Was he dreaming? Was this all a dream--a mad nightmare from which he

could force himself to wake? Another moved. He saw definitely a

mushroom growth pass swiftly to lose itself in a neighboring clump.

Dreaming? No! The screams from behind him and Winslow's hoarse yell

proved the stark reality of his surroundings.

The vile creatures were close: Jerry could see their fierce heads

dripping with blood. He reached for his pistol, knew instantly it was

useless against these mammoth brutes, and joined Winslow, who was

straining desperately at another great rock. It toppled and fell.

Jerry hurled himself at a heap of smaller boulders and sent them

crashing as fast as he could seize them and throw.

* * * * *

One quick look behind him showed still the impossible vision he had

seen. And now there were figures--a mob of them--figures that threw

off their wrappings of vegetation as they ran, cast to the ground the

toadstool disguises that they held. They were caricatures of men that

were swarming up the hill....

He swung again in one last hopeless stand against the first horrible

enemy. The two men poured a torrent of stones down the slope; they

were useless, except for their delaying the advance. The beasts leaped

and dodged. They were close when the rock-rain increased to a deluge.

Jerry was fighting in a red haze through which he saw dimly. He was

aware of the hailstorm of boulders that were thick in the air. He saw

vaguely the white faces and copper-clad bodies of strange men leaping

about him, and he heard the wild bedlam of their shrieks as they

joined in the mad battle against the common enemy.

The beasts were swept off in a landslide of loose rock--all but one.

Above them, on a high point of stone, it was crouching to spring. A

wild human figure, its flesh white as chalk, leaped forward with a

tangle of fibers. The tangle was thrown as the brute was in air. A net

spread and wrapped around the monster. It fell, clawing and tearing,

to roll helplessly down the slope.

The battle was won. Jerry swayed drunkenly on his feet. About him the

mountains seemed whirling, where unreal figures of men with dead

white skin and shining copper armor danced dizzily.

He met for an instant the look from Winslow's dazed eyes. Out of the

past a picture flashed clearly: Winslow--this same Winslow--arguing

that the moon might hold mysteries still. He laughed thickly.

"And I said it was all known," he muttered through slack lips.

"Nothing on the moon that wasn't known...."

He was still laughing in a wild inebriation as a net settled close to

entangle his swaying figure and bear him helpless to the ground. He

saw Winslow similarly bound, saw him lifted to the shoulders of

shouting, yelling men, whose stupid, pasty faces were wide-eyed with

excitement.

He, too, was raised into the air.... They were being carried toward

the crater's mouth....

* * * * *

A fight for life in thin air does not make for clear thinking. Jerry

Foster knew only that a nightmare world was whirling about him; that

beneath him powerful shoulders supported, while the one who carried

him leaped at racing speed down the slope.

They went more slowly down pathways cleared through the rank

vegetation. Soft, pulpy vines from the grotesque trees brushed his

face. He tried vaguely to shield himself, but his hands were bound

fast. He was helpless in the entangling folds of the net.

The touch of cold stone brought him to his senses. He was lying on

smooth rock. They were in a clearing. He turned his head to find

Winslow, but could not find him.

Across the open ground were naked men, their bodies, like these

others, dead white in the sun's glare. They were dragging giant stalks

to earth by means of ropes. Trunks and branches, bright in their

colors of yellow and orange and flaming red, were hacked to short

lengths and piled on all sides. The workers, as Jerry watched,

dropped their implements to race toward him. There was a press of

flat, white faces above. His captors, in their copper armor, beat the

newcomers back. The babel of chattering voices was deafening.

* * * * *

Again he was lifted into the air--plainly these were no weaklings he

had to deal with--and again the warrior band surrounded him as the

march was resumed. The milling, shrieking crowd of workers followed in

an ear-splitting mob.

The forest ended, and the men went slowly now down smooth, rocky

slopes to stop upon a wide, level expanse. Before he was placed on the

ground Jerry had a glimpse of a funnel-shaped pit--the mouth of the

extinct volcano. And toward it, bound and helpless, was being carried

a struggling form which he thought he recognized.

"Winslow!" he shouted. But the bodies in their gleaming copper armor

closed about him in a solid throng and cut off his view.

In the sky the sun had moved slowly upward since first they landed. It

slanted brightly now into the eyes of the prostrate man and made a

spectacle of his twisting contortions as he tried to get his hands on

his knife in its sheath at his belt. This and his pistol were under

his coat. But he could not reach them. He lay panting with his

exertions.

One of the warriors seemed to have authority, for his arms alone of

all the group were sheathed with copper circlets, and the others

obeyed his orders. Jerry addressed himself to this one. He knew the

words were unintelligible, but he pleaded desperately for a chance.

"Take this off," he said. "We are friendly--friends--friends!" He

struggled to keep himself from shouting, to keep his voice under

control. "The other man," he said, "bring him back." And again he

repeated: "We are friends."

He scanned his captors' faces.

* * * * *

The pasty face above him was impassive; the eyes stared

uncomprehendingly into his. Then the figure barked an order. One of

the warriors swung Jerry lightly to his shoulder, and started toward

the pit.

At its edge was a basket, a huge affair of knotted fiber ropes. Dimly,

Jerry saw other baskets standing about: they were filled with the

fragments of fungus. Still bound, he was placed in the empty

container. Hands grasped the meshes, and he was swung out over the

edge. A rope was above him: he was lowered steadily into the dark

shaft.

Jerry breathed a sigh of relief. This was not death--not yet. And

Winslow? Safe, perhaps, for he had traveled this same road.

There was figures outlined above against the circle of light, figures

that clambered like apes down swaying ropes. The light glinted and

sparkled from their shining armor. His escort was still with him.

The circle of light changed to a glowing ring, where only the rim was

lighted. Above was the deep black of the lunar sky. Then the circle

faded to a mere point as he went down into the pit.

The rope basket came to rest upon a rock floor, and Jerry was lifted

out. He saw plainly the figures about him, and he wondered vaguely at

the light that came from the walls of the cavern. There were long

lines of soft light, leading off into the dark, lines that marked

plainly a labyrinth of passageways, leading in all directions.

* * * * *

Beyond a narrow entrance was one brighter than the rest, a broad

avenue that led downward still further into the depths. Here he was

carried. He tried vainly to keep some mental map of their course. He

would return some day--he _must_ return--he and Winslow. They would

escape.... But the passage turned and twisted; there were many

branching corridors, each with its lines of light. Jerry gave up the

attempt. It was a maze of serpentine streets beyond his power to

remember and recall.

Before him the passage was still wider. It was opening into a great

room.... Jerry found himself upon the floor. He strained cruelly at

the cords about his head as he twisted and turned to get a view of his

surroundings.

The room was a cave, its vast vaulted ceiling sprung high above a

level floor, where the figures of men--odd, plaster-white figures like

animated statues--were small in the distance. His eyes were drawn

quickly to the brilliant glow of the farther wall. There was the

bright black of basaltic formation, and in it--though he knew the

impossibility--was shining the sun.

Jerry blinked his eyes to look again and again; the golden circle was

dazzling. It was set at a point well above the smooth floor, and up to

it there led a sloping pathway of gold. It was as if they had indeed

captured their god, these worshipers of the sun, had captured and held

it for the adoration of the grovelling people.

Jerry saw them upon the floor. The copper of the armored men gleamed

bright in the glow from beyond, as they abased themselves and crept

slowly toward the light. At each side of the dazzling orb was a

platform. There were figures upon it, seated figures, Jerry saw, even

at a distance, that were robed in vestments of the sun. Their forms

gleamed gold in the light.

