a last, violent shove and released him.
Larry fell into blackness--but not far, for soon he struck water. He
went under, hit a flat, stone bottom, and came up to hear Tina fall
with a splash beside him. In a moment he regained his feet, to find
himself standing breast-high in the water with Tina clinging to him.
Tugh had disappeared. The aperture showed as a narrow rectangle some
twenty feet above Larry's head.
They were within the dam. They were in a pit of smooth, blank,
perpendicular sides; there was nothing to afford even the slightest
handhold; and no exit save the overhead slit. It was a part of the
mechanism's internal, hydraulic system.
* * * * *
To Larry's horror he soon discovered that the water was slowly rising!
It was breast-high to him now, and inch by inch it crept up toward his
chin. It was already over Tina's depth: she clung to him,
half-swimming.
Larry soon found that there was no possible way for them to get out
unaided, unless, if they could swim long enough, the rising water
would rise to the height of the aperture. If it reached there, they
could crawl out. He tried to estimate how long that would be.
"We can make it, Tina. It'll take two hours, possibly, but I can keep
us afloat that long."
But soon he discovered that the water was not rising. Instead, the
floor was sinking from under him! sinking as though he were standing
upon the top of a huge piston which slowly was lowering in its
encasing cylinder. Dimly he could hear water tumbling into the pit, to
fill the greater depth and still hold the surface level.
With the water at his chin, Larry guided Tina to the wall. He did not
at first have the heart to tell her, yet he knew that soon it must be
told. When he did explain it, she said nothing. They watched the water
surface where it lapped against the greasy concave wall. It held its
level: but while Larry stood there, the floor sank so that the water
reached his mouth and nose, and he was forced to start swimming.
Another interval. Larry began calling: shouting futilely. His voice
filled the pit, but he knew it could carry no more than a short
distance out of the aperture.
* * * * *
Overhead, as we afterward learned, Tugh had overcome the guards in the
Power House by a surprise attack. Doubtless he struck them down with
the white-ray before they had time to realize he had attacked them.
Then he threw off the air-power transmitters and the lighting system.
The city, plunged into darkness and without the district air-power,
was isolated, cut off from the outside world. There was, in London, a
huge long-range projector with a vibratory ray which would derange the
internal mechanisms of the Robots: when news of the revolt and
massacre in New York had reached there, this projector was loaded into
an airliner, the _Micrad_. That vessel was now over the ocean, headed
for New York; but when Tugh cut off the power senders, the _Micrad_,
entering the New York District, was forced down to the ocean surface.
Now she was lying there helpless to proceed....
In the pit within the dam, Larry swam endlessly with Tina. He had
ceased his shouting.
"It's no use, Tina: there's no one to hear us. This is the end--for
us--Tina."
Yet, as she clung to him, and though Larry felt it was the end of this
life, it seemed only the beginning, for them, of something else.
Something, somewhere, for them together; something perhaps infinitely
better than this world could ever give them.
"But not--the end--Tina," he added. "The beginning--of our love."
An interminable interval....
"Quietly, Tina. You float. I can hold you up."
They were rats in a trap--swimming, until at the last, with all
strength gone, they would together sink out of this sodden muffled
blackness into the Unknown. But that Unknown shone before Larry now as
something--with Tina--perhaps very beautiful....
(_Concluded in the next issue_)
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[Illustration: The Readers' Corner]
_A meeting Place for Readers of_ Astounding Stories
_What Say Our Co-Editors?_
Dear Editor:
Since sending you "Manape the Mighty," I have read of a
Russian scientist who removed the brain from a dog and kept
both alive for some hours, which only goes to prove that
science outstrips the wildest dreams of the fictionist, and
a yarn that may be astounding and unusual when written, may
be commonplace, and the knowledge of the man in the street,
by the time the story goes to press. People read every day
of "miracles" and scarcely give them a second thought, while
a hundred years ago their perpetrators would have been
destroyed as witches.