* * * * *

The leader that Jerry had noted among his captors crept on in advance

of his men. From among the bright figures on the platform above one

rose to extend a glowing arm. He spoke, and the tones rolled

majestically back from the high vault above. The crawling man below

him stopped rigidly where he was. Another word from above, and he rose

slowly to his feet. He stood full in the glow of the captive sun, to

be outlined in black against the brilliance beyond.

Haltingly he spoke. Then, seeming to gain confidence, he launched into

a torrent of words. He gestured and waved, and, to Foster, the sign

language was plain. He saw reenacted the surprise of the warriors upon

beholding these intruders; saw how they had spied out upon them, using

trunks and branches of the fungus as a screen; saw in pantomime their

own battle with the beasts, then the rush of the armed men to the

rescue. Again the net was thrown, and the gesturing figure turned to

point dramatically where Jerry lay bound, then pounded his armored

chest with unconcealed pride.

He ceased to speak, and there was utter silence in the room as the

figure above crossed to stand before the golden sun. He too abased

himself before the sign of their god, then rose, to stand motionless,

listening....

For a breathless interval he waited before the oracle, then prostrated

himself again and returned to his place.

* * * * *

He repeated, it seemed, a command, congratulation, to judge by the

ecstasy of the figure below. The warrior turned once to throw himself

before the image of the sun; he repeated this again and yet again

before he crept back to his fellows. The group arose and rushed

swiftly toward the bound man.

They brought him quickly into the presence. With scant ceremony Jerry

was unrolled from the net; he lay free and gasping upon the floor. The

men scurried like mad from out the pathway of light that shone down

from the false sun. Jerry rose to his feet; the brilliance before him

almost blinded, but he saw now whence it came.

There was a hollow in the wall, a great parabola, deep and wide, and

it was lined throughout with beaten gold. In a straight path the light

was reflected from every point--every point but one for at the far

end, where the curved sides joined, was a circle of darkness. It

stared like an eye, evil, portentous. Jerry nerved himself for an

ordeal, unknown but imminent. The black eye glared at him unwinkingly.

Before him was the pathway of light: it shone brilliantly down the

sloping ramp where a floor of bright gold led up to the sun god

itself.

The figure on the dais raised its hand. Jerry heard the words come

from its lips and roll sonorously back from above. The figure waited

for an answer.

Jerry's hands slipped beneath his coat to rest reassuringly upon his

weapons. He withdrew his hands empty and raised one toward the figure

above.

"I do not understand your words," he said. "Your language is strange.

No doubt mine is as strange to you. I come as a visitor--I am

friendly." He held out both his hands, palms upward.

"We have come, my friend and myself, on a friendly errand." He paused

to look vainly about for Winslow. "And you have received us as if we

were wild animals."

* * * * *

Jerry Foster, of San Francisco, U. S. A., was suddenly resentful of

their treatment. His words were meaningless, but his tones were not.

"You have tied us," he said, "bound us--dragged us before you. Is that

the way you receive your guests from another world?"

The golden-clad figure stood in majestic silence while Jerry was

speaking. It waited a moment after his outburst, then crossed again to

bow low in the floodlight of gold. As before, it seemed listening to

words from the black heart of the strange sun, words quite

inaudible--soundless. He returned quickly and waved Jerry's attention

to the place of light.

The sense of a presence there in the central blackness was strong upon

the waiting man. In that other life that now seemed so remote--his

life on earth--Jerry had once felt the threat of a concealed intruder

in the dark. He recalled it vividly now. The sensation was the same.

But it was magnified. There was no denying the reality of a malign

something at the heart of that golden glow. The black center of it

vibrated with cold and venomous hate. It struck upon the waiting man

like a physical force. His head was swimming, his thoughts refused to

form. He was as if suspended in a great void, where all that was lay

deep in the center of that radiant orb. And it drew him irresistibly

on.

* * * * *

Like a dazed bird, held and stricken in the hypnotic gaze of a snake,

Jerry took one stiff, unconscious forward step. Another, and another.

He strove dumbly, helplessly, for realization--there was nothing in

the universe but the certain thing ahead.

His foot was upon the golden incline leading to his doom, when that

buried something which marks a man--the spark of divinity which sets

him apart as one alone--reasserted itself.

"I am," he heard his own voice shouting in strangled tones, "I am

Jerry Foster! I am I ... I am myself!"

He awoke from his stupor with a shock that set every nerve-fiber

quivering. For long minutes he stood silent. Then, realizing his

victory and proving it to his own soul, he looked straight into the

black center of the threatening sun god, and he laughed, loudly and

contemptuously. Then, turning, and with steady stride, he walked

calmly from the light.

The great hall was silent with a silence that was breathless. Then

pandemonium broke lose. The priests and the god had been defied, and

screaming and shouts rang throughout the vast chamber to re-echo

batteringly from ceiling and walls. There was tumult and confusion

where the populace thronged. Even the figures above on the dais were

milling about in disorder; the rippling gold of their robes made a

spectacle that forced Jerry's involuntary admiration.

Then one from among them sprang forward. His voice roared above the

shattering din. The room was still. Another order, and the guard of

armed fighting men formed in a circle about the defier of their god.

Jerry waited. Trouble was about due, he told himself. One hand was on

his pistol, tense and ready. As the ranks stood silent and made no

move to attack, Jerry Foster did a curious thing.

* * * * *

It was not done intentionally, but Jerry Foster had nerves, and they

had been under a strain. His hand went unconsciously to his pocket and

extracted a cigarette. There were matches there, too, and he struck

one and lighted the white cylinder. The match made a tiny flame where

he flipped it.

The whole room whispered and hissed with one loud gasp of amazement,

but the moan that followed, that echoed and resounded from the roof,

was of nothing but horror. Even the warriors drew back in trembling

dismay. And before them the stranger they had brought to the very

portal of their sanctum of holies blew clouds of white smoke that

eddied and whirled as they rose round his head.

The effect was not lost upon Jerry. And his mind was working. Was fire

unknown to these strange beings? Here in the deep caverns, far from

the surface, was fire a thing of terror to them? He looked back toward

the wall.

"If they rush me," he thought, "there's a good place to be. That will

feel mighty comfortable at my back."

He walked slowly, the smoke rising thick about his head. The

copper-clad figures before him withdrew, the ranks parting to let him

through. Unharmed he reached the safety of the wall. The enemy now

formed a semi-circle before him.

The inertia of the stricken beings on the platform was broken by his

move. Again their head priest gave an order; from another side a

second detachment of armed men came on. They were carrying something.

Jerry leaned forward in quivering preparedness as he saw, in the

floodlight of radiance, the body of Winslow lying on the floor.

* * * * *

Was he injured? Dead? The devastating loneliness that swept him at the

sight of the still body was unnerving. He breathed a long sigh of

relief as the lanky figure rose slowly to its feet. Winslow was alive!

They would show these beastly, unearthly humans something yet.

There was no preparation--no preliminaries. Whether Winslow could have

reacted as Jerry had would never be known. He seemed stunned and

helpless, and it was with no resisting hesitation that he began the

climb to the unknown.

Jerry's crouching tenseness snapped. No thought of the gun as he

sprang toward the enemy between him and his friend. "No, Winslow--no!"

he shouted as he leaped at the figures in front of him.

Their strength had seemed startling to Jerry when they had carried him

like a child. He had forgotten his lightness here on this unheavy

world. And he had forgotten his own great strength.

No panting, exhausted, beaten fighter of beasts was this that hurled

himself against the ranks before him. One coppery sword flashed upward

above his head. Its bearer was seized in two hands that picked him

bodily from the floor and crashed him, a living projectile, among the

others. Jerry waited for no more. There was an opening ahead, and

beyond was Winslow, walking stiffly, certainly, up that damnable

slope. He threw himself in giant leaps across the floor.

His companion was half-way up the glittering ramp when Jerry seized

him. Holding him in his arms, he leaped outward, to land rolling on

the floor. He was on his feet in an instant. He dragged Winslow to a

standing posture.

"Wake up, man," he was shouting. "Winslow--wake up!"

* * * * *

The onrushing horde was upon them while the tall man was still

brushing his hand over weary eyes, and Jerry, for the moment, had the

fighting to himself.

No time for anything but parry and strike. He caught one white face on

the jaw; the man went bodily through the air. Jerry landed again and

again. His weapons were his fists, and they did fearful execution. And

he knew, at length, that he was not alone.

The long arms of the inventor tore a sword from an upraised hand. Its

owner was thrown, as Jerry had thrown one previously, to catapult

among its fellows.

They were clear for an instant. "Back to the wall!" shouted Jerry. He

had time and room to reach for his pistol, and drew it quickly from

its holster. They backed hastily to the protection of the stone wall.

There were scores upon scores of copper-clad figures that followed

them held out of reach. With a flashing of gold, the head priest

himself sprang to urge on his men.

"Ready!" said Jerry. "I wish you had a gun! Here! Take this!" He

handed his companion a long-bladed knife, then turned to aim his

pistol with steady hand at the oncoming figure in golden robes.

The priest stopped for a brief scrutiny of this new menace, then

screamed out an order and hurled himself into the sheltering press of

men.

Jerry fired into the whirl of bodies. The roar of the forty-five tore

like a battery of siege guns throughout the great room. But the

creatures before them were fighting now in an insane frenzy. Their

bodies pressed the two men to the wall. Jerry fired again, and the

fall of a limp, gold-robed body gave him a thrill of delight.

* * * * *

The inventor was holding a white body as a shield, while he thrust

past it incessantly with a red blade. There were huddled figures

before them that lay quiet or crept painfully away. The body of the

head priest was being carried off.

The dark mouth of a passage had impressed itself upon Jerry; he

remembered it now. It offered a means of escape.

"Off to your right," he said. "Work off to your right. There's a hole

in the wall--"

They fought off the struggling eruption of bodies that drove at them.

Jerry was saving his ammunition, but once more he fired as a sword was

falling over Winslow's head. He drove strongly with his left and beat

at the white skulls with the butt of the gun gripped in his other

hand.

The passage was suddenly behind them. One last stand against the

screaming, frothing faces, and they backed, panting, into the

sheltering dark. Jerry stopped and took Winslow by the arm.

"Are you hurt?" he demanded. The inventor was too breathless for

reply.

"Nothing much," he panted, after a moment. "One got me along the

cheek--you shot him just in time. How about you?"

"O.K.," was the assurance. "But, man, I've been hammered!"

"What a peach of a fight," he added. "But now what?"

Winslow laughed mirthlessly in the dark. "This looks like a one-way

street," he said. "We can't go back.

"Say," he demanded, with sudden, dim recollection. "I remember

something of a dream--a ghastly sort of thing. I was ... I was ...

where was I when you collared me? Where was I headed?"

"For something too damnable for us to imagine," Jerry stated

emphatically.

They were walking as rapidly as they dared through the dark passage.

There were high-pitched voices from the rear. From somewhere ahead

came the sound of running water.

"Too damnable to imagine!" he repeated. "But we'll hunt the vile thing

out if we get a chance, and we'll slaughter--"

The words ended in a startled exclamation as the ground fell beneath

their feet. They pitched headlong into nothingness--

* * * * *

There was water in Jerry's face as he fell. A torrent engulfed him as

he struck into it, pouring in from a lower passageway to plunge

straight down the shaft. The roaring crash of water tore madly at his

body; his arm was shot through with stabbing pain as Winslow's falling

body was torn from his grasp.

He was conscious only of his bursting lungs when he came to the

surface from the depths into which he plunged. With one arm he swam

weakly, the other trailing at his side, while he gulped greedily at

the air.

A voice came hoarsely from a distance. "Foster," it called.

"Jerry--where are you, Jerry?"

Ah, the good air in his lungs--he could swim more strongly now. He

managed to gasp an answer: "Here, Winslow, over here!" There was a

splashing in response to his voice. He heard it over the noise of the

waters he had been swept away from the cataract.

A hand was upon him in the dark. "Hurt?" asked the welcome voice. "Can

you swim, Jerry?"

"A little. One arm's working."

* * * * *

The hands fumbled over him quickly, and his good arm was drawn over

the other's back. "Hang on," Winslow told him. "I can swim. I'm half

fish."

Jerry clung to the folds of the coat. He was light in the water, he

felt--riding high--and the man beside him was swimming with strong

strokes. He released his hold on the other as he felt strength ebbing

back into his body.

"I can paddle," he said: "but stick around. Where are we going?"

"In a circle, probably," was the reply, "though I'm trying to hold a

straight course. How big is this lake, I wonder?"

They swam slowly, saving their strength, but it was a time that seemed

like endless hours before the answer to Winslow's question was found.

Jerry was fighting weakly, exhausted, and the hand supporting him was

failing when they felt sharp rocks against their dragging feet. The

hand that had held him still clung tightly to his shoulder as they

struggled upward and fell together where great rocks gave safety in

the darkness. In his arm the sharp pain had dwindled to numbness;

Jerry Foster asked only for sleep.

There was light about him when he awoke. In his stupor he had found

again the surroundings he knew so well--the clash and clatter of a

distant city--the roaring traffic--signals, and glowing lights. He

came slowly back to unwelcome reality. The light was there, but it

shone in luminous lines along the wall to illumine the hateful

familiarity of the honeycombed rock that composed the moon.

* * * * *

It showed, too, a familiar figure, breathing heavily where it lay on

the far side of the small room. Winslow's face was pale in the dull

light, and his eyes were closed. He was on a thick pallet of soft

fibers and across his body a cloth was spread, shot through with gold

in strange designs.

Jerry Foster threw aside a robe of the same material that covered him.

He stifled an involuntary word as a twinge of pain shot through his

arm, then crossed noiselessly to shake softly at the shoulder of the

sleeping man. Winslow, too, came slowly from his sleep of complete

exhaustion, but his eyes were clear when they opened.

"Where are--" he began a question, but Jerry's hand was pressed

quickly against his lips.

They stared slowly about. The room that held them was in the natural

rock, but whether hewn out by hands or a natural formation they could

not tell. The rock was rotten with perforations, through which air

flowed in a cool stream.

Jerry came softly to his feet to feel cautiously of the glowing,

luminous mounds along the wall. They were spread upon a ledge. The

light was cold to his touch, the material like fine soil in his hands.

"Fluorescent," whispered Winslow. "Calcium sulphide, possibly; I saw

them spreading it above ground in the sun. It absorbs light and gives

it off slowly." Jerry nodded; the source of the endless glowing lines

had been puzzling to him.

* * * * *

Their whispers ceased at a sound beyond a doorway. In the opening a

figure appeared, tall and erect, the figure of a girl. Her face was

white like the others of these whose lives were lived below the

surface, but there was a kindly softness in the eyes, a refinement and

intelligence of no low order, that contrasted with the cold eyes of

the warriors and the priests. Not beautiful, perhaps, by earth

standards, yet it required no straining of chivalry on Jerry's part to

find her human and lovely.

In silence the men stood staring. Then Foster, with unconscious

gentleness, made a revealing gesture. This woman--this girl--had saved

them. He knew it without words, and he was wordless to reply. He

dropped swiftly to his knees and pressed a bit of the golden robe

against his lips.