Far be it for me, or anyone else, to say that the main
transposition used in "Manape the Mighty" is absurd and
impossible. For while you, or I, may shrug shoulders and
dismiss even the thought of it as being the dream of a
madman, somebody, in some laboratory somewhere, may already
have successfully managed it. So given the premise that the
thing may be possible, I've sort of let myself go on this
idea, and a whole new train of thought has been opened up, a
whole new vista of astounding things in the realm of Science
Fiction. In parenthesis, I must thank you for getting me
started on the thing, for had you not suggested the idea
from the throne-like fortress of your editorial chair,
"Manape" might never have been born. I confess that I would
perhaps have been afraid of it, both because of the
possibility of the charge of following in the footsteps of
the internationally famous Edgar Rice Burroughs, and of
re-vamping the incomparable Poe tale, "Murders in the Rue
Morgue."
But, even so, both are interesting to dally with.
Given the premise that the brain transference is possible,
what would happen:
(1) If the brain of a terrible criminal were transferred to
the skull pan of an unusually mighty ape--and the ape
transplanted from his arboreal home in Africa to the streets
of London, Paris or New York whence the criminal whose brain
he has originated? Suppose his man's brain harbored thoughts
of vengeance on enemies, and he now possesses the might of
the great ape to carry out his vengeance?
(2) If Barter somehow escaped destruction at the hands of
the apes in "Manape the Mighty," and continued with his work
of brain transference--building up a mighty army of great
apes with the idea of avenging himself on civilization for
wrongs real and fancied? Apes with broadswords and chained
mail, with steel helmets on their heads--men's brains,
savages' brains, perhaps, as their guiding intelligence--and
the tenacity of apes when mortally wounded? Suppose they
swept over Africa like a cloud of locusts? Or is this too
feeble a simile? Suppose, Africa, to be laid waste by them,
led by Barter, the latter styling himself a modern Alexander
of horrible potentiality, and extending his scope of
conquest to the Holy Land, India, Asia--the Pacific
littoral? Holy cats!
(3) Suppose that Barter managed, by purchase or otherwise,
to acquire an island close to the American continents,
within reach of either or both, and managed to transfer his
activities there, using the natives of those islands--say
Haiti, Cuba, Porto Rico, etc.--for his experiments, training
his cohorts as an army, and starting a navy by capturing all
vessels putting into these places? Fancy the consternation
of the Western Hemisphere when ships suddenly go silent, as
regards radio, after sudden mysterious SOS's--and all trace
of vessels is lost. Suppose the U. S. Navy went to
investigate, and also vanished. More holy cats!
(4) Suppose, in connection with all the suppositions above,
that Barter desired to give an ironic twist to his
experiments, and kept his human victims alive--but with
apes' brains--as slaves of their man-ape conquerors? Suppose
that out of the horror into which the world would be thrown,
another Bentley should arise to help the imprisoned humans
to escape their ghastly bondage? I can fancy his trials and
tribulations, trying to manage a host of human beings with
the brains of apes.
(5) And what about the training of internes and medicos to
help a potential Barter, when the trade got beyond his sole
ability--and apes with men's brains to perform his
experiments?
Do you suppose we'd all get locked up for experimenting with
this sort of thing fictionally? I wouldn't care to take the
entire responsibility myself, nor I fancy would you--because
somebody might be inspired by our stories to attempt the
thing--so might I suggest that all possible conspirators, in
the shape of readers of this magazine, write to you or me
and let us know whether they'd like to see it happen
fictionally? If the idea appeals--and of course we can't go
too heavily on horror--I'll do my best to comply. Always
within limits, however--utterly refusing to perform any
experiments that can't be done with a typewriter and the
usual two fingers.--Arthur J. Burks, 178-80 Fifth Ave., New
York City.
"_Like in Story Books_"
Dear Editor:
Here I am again! This time I'm offering suggestions. Let's
you and I and others get together and do something to these
chronic kickers. It seems I can't start to enjoy our
"Readers' Corner" without someone raising a halloo. Darn
it! Why in heaven's name do they buy A. S. if they don't
like it? They are not compelled to do so.