A flush of scarlet swept across the white face and receded. The hand

dropped from its startled poise and rested, gently, questioningly, on

the brown head bent before her.

She murmured unintelligible words in a guarded voice as Jerry arose.

"Marahna," she said, and touched her breast lightly. "Marahna." Her

head was erect, the whole attitude imperious, commanding. She

questioned them with swift, liquid words. The men shook their heads in

utter incomprehension.

Again she spoke, and again they shook their heads. Jerry felt foolish

and dumb. He took his turn at questioning, and this time, with a

trace of a smile, it was the girl's turn to shake her head. She had

mastered one sign at least.

Pointing toward the great hall they knew was somewhere above, she

reenacted the scene there; she evidently knew what had transpired. And

now Jerry nodded in confirmation. That she approved of the part they

had played was evident.

* * * * *

Now she questioned whence they had come. She pointed down, and her

fluttering hands and graceful posture spoke eloquently. She showed

them more than a trace of fear, too, as she marked them coming from

the depths. Jerry shook his head in vehement denial.

He pointed above, spread his hands wide, tried as best he could to

indicate vast distance beyond. She stared, wide-eyed, then in her turn

knelt as if before a god.

"She thinks we have come down from the sun," Winslow surmised. "Well,

let it go at that." But Jerry Foster was embarrassed in the strange

role of a god; he raised the humbled, kneeling young woman to her

feet.

He pointed to her gold-clad figure and repeated the name she had

given. "Marahna," he said. "Marahna!" Then, placing his hand on his

companion, he repeated: "Winslow--Winslow!" And, pointing to himself,

he completed the introduction with: "Foster, Jerry--Jerry Foster!"

The pale lips formed themselves slowly to the strange and unaccustomed

sounds.

"Cherrie," she repeated, and smiled in comprehension. "Cherrie."

This was the first of many lessons, and it was amazing to both men how

rapidly they learned to get their thoughts across. In turn, they

learned to read the messages that the slim hands and graceful,

undulating body conveyed. Even words were linked one by one with their

indicated objects and meanings.

* * * * *

One syllable the girl used only in a hushed and awe-stricken tone. It

was "Oong" that she whispered, while her eyes filled with terror and

dread. And they knew this for the name of the horror that waited in

the black center of that unholy place where the pathway of light

ascended. It was later that they learned to read hatred as well as

sheer terror in the emotions that the word _Oong_ aroused.

The first lesson ended in a soft exclamation from the girl. She

withdrew, to return in a moment with a beaker of hammered gold, filled

with cold water. In her hands, too, were strange fruits and branches

of fungus. She ate bits of them to show they were food. And Jerry, as

he watched her, was aware that he was famished. But the two men ate

sparingly at first of the strange food.

It was tasteless, they found, except for an elusive flavor, but the

reception of the food in their gnawing stomachs was satisfactory.

Their strength was returning, and with it came hope of release. The

moon-people, evidently, were not altogether villainous.

"Thank you," said Jerry in a normal tone, "that was--" White fingers

trembled against his lips to enforce silence.

* * * * *

The girl listened intently, then stole softly out into the corridor

from which she had come. She motioned the men to follow, and pointed

there in the dim light to a far room.

There were others, they saw; a group of young women lying at ease on

their pallets, or moving slowly about. The need for quiet was

apparent, more so when the figure of a man appeared as they watched.

Quickly the girl, Marahna, stepped before them and motioned them back

to their room.

She followed and glanced quickly about. In the farther wall was an

opening, close to the floor, and low, but they managed to work their

way through at her silent command. A passage, much like the others,

lay beyond. It widened and grew higher, until they could stand erect.

Back in the circle of light they saw, for a moment, the man, bowing

low in respect before Marahna. He carried a basket of light that shone

brightly in the room.

"Replenishing the supply of sulphide," whispered Winslow.

A current of air came cool and refreshing from a branching tunnel in

the rock. There was no lack of ventilation, as they well knew,

throughout all the tortuous passages, but this came with a scent of

outdoors that set both men a-tingle with hope. Jerry forgot even the

dull ache in his arm as he breathed deep of this messenger from the

outside.

But exploration must wait. They needed to rest, to learn and to plan.

They returned when Marahna called softly from the room.

* * * * *

Time had lost all its meaning. They could only guess at the hours that

had passed since the hour they left their ship, could only make

unanswered surmises as to where was the sun or how much was left of

the long lunar day. They must escape--they would escape--but their one

stroke for freedom must not be made when darkness and paralyzing cold

should force them back into the hands of the enemy tribes.

Marahna was with them much of the time, and always they struggled and

strove with desperate concentration to grasp at the meanings of the

thoughts she tried to convey. And they learned much.

Of the passage they believed they had found out to the surface, she

knew little. But she showed them, with doubt in her face, that there

was almost hopeless struggle along that path to the freedom above.

Sadly she touched Jerry's injured arm, and she shook her head in

dejection.

The arm had had a bad wrench, Jerry found. No fracture, but the

muscles and ligaments had been painfully torn. But Jerry set his teeth

firm at the thought of a possible escape.

* * * * *

Once, peering along the dark passage that led to the room where the

others had been seen, the men noticed the deep bows that unfailingly

marked the entrance of Marahna. They questioned her and learned that

here was royalty among the people of the moon. This, as they

considered the proud poise of her head and her whole attitude of

unassuming superiority was not entirely surprising. But they marveled

the more at the truth that she finally made plain to them.

Marahna, she told them, as plainly as if she were speaking in their

own tongue, Marahna was chosen for death. And her white face was

pitiful and her eyes full of horror as she enacted for them the slow

march she must take up the long golden slope and into the horror that

waited.

"A sacrifice to that god!" Jerry spoke with dismay. "No, no!" But the

face of the Princess Marahna of the moon people was unutterably sad

with unspoken thoughts as she touched her breast with one slender

finger, then indicated the outer room and showed there were two there

beside herself who were to go.

"Help us to get out," Jerry begged, and with fierce eagerness he

showed them going through the passage to the outside. "We will come

back, and we will find some way to end all this damnable thing."

She gave them to understand the time that was left. The sun, she

showed, was long past the meridian and was on its return. The day was

now reaching a close. And then, as the sun set, the great sacrifice

would be made--had always been made--to insure the return of their

god.

* * * * *

Their watches were useless, for the water had entered their cases. The

two men waited what they judged was the length of a day, while Jerry

tried to believe that his arm was improving. Then, putting a small

supply of food in their pockets, they were ready for the attempt.

Jerry saw that his gun and knife were ready at his belt, and patted a

pocket where his matches were safe in their watertight container. The

prospect of escape almost unnerved him. To breathe the clear air; to

stand in the radiant light of the sun--he could understand now how

these people made a god of the sun. He turned to Marahna.

"Good-by," he said, "but not for long. We'll be back. And we'll save

you, Marahna, we'll save you. Winslow will figure some way to do

it.... We'll be back...."

The girl was silent. She touched Jerry's arm, and shook her head

slowly, doubtfully.

He reached for the hand. It trembled, he felt, in his. The impulse to

take the slim form within his arms, to hold her close, was strong upon

him. Would he ever see her again ... would he?

"Won't you say good-by, Marahna?" he asked.

But she smiled, instead--a friendly smile, and encouraging. Then

dropped in silence to her knees to press with both her trembling hands

his hand upon her forehead. And, still in silence, she rose to vanish

from the room.

The men entered the narrow opening to start forward into the dark. But

Jerry Foster was puzzled, puzzled and more than a trifle hurt. Marahna

could at least have said good-by. She knew the word, for he had taught

it to her. And she had let him--them--go....

"Oh, well," he thought, "how can I know how a princess feels--a

princess of the moon? And why should I care--why should she? But...."