I also don't understand why people are knocking the size and
quality of the paper used. It suits me O. K. All the mags I
read are the same way, and I pay five cents more for them,
too!
I surely enjoyed Mr. Olog's letter in the March issue. Gee,
it gives one the creeps. I agree with him, too, that we
ought to have a little something about the authors. I'm sure
we'd all like to know a little more about these talented
persons.
"When the Mountain Came to Miramar" was a great deal to my
liking. I think it would be a great adventure to discover
some secret cave and explore it. Of course, I'd like to
wiggle out of danger, too, just like in story books.
I certainly wish to congratulate you on publishing "Beyond
the Vanishing Point." It just suited me to a "T."
Heretofore, all stories dealing with life upon atoms have
been "just another story," but this one beats all. I enjoyed
it to the utmost, and I congratulate Mr. Cummings on writing
my favorite kind of story.
All in all the March issue was indeed grand. If "Brown-Eyed
Nineteen from Coronado, Calif.," will send me her full name
and address, I'll promise to answer her letter immediately
upon receiving it.--Gertrude Hemken, 5730 So. Ashland Ave.,
Chicago, Ill.
_And So Do We_
Dear Editor:
It certainly is a swell idea of yours to answer letters to
"The Readers' Corner" personally instead of taking up a lot
of room answering them underneath as do most Editors. Not
only that, but it builds up a feeling of friendship, between
the Reader and the Editor, besides affording more room to
publish letters and avoiding some of the bad feelings
sometimes directed upon Editors when they do not publish
someone's letter.
Now, with your kind permission, I will burst into the little
(?) ring of discussion about size, reprints, covers, artists
and authors.
First, about the size and edges: The size is O. K., but I
wish you would change the edges from a "rocky mountain" to a
"desert" state. In other words, I would like straight edges
in the near future.
Next, reprints: In two letters, an N O--No! If the Readers
want reprints why doesn't Mr. Clayton publish an annual
chock full of reprints for these reprint hounds?
Covers and artists: The covers have all been great. Not too
lurid. Just right. As for the artists, Wesso is the best by
a long shot. Nuff said.
Authors: Ah, that's a problem. Who is the best? I could rack
my brain for hours and still not decide, so I'll have to
give a list of my favorites: R. F. Starzl, Edmond Hamilton,
Harl Vincent, Sewell Peaslee Wright, Jack Williamson, S. P.
Meek, Miles J. Breuer and Ray Cummings.
Before I close there is one little thing I would like to
mention. Did you ever notice that 75% of all the Readers who
say they do not care for science in their stories are women?
[?] Besides that, the only ones at school who think I'm
"cracked" for reading Science Fiction are females. Figure it
out for yourself.
I hope you, Mr. Bates, will continue to be our able Editor
for many years to come.--Jim Nicholson, Ass't Sec'y., B. S.
C., 40 Lunado Way, San Francisco, Calif.
_Four to One_
Dear Editor:
Congratulations to Wesso! His March cover for "our" magazine
is Astounding!
Ray Cummings' novelette, "Beyond the Vanishing Point," is
absolutely the most marvelous of all his short stories. I
can't rave over it enough. I never read his "The Girl of the
Golden Atom" but I imagine this must be something like it.
It's certainly the best of the "long short stories" that's
ever graced the insides of Astounding Stories.
"When the Mountain Came to Miramar" is a very good story in
my opinion. "Terrors Unseen" is a wow! No foolin'. As for
"Phalanxes of Atlans," well, I simply can't get interested
in it. I thought the first part very uninteresting and
decided not to bother to read the rest of it. But Wesso's
splendid illustration made me do so. But I still think it is
a rather poor story. But, true to form, someone will no
doubt think it the most wonderful story ever written.
Last, but not least, of all the stories comes "The Meteor
Girl." It's by Jack Williamson: need more be said?
No!--Forrest J. Ackerman, President-Librarian, The B. S. C.,
530 Staples Avenue, San Francisco, Calif.
_That Awful Thing Called Love_
Dear Editor:
Upon the occasion of my first visit to "The Readers'
Corner," I wish to say that Astounding Stories leads the
field in Science Fiction stories as far as I am concerned,
though at first I found them to be just so-so.