He refused to complete the thought. He hurried instead, as best he

could, to follow Winslow, fumbling ahead of him in the dark.

* * * * *

Jerry had used plenty of muttered invective with the massage he had

given his arm, but he cursed his handicap wholeheartedly at the end of

some several hours.

They were standing, he and Winslow, in a dark tunnel. They had climbed

and clawed their way through the absolute dark, over broken fragments,

through narrow apertures, down and up, and up again through a

tortuous, winding course. And now they had reached the end. They had

found the source of the fresh air, had come within reaching distance,

it seemed, of sunlight and all that their freedom might mean. And they

had come, too, to a precipitous rock wall.

They stared long and hopelessly at the shaft that reached, vertical

and sheer, high, high over their heads. And a curse like that of

Tantalus was theirs. For, far at the top, slanting in through some

off-shooting passage, there was sunlight. It was unmistakable in its

clear glare, beautiful, glorious--and unattainable.

There were roughnesses in the wall, footholds, handholds here and

there. "It might be ... it might be...." Jerry tried to believe, but

the ache in his arm made the thought hopeless and incomplete. He

turned to his companion.

"I believe you can do it," he said steadily.

* * * * *

Winslow's dark eyes were gleaming in the dimness that surrounded.

"Possibly," he replied, and eyed the ascent with an appraising stare.

"Even probably. But you know damn well, Foster, that I'm not going to

try."

"Don't be an ass." Jerry's tone was harsh, but the tall man must have

known what emotions lay underneath.

"We'll play it out together," he said.

Jerry was silent as he reached in the darkness for Winslow's hand.

"Of course I knew you were that sort," he said. He waited a moment,

then added: "But you're going, old man, you're going. Don't you see

it's our only hope?"

Winslow shook his head emphatically. Jerry could see him in the dim

reflection from that radiance above. "Nothing doing," the calm voice

assured him. "Don't bother to think up more reasons why I should

desert."

"Listen!" Jerry gripped roughly at the other's shoulder. "Listen to

reason.

"If you go and I go back there, what will happen? With Marahna gone we

are helpless, and we will be helpless to save her. The long night is

ahead. How can we live? Where can we live? We will be wiped out as

sure as we're alive this minute.

"If you go--and if you make it to the ship--there's a chance. Alone, I

may manage to stick it out." He knew he was lying, knew that the other

knew it too, but he went on determinedly. "You can wait for me up

above. My arm will be well--" Winslow stopped him with a gesture.

"There's a chance," the older man was muttering, "there's a

chance...." He swung quickly toward Foster, to grab hard at the good

right hand.

"I'm going," he stated. "I'm on my way. I won't say good-by; what's

the use--I'll be back soon!"

He released his hold on Jerry to leap high in the air for a ledge of

projecting rock. He caught it and hung. His foot found a toehold and

he drew himself up to where another rough outcrop gave grip for his

hand.

Jerry Foster stood frozen to throbbing stillness. Words were

strangling in his throat, an impulse, almost irresistible, to call. If

there were only a rope....

He was still silent when the tiny figure of his companion and friend

was lost in the heights, where it vanished into that tunnel from which

came the light. He turned blindly, to stumble back into the dark.

* * * * *

Marahna was waiting when he regained the safety of her room. "Safety!"

The thought was bitter when linked with the certain fate that lay

ahead.

Silently she stroked the bent head of the man who dropped dejectedly

upon the hard stone floor. Her fingers were gentle, comforting,

despite the utter hopelessness and discouragement that lay heavily

upon him.

They sat thus, nor counted the flying minutes, while the fog of

despair in the mind of the beaten man was clearing. He raised his head

finally to meet the look in the dark eyes. And he managed a smile, as

one can who has thought his way through to the bitter end and has

faced it. He patted the hand that had stroked his bowed head.

"It's all right," he said gently. "What is to be, will be--and we

can't change it. And it's all right somehow."

His sleeping, during their long stay, had been a cause for amusement

to Marahna, whose habits were tuned to the long days and nights on the

moon. And he was sleepy now, sleepy and tired. She spread the robe

over him as he rested on the soft fiber bed.

He awoke from a deep sleep with a light heart. For Jerry Foster, as he

faced his own certain death, had seen certain things. It was the

end--that was one fact he couldn't evade. But he grinned cheerfully,

all by himself in that strange cheerless room, as he thought of what

else he had visioned.

"And it will be just one hell of a fight," he said softly aloud.

"There will be some of those priests that will know they have been in

a war."

* * * * *

He examined again the knife and the automatic, and counted the

cartridges left in the magazine. There were more he had found in a

pocket of his coat, enough to replace those he had fired. He slipped

the pistol into its holster at the sound of soft footsteps

approaching.

It was Marahna who entered, a strange and barbaric Marahna. She was

clad in a garment of spun gold that enveloped her tall figure. It

trailed in rippling beauty on the floor--draped in resplendence her

slim body, to end in soft folds about a head-dress that left Jerry

breathless.

Her face was entirely concealed. The gold helmet covered her head. It

was tall, made entirely of hammered gold in which spirals of jewels

reflected their colors of glittering light. She was quite

unrecognizable in the weird magnificence.

Only her voice identified the figure. She murmured chokingly some soft

words, then raised her head with its barbaric helmet proudly high as

she concluded. There were words become familiar now to Jerry. Together

with the spectacle she presented, her meaning was more than plain.

"The time has come," she was telling him. "The sun ... the hour of

sacrifice."

Jerry leaped to his feet. His plans for battle were being revised. An

idea--a plan, half-formed--was beating in his brain.

A sound was beating upon him, too. There were drums that throbbed in

steady unison, that echoed hollowly along resounding walls, that

approached in loudly increasing cadence.

* * * * *

The plan was complete. "No!" said Jerry Foster, with a wild laugh. He

reached to remove the golden helmet.

He placed it upon his own head, under the startled gaze of the

wondering girl. He reached out for the robe.

"You shall not go," he told her. "I will go in your place. And when I

reach that room...." His eyes were savage behind the slits in the

golden head-dress.

"No--no!" the girl protested. Her face showed plainly the complete

hopelessness of what Jerry proposed. To pit himself against that

antagonist--she knew how futile was the brave gesture.

Jerry was undaunted. "I've got to die anyway," he tried to explain,

"and if I can get in one good crack at whatever is there--well, I may

be of help."

His hand was taking off the cloak. Marahna's eyes were steady upon

him. She ceased to resist. She whipped one of the covers from the

couch about her and helped him with the golden robe.

The throbbing of drums was hammering at Jerry's temples. They were

close at hand! Marahna, without a word, rushed frantically back toward

the room where the others waited.

And again Jerry Foster felt that odd tightening of disappointment

about his heart. But what was the difference, he told himself, in a

hundred years--or a hundred minutes. He set his lips tight and walked

slowly out and down the passage.

The room he entered was deathly quiet. There were figures standing

about, figures robed in their gold-threaded drapes, that stared

strangely, wonderingly, at him, and drew themselves into a huddled

group against the wall. And two there were, who stood apart: the other

victims--their sacrificial garments wrapped them round where they

waited for the third who was to accompany them. Jerry joined them as a

guard came in from the outer hall.

* * * * *

The drums were rolling softly in their rhythmic beat. The priests who

entered showed annoyance at the delay; they gave a curt order, and

motioned the three to follow.

Outside, the corridor was broad, and the double rows of lights on

either side glowed brightly to illumine a pageant grotesque and

terrible in its barbaric splendor. The drums throbbed louder. Jerry

saw them in their fire of burnished metal, beaten by the bands of

naked men. Beyond, a group of warriors waited. Stalwart and strongly

muscled, they stood erect in copper armor beside a platform of metal

bars, whose floor was of latticed gold. The victims were placed upon

it to stand erect. Jerry balanced himself upon the golden floor as the

warriors raised it slowly to their shoulders.