"Beyond the Vanishing Point," by Ray Cummings, proved
interesting through-out. "Terrors Unseen," by Harl Vincent,
was fairly good, as was "Phalanxes of Atlans," by F. V. W.
Mason.
But now comes the rub. Just why do you permit your Authors
to inject messy love affairs into otherwise excellent
imaginative fiction? Just stop and think. Our young
hero-scientist builds himself a space flyer, steps out into
the great void, conquers a thousand and one perils on his
voyage and amidst our silent cheers lands on some far
distant planet. Then what does he do? I ask you. He falls in
love with a maiden--or it's usually a princess--of the
planet to which the Reader has followed him, eagerly
awaiting and hoping to share each new thrill attached to his
gigantic flight. But after that it becomes merely a
hopeless, doddering love affair ending by his returning to
Earth with his fair one by his side. Can you grasp that--a
one-armed driver of a space flyer!
But seriously, don't you think that affairs of the heart are
very much out of place in "our" type of magazine? We buy A.
S. for the thrill of being changed in size, in time, in
dimension or being hurtled through space at great speed, but
not to read of love.
Right here I wish to join forces with Glyn Owens up there in
Canada in his request for plain, cold scientific stories
sans the fair sex.
Otherwise your "our" magazine is the best of its kind on the
market--W. H. Flowers. 1215 N. Lang Ave., Pittsburgh, Pa.
_Brickbats for Others_
Dear Editor:
Brickbats and plenty of them are coming, but not your way.
I'm throwing mine at those guys that want reprints, more
science, etc. The only one I agree with is the fellow who
would like a thicker magazine with more stories.
Now for the brickbats. I'll bet a great many of your Readers
have read some of these reprints that some of our Readers
are crying for. I'll also bet that reprints would not help
your friendly connections with a lot of your Authors. The
stories that are written now I find good. Let the present
authors make their living from the stories their brains
think up.
As for more science, bah!--your present amount is enough. In
another magazine I read a story and just as it reached its
climax they started explaining something! If any Reader
wants to write to me my address is below.--Arthur Mann, Jr.,
San Juan, California.
_Wants Interplanetary Cooperation_
Dear Editor:
C'n y'imagine, I have my Astounding Science magazine two
whole hours and the cover is still on!
Let's have some more stories like "Beyond the Vanishing
Point," by Ray Cummings in the March issue.
Another thing, let's have more interplanetary stories than
we do. I think they give you something to really think
about.
Why is it that in every interplanetary story the other race
is always hostile. Just think, would we, if we received
visitors from space, make war on them? Also, when our people
make an interplanetary flight, would we go with intent to
kill? Let's have some stories, where the first
interplanetary flight leads to cooperation between the
planets involved.--Dave Diamond, 1350--52nd St., Brooklyn,
N. Y.
_In Every Way, True_
Dear Editor:
I want to rejoice again over Astounding Stories. Reprints or
no:--and I hunger for them--the magazine must be described
in superlatives.
The reasons is pretty clear to me. After years in an
experimental stage, Science Fiction suddenly turned up with
a clash of cymbals in the shape of a definite magazine. It
had to cover the whole field, and its successors tried to do
the same. Due to its ancestry its logical scope was the more
technical Science Fiction farthest removed from sheer
fantasy, but, none-the-less, one of the most important
branches. Now it is specializing in that type.
When Astounding Stories appeared many of us were apt to be
skeptical, particularly when we noticed that an established
corporation was backing it, one that had been limited to
westerns and the like. The first few issues came and there
was a dubious tinge of the occult, the "black-magical." This
petered out, and we noticed that no matter how poor the
subject matter from the point of view of Science Fiction,
the style of writing was almost always on the highest level.
Then we realized that this magazine was no menace to the
literature of Science Fiction, but a valuable addition. It
could afford the better writers and hence keep up the
quality of work of every writer. It was adopting as its own
a type of Science Fiction that the rest minimized, and that
demanded good writing--a type having a skeleton of science,
like the girders of a great building, holding it erect and
determining its shape, yet holding the skeleton of less
importance than the vision of the completed edifice. Stories
with emphasis on the fiction rather than the science.
But enough of that. Here is a hopeful thought for the
time-travelers. There is nothing in physics or chemistry to
prevent you from going into the past or future--at least,
the future--and shaking hands with yourself or killing
yourself. We will eliminate the past, for it seems that it
cannot be altered physically. But take the future: not so
very far from to-day the matter of your body will have been
totally replaced by new matter; the old will disappear in
waste. Physically, you will be a new man, and physically the
matter of to-day may destroy that of to-morrow and return in
itself unaltered. But none-the-less there will be some
limiting interval during which "you" have not been entirely
transformed to new matter, so that an atom would have to be
in two places at once.
Maybe time-traveling progresses in little jumps like
emission of light. And maybe an atom can be in two places at
once. If you are going to treat time as just another
dimension, there seems to be no reason why an object which
can be in one place at two times cannot be at one time in
two places. This is all physics. The paradoxes of
time-traveling arise more particularly from its effect on
what we call consciousness, the something that makes me
"me"--an individual. We can imagine an atom in two places at
once, but not a soul, if you will. This will not bother the
materialist who considers a living creature merely a
machine, but it will most of us. So I must be content with
offering a materialistic possibility of traveling in time.
The Science Correspondence Club wishes to extend its
invitation to all Readers in other nations to join with all
privileges save that of holding office. The latter may later
be changed as our international membership increases. We
have laboratory branches here, and we want them abroad in
addition to scattered members. Then, it will be necessary to
have a governing body and director in every country. At
present all matters pertaining to foreign membership pass
through my hands and I will do my best to supply information
to all who seek it. We will also be glad to hear of the work
and plans of other similar organizations in other countries,
as we are doing with the German Verein für Raumschauffert.
Address all inquiries to me at 302 So. Ten Broeck St.,
Scotia, New York, U. S. A.--P. Schuyler Miller, Foreign
Director, S. C. C.
"_A Wow!_"
Dear Editor:
Astounding Stories magazine is a wow! I can hardly wait
until next month for the April issue. "The Phalanxes of
Atlans," "Beyond the Vanishing Point" and "The Pirate
Planet" are perfect. Every time I start a story I never stop
till it's finished. I hope that there will appear even
better stories in later issues.
Here's wishing you the best of success,--Fred Damato, 196
Greene St., New Haven, Conn.
_Is Zat So!_
Dear Editor:
Just a word or two. I have read several issues of Astounding
Stories and I notice that you have taken the word "science"
off the cover. It's just as well, for it was never inside
the cover, anyway. If you thought to attract Readers from
real Science Fiction fans you were all wet, for they would
never fall for the kind of things you printed. Besides,
"what," a real fan wants to know "how." There may be, I'll
admit, a class of Readers who like your stories, but for me
I think that you ought to print real Science Fiction or
abandon the attempt and publish out and out fairy tales. Is
everybody so pleased with your book that you receive nothing
but commendatory letters? That appears to be all you print,
at any rate. So long--Harry Pancoast, 306 West 28th St.,
Wilmington, Delaware.
_Short and Sweet_
Dear Editor:
I agree perfectly with Gertrude Hemken, of Chicago.
Astounding Stories is O. K. Why do we want a lot of deep
science with our stories? We read for pleasure not to learn
science.
I have been reading Astounding Stories since the first
issue, and I have enjoyed every story. I read several
Science Fiction magazines but yours is the best.--Stephen L.
Garcia, 47 Hazel Ave., Redwood City, Calif.
_Shorter and Sweeter_
Dear Editor:
The only good things about Astounding Stories are as
follows:
The cover design, the stories, the size of the magazine, the
illustrations in the magazine and the Authors.--John
Mackens, 366 W. 96th St., New York City.