Priests, in robes of heavy golden rope, were ranged about; they formed

a guard and escort ten deep about the living sacrifice. At that the

drums increased their volume, and to this was added a nerve-racking,

discordant and rasping jangle, when sheets of copper, paper-thin, were

struck with a heavy hand. The pulsing, throbbing pandemonium was

terrific as the march began.

Slowly they made their way through a winding gallery. Slowly they came

to where a portal, high-arched, gave entrance upon the great hall.

Solemnly, proudly, the priests lead the way as they circled the vast

room. Their wrappings of gold were a scintillant quiver of light;

above each hard face a circle of gold--symbol of the sun--was borne

imperiously high.

* * * * *

The priestly guard surrounded the platform where the three standing

figures were huddled. And behind, and on either side, the men with the

drums and the discordant, ringing sheets gave full force to their

blows. The high vault above thundered and roared to the thunder and

roar of the drums. And, high over all, a wailing began.

The thin shrillness beat with the tempo of the drums in a pitch that

steadily descended. The glittering procession had come to rest at its

appointed place in the pathway, of light as the wailing came down to a

moan. "_Oong! Oong!_" the voices groaned, while the walls re-echoed

the despairing tones. Only from the band of warriors did the ear of

Jerry Foster detect anything but misery and despair. The priests were

silent, but the warriors, in their shining armor, stood erect and

roared out the syllables in exultant joy.

The priests were now upon the dais--the rocky platform, divided by the

great, glowing parabola of light. They stood erect as a new high

priest, replacing the one Jerry had killed, crossed to bow and grovel

in the radiance from their god.

The room was silent with the silence of a great tomb as the march of

death began. Softly, from the silence, the drums resumed the merest

whisper of their former thunderous booming. Beside him. Jerry heard

the soft sobs of a girl. One of the figures swayed and threatened to

fall as the platform was lowered to rest upon the floor. The other

pressed close to support the drooping figure.

* * * * *

Now the entire directed ray of light from the round, glowing hole

struck full upon them. It blinded and dazzled, yet, plain and

distinct, Jerry saw at its heart the circle of blackness, the eye of

the mysterious, hypnotic parabola--the entrance to what lay beyond.

The beat of the drums was hypnotic. As if in a trance he saw, at the

side of the way they must go, the form of the head priest beckon them

on. The two victims at his side took one step on the path to their

death. And the same stiff rigidity held Jerry as he, too, moved onward

and up the golden ramp.

The drums were bearing them on. Louder they throbbed in a steady

crescendo, to carry the three rigid figures a step at a time up the

pathway of light.

The priest, Jerry felt more than saw, was beside them. Close ahead was

the blackness that held the set stare of his eyes. One of the golden

figures was before him. He saw the priest reach out to take the helmet

from her head.

The movement aroused him from his numb horror. An impulse to escape

surged through him; every nerve was tense and ready for a spring. He

looked quickly about. The warriors were behind, the priests ready on

their platform to direct them. And in the doorway, from where he first

had seen this chamber, on the only way he knew that led to freedom,

another figure, tall in its priestly robes, blocked the passage.

* * * * *

Hopeless, he knew. And then there swept through him a wave of hate. Gone

was his horror, and gone the dull deadness of brain and body. There, facing

him, was the mouth of the pit, where waited a something--horrible,

rapacious--demanding the lives of these people ... of Marahna ... of

others--more and yet more.

No thought now of life or escape. For the moment, Jerry Foster's whole

being held nothing but hot hate, and the wish for revenge.

Before him the priest was stripping the robe from the girl at his

feet. She stood like a statue, a carving of purest alabaster, slim and

erect in her white, slender nakedness. And the face that he saw

through incredulous eyes was that of Marahna.

Marahna! The realization and quick understanding held him spellbound.

She had come, had taken the robes from another poor victim ... to be

with him in this, the last hour....

Marahna--a princess among these strange folk--was giving her life when

another could have been in her place. And she smiled tremulously,

bravely, as her eyes locked with his, as, speechless and spellbound,

he stared through the eyelets of gold.

The priest was reaching for his head-dress, Jerry tensed. The moment

had come.

* * * * *

He was ready. As the weight left his shoulders, he dropped, with one

swift movement, his golden disguise. The robe fell in folds at his

feet. He stared in silence, through narrowing eyes, at the face of the

head priest above him. Then, leaping straight up, he fastened one

hand, sinewy, sun-browned and strong, on the white neck below the

white face. They crashed back, to land on the ramp and roll,

struggling, toward the edge.

Jerry's hold never slackened. He felt his fingers sink deep in the

flesh. He came to his knees, then up, to hold the writhing figure at

arm's length. Then, heaving with all his strength, he whipped the man

into the air, to drag him in one leaping bound for the sheltering

darkness beyond.

A figure was entering with him--a slim, naked figure, with glowing and

worshipping eyes.

Behind them the silence was shattered. Jerry saw, as he stepped from

the light, the riot of figures that surged in hysterical frenzy

through the great hall. The priests were leaping among them ... the

tall priest who had guarded the door was fighting his way through the

mob.

Jerry loosed his quivering hand from the throat it held. He cast the

figure from him. And he blinked his eyes to make them serve him in the

blackness all about.

Beside him, a form, invisible in the dark, was stroking at his face,

and a voice was whispering tremulously: "Cherrie ... Cherrie!"

* * * * *

The tumult in the great hall reached them but faintly. Jerry Foster

strove desperately to focus his eyes in that darkness of utter night.

A dim glow from the portal crept softly in to bring faint illumination

to the farther wall. Slowly his eyes found that which they feared yet

sought.

Off in the dark, directly opposite the entrance, was a white and

ghostly thing. Formless and vague, it wavered and blurred to his

straining eyes. He fumbled clumsily for a match, one of his treasured

store. He must see--he must know what was waiting--

The match flared to a point of brilliance in the murky gloom. It

showed, on the floor where they stood, a litter of dried

vegetation--food, doubtless placed there as an offering. It was dry

now, and dusty, and through it there shone the bleak whiteness of

bones. Beyond was the floor, and beyond that.... The whiteness that

had been but a blur grew sharply distinct.

Jerry could not have told what he expected the light to disclose.

Certainly it was not the heaping of coils, milk-white and ghastly,

that took shape before his staring eyes. Above them a head hung in

air. It was motionless--lifeless, almost--like the coiled body that

held it. But the eyes, black and staring, in the bloated, bulging

head, made its poised stillness the more deadly.

Even in the dark Jerry had sensed the hypnotic spell of unseen eyes.

Visible, they held him in a rigid, unreasoning terror. Unreal,

unthinkable, this serpentlike horror, tremendous and ghastly in its

loathsome whiteness. A dweller in the dark, used by the priests as a

symbol and a threat for the ignorant folk who trusted and believed

them. And it held him, stilled and stricken, in its evil spell.

* * * * *

The flame was scorching Jerry's hand that nervelessly opened to

release the match. The man was like a statue, frozen to mental

deadness. About his feet a light was playing, unseen. A bit of the dry

stuff sprang brightly to yellow flame. Neither seeing nor feeling, the

figure of Jerry Foster stood, held in the deadly magic of the

malignant eyes.

Dimly he sensed that the prostrate body on the floor was that of

Marahna. Vaguely he knew when the form of the priest took a halting

step forward. The fire his match had kindled was rising about his

feet. The flames seared and stabbed with a pain that reached his

dulled brain. Quivering and shaken, the body of Jerry Foster reacted

again to a conscious thought. He leaped quickly as the deadly witchery

left him, and he tore at the smoldering cloth about his legs.