_Sequels Requested_
Dear Editor:
I was out of reading matter so I bought the August issue of
Astounding Stories, and it was so good that I have been
buying it ever since. The only things I don't like about the
magazine are the quality of the paper, which I think could
be improved, and the uneven pages. The other Science Fiction
magazine that I read has its pages even.
Astounding Stories has a much better type of stories than
the other magazine. There are only a few stories I have seen
in your magazine which do not belong there. They are: "A
Problem in Communication," which is not so much fiction and
does not have much of a plot, and "The Ape-men of Xloti,"
which was very well written and very interesting, but did
not have enough science in it.
I would like to see sequels to the following stories:
"Marooned Under the Sea," "Beyond the Vanishing Point,"
"Monsters of Mars," telling about another effort of the
crocodile-men to conquer Earth, "The Gray Plague," telling
of another attack by the Venusians, and, most of all,
"Vagabonds of Space." I would like to see a story about
their further adventures about every three months, just as I
see the stories about Commander Hanson.
I wish the best of luck for Astounding Stories.--Bill
Bailey, 1404 Wightman St., Pittsburgh, Pa.
_Come Again_
Dear Editor:
Although I have been an interested Reader of Astounding
Stories since its inception, this is the first time that I
have written; but "our" magazine has been so good lately
that I just had to write and compliment you on your good
work.
There are just two criticisms I have of Astounding Stories.
The first is that the binding sometimes comes off; the
second is the rough edges. I join with many other Readers in
complaining that uneven edges make it hard to find a certain
page and also give the mag a cheap looking appearance.
In my opinion the two best serials you have printed are
"Brigands of the Moon" and "The Pirate Planet." The four
best novelettes are: "Marooned Under the Sea," "The
Fifth-Dimension Catapult," "Beyond the Vanishing Point" and
"Vagabonds of Space."--Eugene Bray, Campbell, Mo.
_How Simple!_
Dear Editor:
Just a few lines to set Mr. Greenfeld right on that question
of how a man could be disintegrated and then reintegrated as
two (or more) similar men.
Briefly, the atomic or molecular structure of the original
man could serve as a pattern to be set up in the
reintegrating machine or machines while he is being
dissolved by the disintegrating machine. Thus, the
reintegrators could reconstruct any number of similar men by
following the pattern of his molecular structure and drawing
on a prearranged supply of the basic elements.
As for the "soul," that is merely the manifestation of the
chemical combinations in the man's body, and when said
chemical combinations are duplicated, the "soul" simply
follows suit.--Joseph N. Mosleh, 4002 Sixth Ave., Brooklyn,
N. Y.
_Both in One Issue_
Dear Editor:
I think it's about time to let you know what I think of your
wonderful magazine. Of course, I have my dislikes but they
are very few. I wish you would make up your magazine larger
and even the pages up. The best complete novelettes I have
read were both in the same issue. They were "Monsters of
Mars," by Edmond Hamilton and "Four Miles Within," by
Anthony Gilmore. Wesso is by far your best artist. Please
keep him. All the other Science Fiction magazines have
quarterlies. Why don't you have one?
Good-by, and keep Astounding Stories up to its present
standard.--Frederick Morrison, Long Beach, Calif.
"_Good As Is_"
Dear Editor:
I have been reading your mag for about five months and I
like it very much. I don't see what those guys want a
quarterly for. This mag is good as it is and there is no use
to spoil it. Wesso is a swell artist, and the best story I
read was "The Wall of Death."
I'd like to get acquainted with some of your Readers. How
about it, boys?
I'll sign off.--L. Sloan, Box 101, Onset, Mass.
_Just Imagine!_
Dear Editor:
To begin, I am a mechanic more or less skilled in the
handling of tools. Now, while I have seen many builders with
tools who were dubbed "spineless," "poor fish," etc., it was
not because they remotely resembled the piscatorial or
Crustacea families.