And now he knew the thing before him for what it was. Shocking in its

gigantic size, more so in the concentrated venom of its gaze, it was

the flabby, scaly and crusted whiteness of the thing that filled his

being with a deadly nausea. He stared with a sickened fascination at

the flabby, drooping pouches beside the mouth, the distorted, bulging

head and the short legs, armed with long, curving talons--legs that

sprang from out the neck to clutch and tear at what the jaws might

hold.

Deadly and hateful--loathsome beyond all imagining--still Jerry Foster

found it was something a man could meet. Its devilish power to

paralyze and still the soul of him was gone.

He snatched quickly for the gun at his belt and knelt to aim--then

checked his finger on the trigger. The figure of the priest had come

between him and the monster.

* * * * *

The golden robe was dragging. It fell to the floor, to gleam dully in

the flickering light of the fire. Against the heaping coils of white

the priest was outlined, drawn, as Jerry sensed, against the protest

of every fiber of his being. Yet, one stiff step at a time, he went

faltering on. The hair above his white face was torn in disarray. And

the face itself, so exultantly fierce in its hour of triumph, now a

mask of quivering, hopeless terror.

The head of the monster came slowly to life. It raised and raised into

the air. The mouth gaped open with a hoarse, sucking sound, then

struck, like a whip of light, at the doomed priest.

His screams, as the thing descended upon him, rang through the roar of

the forty-five. Jerry fired again where the black eyes showed above

the writhing body of their prey. The head jerked backward, to tower in

the darkness overhead. The mouth disgorged its contents to the floor.

Only for a shuddering instant did the monster pause. Then it launched

its great bulk in a counter-attack, while the automatic poured out the

rest of its futile lead.

The gun was knocked from his grasp as the great head smashed past,

swerved from its aim by the blinding bullets. Jerry knew only that his

knife was in his hand as the great scabrous coils closed

inevitably about him.

Vaguely he heard the shouting from behind as the writhing folds

engulfed him. He stabbed blindly at the scaly mass; again and again

his knife ripped slashingly at the abhorrence that drew him close.

Then his arm, too, was caught in the crushing loathsome embrace....

* * * * *

He felt no pain--the pressure alone was insufferable. His head was

drawn back. Above him the horrible eyes glared into his--there was

blood dripping from the jaws....

He saw it in the brilliance of a light that flashed in blue heat

overhead. There came in his ears a vast roaring of sound, a great

heat-blast that scorched and burned at his face. The crushing pressure

was relaxed. He went reeling to the floor, as the great coils whirled

high into the air.

He was stunned by the fall, his body inert and relaxed. But he knew

through it all that from somewhere above there was shrieking of

gas--blue, roaring fires--a flame that tore blastingly into a writhing

contortion beyond.

The tall figure of a priest was bending over him, but it was the voice

of Winslow that was in his ears--a blessed, human voice--when he

awoke.

"Thank God, I made it," the voice was saying, over and over. "Thank

God, I found the ship and got back here in time!"

There was light within the cavern. The burning fungus was extinguished

by the smothering coils that had crashed upon it, but beyond was a

waving plume of yellow where a blue flame shot against a wall of rock.

And Jerry, through the stress and riot of emotion that overwhelmed

him, laughed chokingly, wildly, at the words of his companion.

"It is sodium," Winslow was saying in explanation, as he saw Jerry's

eyes resting on the light. "A hydrogen flame, but there's sodium in

the rocks that turns the flame yellow. I rigged up a flame-thrower of

hydrogen."

"You would," Jerry gasped through hysterical laughter. "You would do

just that, and make your way back to this hell just to save me--you

damn fool inventor!"

* * * * *

He clung to Winslow, who was raising him to his feet. Marahna was

beside him, robed in the golden garment of the priest. She placed her

hands beside his face to turn him toward the further wall. The light

was fickle, but it showed him, as it rose and fell, the blackened,

swollen body of the monster, still writhing in its death struggle. And

beside it, blasted and charred, the head of the obscene sun god,

severed by the cutting, obliterating blast, lay flabby and black in a

silent heap.

"Rather effective," said Winslow complacently, "though I didn't have

much to work with. Two small vials of my liquid and a hand generator

to furnish the current. A tubular strut from the frame of the ship

made the blow-pipe."

"And these?" Jerry questioned, and pointed to the priest's vestments

that Winslow still wore.

"Oh, it was all quiet up above," said the inventor, "and I came down

the rope. But there was one of them waiting at the bottom. He didn't

need these any more when I left, so I took them to help get about--"

He stopped, to cross quickly and pick up the flame-thrower as the

flame died away. It roared as he worked at the mechanism, then

dwindled again. Its light, for an instant, was reflected in a liquid

on the floor.

"Broken!" said Winslow in an anguished voice. "The vials are

gone--smashed! And I counted on this to hold off the mob, to get us

safely out...."

He regarded the instrument with silent dismay. The blue flame, as he

held it, flickered and died.

"Not so good!" said Jerry slowly. He stopped to retrieve the knife.

This, he reflected, was their sole weapon of defense. In the dim light

his eyes met with Winslow's in mutual comprehension of their plight.

* * * * *

There were caverns beyond, dark and forbidding. Did they lead to the

outer world? Or, instead, was it not probable that they went to some

deep, subterranean dens, from which this monster had learned to come

at the priests' summons? Jerry put from his mind all thought of escape

in that direction.

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

The girl got the essence of the question. Fumbling for phrases that

they knew, she made them believe that she was safe. Her people, she

told them, would protect her.

"Yes," Jerry agreed. "I guess that's right. She's a princess, you

know," he reminded Winslow, "and the great mass of the people look up

to her. Only the priests and warrior gangs will be opposed. But how

can we get through them?"

The question was unanswered.

"We've got to knock them cold some way," said the inventor. "Got to

give them a fright that will last till they let us get through. Once

at the big shaft where we came down, we can make our getaway. But how

to do it...." His voice died away in dismal thought.

Jerry's eyes were casting about. The priest's robe? No, not good

enough. It had brought Winslow through, but it couldn't take them

back. Marahna? No help there: she had enough to do to protect herself

from the fury of the priests.

* * * * *

His eyes rested again on the steaming, blackened mass that still

showed the horrible features that had marked the head of the monster.

The sun god! There was an idea there.

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

head.

He had to steel his nerves before he could lay hands upon the vile

thing. The paws were still attached behind the head. He took a grip on

one and pulled. The great mass moved.

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

"Nor I," Jerry admitted, "but there's an idea here." His thoughts were

racing in the moment's silence.

"I've got it," he shouted. "I've got it! If only I can make Marahna

understand!" He led the girl nearer to the door, where his signs

could be seen more plainly.

"You," he told her, "go out there." He pointed to the place where the

priests had stood. "Tell your people"--he took the attitude of the

orator declaiming to his audience--"we have come here from the sun."

Again his signs were plain. Marahna nodded. This plainly was literal

truth to her.

"Tell them," he continued earnestly, "we have saved them from this

thing. Tell them it was no sun god, but a monster that the priests had

kept. Monster!" he exclaimed, and pointed to the head and to the body

that still writhed and jerked spasmodically. "No god--no!" And again

the girl showed her understanding. Her eyes were glowing.

"Then," said Jerry, indicating Winslow and himself, "we will take the

head that they have worshipped, and we'll drag it out and throw it to

the priests." His gestures were graphic. The girl nodded her head in

an ecstasy of comprehension.

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

And, with luck, we'll make it safe."