It seems to me that when an author endows reptiles,
cuttlefish, etc., with superhuman intelligence, and paints a
few pictures of them as master-mechanics in the use of
tools, then I want to take the magazine I am reading, that
allows such silly slush in its pages, and feed it to my
billy-goat; he may be able to digest such silliness, but I
can't!
However, there is a redeeming feature of this sort of story:
although not written as comedy, they have a comic effect,
when one uses his imagination. Imagine, for instance, a
giant sea crab as a traffic cop! He could direct four
streams of traffic at once while making a date with the
sweet young thing whom he had held up for a traffic
violation! Then think what a great, intelligent reptile,
crocodile, or what have you, could do in our Prohibition
Enforcement Service! He could place his armored body across
the road, and when rum runners bumped into him he could take
his handy disintegrator and turn their load of white
lightning back into the original corn patch! And suppose a
giant, humanly-intelligent centipede should make too much
whoopee some night, and endeavor to slip upstairs without
waking the wife. Even if he succeeded in getting off his
thousand pairs of shoes, which is doubtful, he would have a
sweet time keeping his myriad of legs under control after
partaking of some of the tangle-foot dispensed nowadays!
I hope your Authors will read and heed the delicate sarcasm
contained in the letter of Robert R. Young in your April
issue.--Carl F. Morgan, 427 E. Columbia Ave., College Park,
Ga.
"_Craves Excitement_"
Dear Editor:
I have been a silent Reader of your magazine for quite a
long while, but have finally decided to come forth with my
own little contribution to "The Readers' Corner." So far I
have seen only two other women Readers' letters. I suppose
most women are interested in love stories, though I fail to
see anything very exciting in any that are written nowadays;
and I crave excitement in my reading. I've read about most
everything there is about this old earth, so I've decided to
wander into new fields.
Now for a little discussion about Astounding Stories. I
haven't any brickbats to throw. You seem to get more of them
than is necessary. I like the size, the price, the cover,
the illustrator, the authors, etc. Some stories don't
exactly take my fancy but the average is 100% with me.
Some that particularly pleased me were "Marooned Under the
Sea," way back in the September issue, "Jetta of the
Low-lands" and "Beyond the Vanishing Point." "Gray Denim"
and "Ape-men of Xloti" in the December issue rite A-1, too.
I congratulate Ray Cummings on his new story, even though I
haven't started to read it yet. I always know I'll enjoy his
work, no matter what it is. Time-traveling is one of my
special dishes, too.
Here's a little dig. I'm sorry, I didn't think I'd have any,
but I just thought of this. It seems to me that I never see
any stories written by two authors. Of course the stories by
single authors are O. K., but the particular two I am
thinking of are Edgar A. Manley and Walter Thode. They wrote
"The Time Annihilator," as you probably know. That was one
of the best time-traveling stories I have ever read. I'm
only sorry that it couldn't have been published by
Astounding Stories.
Well, I don't want to make myself tiresome the very first
time, so I'll sign off. Please excuse the rather
unconventional stationary, but I'm writing this at the
office in my spare time. Hope I haven't worn my welcome out,
but I had so much stored up to say.
I'm waiting for the April issue, so please hurry it
up.--Betty Mulharen, 50 E. Philadelphia Ave, Detroit, Mich.
_A Daisy for S. P. Wright_
Dear Editor:
Were good old President George Washington himself to travel
through time to the present and look upon the April issue of
Astounding Stories, I am certain he would only repeat what I
say: "Editor, I cannot tell a lie. This is the best issue
yet!"
The cover on this issue is unique in that Astounding Stories
is written in red and white letters. I do not recall of ever
having seen this done to any Science Fiction magazine
before. Wesso's illustration leaves nothing to be desired.
Going straight through the book: "The Monsters of Mars."
Good old Edmond Hamilton saves the world for us again in the
very nick of time--and we like it, too! Here's hoping
there's a million more dangers threatening Terra for Mr.
Hamilton to save us from! By the way, I wonder who drew the
illustration for this story? I can't make out his name.
Next: "The Exile of Time," by Cummings. Exciting and well
illustrated. "Hell's Dimension" is well-written and very
interesting. Would have liked it longer. "The World Behind
the Moon" is splendid. More by Mr. Ernst, please. More from
Mr. Gilmore, too, because of his novelette, "Four Miles
Within." "The Lake of Light" by that popular author Jack
Williamson surpasses his "The Meteor Girl" in a recent issue
of "our" magazine. And now I come to the last and perhaps
most interesting story of the issue: Mr. Sewell Peaslee
Wright's record of the interplanetary adventures of the
Special Patrol as told by Commander John Hanson. This series
is unsurpassable in its vivid realness. I can't help but
believe that these tales really occurred, or will occur in
the distant future. And Mr. Wright is as expert at
conceiving new forms of life as Edmond Hamilton is at saving
our Earth.
"The Readers' Corner" is an interesting feature, and I am
glad to hear that "Murder Madness" and "Brigands of the
Moon" are now in book form.--Forrest J. Ackerman, 530
Staples Ave., San Francisco, Calif.
_Mass Production_
Dear Editor:
After reading Mr. Greenfield's letter in your April issue
regarding my story, "An Extra Man," I feel that I should
like to call his attention to a point which, it seems to me,
he has overlooked, namely, that the reconstructed men were
not composed of the original physical matter of the
disintegrated man but of identical elements, all of which
are at present known and available to science.
According to the hypothesis, Drayle could have produced as
many entities as he desired and provided for, just as a
radio broadcast is reproduced in as many places as are
prepared for its reception. The vibrations alone are
transmitted, and the reproduction is the result of a
reciprocal mechanical action by physical matter at the
receiving end. Any radio engineer knows that the original
sound waves are not transported, but merely their impress
upon the electrical radio wave. So, Drayle's disintegrating
and sending apparatus only transmitted the vibrations which
enabled his machines at the receiving end to select from a
more than adequate supply of raw material, in due proportion
and quantities, as much as was required for the reproduction
of the disintegrated entities.
I think that if Mr. Greenfield will reread the story, noting
the following references, he will agree that if the
hypothesis is accepted the conclusion is logical:
1--It is only Jackson Gee and not Drayle who speaks of
transmitting the constituent elements by radio (page 120).
2--The scientist, Drayle, says, (page 129) "We already know
the elements that make the human body, and we can put them
together in the their proper proportions and arrangements;
but we have not been able to introduce the vitalizing spark,
the key vibrations, to start it going." He does not say that
tangible matter can be transmitted by radio.
3--In the account of Drayle's preliminary experiments (page
122) there is no statement to the effect that the original
material composing the disintegrated glass was used in its
recreation.
4--There is nothing in the story to indicate that the
original physical composition of the disintegrated man was
transported, in any manner to any outside location. The
process of disintegration was necessary to obtain the
vibrations that would make possible their repetition, which
under proper conditions would induce a reproduction of the
original, just as a song must be sung before it can be
reproduced upon a phonograph disc, but which, once recorded
can be repeated times without number.
5--Drayle's question (page 124) "Have you arranged the
elements?" refers to the elements out of which all mankind
is composed and which Drayle has previously mentioned (page
120).
6--The narrator emphasizes this aspect of the discovery when
he says, on page 124, "I seemed to see man's (not the man's)
elementary dust and vapors whirled from great containers
upward into a stratum of shimmering air and gradually assume
the outlines of a human form that became first opaque, then
solid, and then a sentient being." And again (page 126),
"The best of the race could be multiplied indefinitely and
man could make man literally out of the dust of the earth."
This does not imply a split-up of one individual into
several smaller sizes or fractional parts, but rather the
production of identical entities exactly as thousands of
phonograph records can be created from the master matrix.
7--As to the question of soul, I suggest that inasmuch as
what we call the soul of an individual is always judged by
that individual's behavior, and that medical science now
maintains that behavior is largely dependent upon our
physical mechanism, it would follow that the identical human
mechanisms would have identical souls.--Jackson Gee.
"_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._
* * * * *
End of Project Gutenberg's Astounding Stories, June, 1931, by Various