"There's a chance," said Winslow softly, "there's a chance--and that's

all we ask."

* * * * *

"It's up to you, Marahna," Jerry told her. His words were meaningless,

but the tone sufficed. She drew herself proudly erect, wrapped herself

closely in the robe of braided gold, and stepped firmly and fearlessly

through the portal and down toward the platform of the priests.

The two men watched from the shadows. Beyond the outline of the

platform they saw the warrior clans, a phalanx of protecting bodies.

And beyond, drawn back in huddled consternation, were masses of

white-faced people--Marahna's people--who listened, now, in wondering

silence to their princess.

Marahna made her way slowly to the platform's edge. Of all the

countless ones to have gone that road, she was the first ever to

return. She stood silent, while her eyes found their way scornfully

over the enemy below. Then looking beyond them, she began to speak.

Her soft voice echoed liquidly throughout the room. She gestured, and

Jerry knew that she was giving them the message.

From the priests there came once a hoarse, inarticulate growl of hate

and unbelief. She silenced them with her hand. She pointed to the

heavens, and she told them of the sun and of the two who were true

children of the sun, who had come to save them from their false god.

* * * * *

Her voice rose as she told her people in impassioned tones that which

she had seen. And she was shouting above the tumult of the priests and

pointing directly at them as she made the roof echo with the message:

"_Oong devah! Oong devah!_"

"The god is dead," translated Jerry. "_Devah_ means death; she said

that of herself before we left. Come on!" he shouted, and laid-hold of

one great claw. "It's our turn now."

Winslow was tugging at the other foot. Between them they dragged into

the light the obscene burden. Down the long ramp they took it and off

upon the platform of the priests, where Marahna waited.

The priests, as Jerry's quick glance showed, were milling wildly

about. It seemed that a charge was soon to follow, but the commotion

ceased as the two men come upon the platform, hauling between them the

great scorched head of "Oong." The vast hall was without movement or

sound as they made their way out to the front. Jerry stood erect and

faced the crowd.

He pointed, as had Marahna, toward the sun somewhere above those thick

masses of rock; he traced it in its course across the sky; he pointed

to Winslow and himself. And in loudest tones he roared throughout the

room his message. "Oong," he shouted, "_Oong devah!_"

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

go!"

Again he took a firm hold on the flabby paw.

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

_three_!"

* * * * *

The men heaved mightily upon the gruesome horror. The head swung

ghastly in scorched whiteness into the air. The dead jaws fell open as

it crashed downward among the huddled, stricken priests.

"This way!" commanded Winslow. He had been carefully appraising the

openings in the crowd. "And don't hurry! Remember, you're a god to

them--or something a darn sight worse."

Heads proudly erect, the two strode firmly down the pathway of golden

light. The room was silent as the few they met fell back in cringing

fear. Slowly, interminably, the long triumphal march was made across

the rocky cavern of the moon.

Not till they reached the portal did the silence break. The shrieks of

the priests and the clashing of copper were behind them, as they

vanished with steady steps from out the room.

"Now run!" ordered Winslow. "Run as if the devils from hell were after

you--and I think they are!" The two tore madly down the corridor whose

double rows of brightness made possible their utmost speed.

There was the narrowing of the passage--Jerry remembered it--where

they came out at the foot of the great shaft, the dead throat of the

volcano. Behind them the shrieks and clamor echoed close. A rope was

dangling from far up at the top.

Jerry leaped for it before he recalled the condition of his arm. In

the excitement of the encounter he had forgotten that the arm was

still in no shape for a long hand-over-hand climb.

"I can't make it," he said, and looked about quickly. There were

baskets of fungus growth, already dried from the heat of the mid-day

sun that had shone where it grew. He dragged one to the narrow part of

the tunnel. Winslow tugged at another and threw it up as a barricade.

A chalk-white figure in copper sheathing was clambering upon it as he

worked at another of the nets.

* * * * *

Jerry let go the fiber basket he was dragging and drew his knife as he

sprang to meet the assault. A sharp cutting edge was unknown to these

workers in copper. Jerry slipped under the raised bludgeoning copper

weapon to plunge the knife into a white throat. Then, without a look

at the body he helped Winslow, struggling with another load.

They completed the barricade. A heap of fungus made a raised place

where Jerry leaped. Commanding the top of the pile that blocked the

choked throat of the passage, he was ready for the next figure that

leaped wildly up.

It would take them a while, Jerry saw, to learn of this scintillant

death that struck at them from close quarters. His knife flashed again

and again as he took the men one at a time and let their limp bodies

roll back to the passage beyond.

* * * * *

The assault was checked when Jerry shouted to his companion. "Tie the

rope around me," he ordered, "up under my arms ... then you go on up.

When you get there pull up--and for the Lord's sake pull fast!"

"Go on," he shouted. "I can hold them for a while--" He turned swiftly

to take a leaping body upon the red point of his knife.

He felt the rope about him as he fought, knew by its twitching when

Winslow started the long climb, and prayed dumbly for strength to hold

his weak fortress till the other could hoist himself up to the top.

He was fighting blindly as they came on in endless succession, the

figures of frenzied priests leaping grotesquely beyond. Only the

strategic position he had taken allowed him to turn the wild assault

again and again. They could only reach him by ones and twos, but the

end must come soon. There were priests tearing at the foot of the

barricade.... The cold winds that came down from above revived him,

but it helped the figures ripping at the fiber cords. The dry fungus

fragments whirled gaily away and down the passage in the wind.

The wind! The draft was blowing from him, directly upon his attackers.

Jerry struggled and clinched with another that bounded beside him, and

knew as he fought that a weapon was at hand. His knife found the lower

edge of copper, and the figure screamed as he rolled it down the

slope. He slipped the knife into his left hand as he fumbled with his

right.

* * * * *

His precious matches! He struck one on the rock; it broke in his

trembling fingers. Another--there were so few left. He drew it with

infinite care on the surface of rock. The figures below tore in frenzy

at the weakening barricade, while yet others stood waiting at this

sign of some new form of magic.

They shouted again, as they had when, those long days ago, he had

lighted a cigarette before their horrified gaze. Jerry shielded the

tiny blaze in his hand to bring it beneath a papery leaf beside him.

The flame flashed and dwindled. He dared not drop back to set fire to

the base of the heap. But even in the exhaustion and strain of the

moment Jerry Foster still knew the value of the showman's tricks in

reaching the fears of these white-faced fighters.

With grandiloquent gesture he raised another of the tindery fragments

and ignited it from the first. Another, and he had the beginning of a

fire. He lit another piece, and, when he had it blazing, dropped it

behind him and kept on with the show.

A large piece became a flaming torch, and he waved it before him and

laughed to see the warriors cringe. A cloud of smoke was billowing

about him--he leaped to safety through a rising wall of flame.

The rear slope of the barricade became a furnace; the wind behind him

swept the smoke clouds down the passage. He heard, and sank back

weakly on the ground as it came to him, the screaming riot where a mob

of terrified warriors fought and struck to turn the horde that

clamored behind them and pushed them on. The blast roared over the

heaped fuel and poured downward from the crest. The noise of the

retreat went silent in the distance.

* * * * *

Spent and exhausted, Jerry Foster lay panting upon the stone floor.

The breath of cold and life came down the long shaft from the crater.

Had Winslow gained the top? Was he equal to the climb? Jerry hardly

felt the jerking of the rope about his shoulders, but he knew as, in

frantic haste, it drew him scraping up the long side of the shaft.

The biting cold above revived him, and again a scene of desolation was

spread before his eyes. Winslow fumbled with the knots and released

him from the rope.

"Come on!" he shouted, and extended a helping hand as they leaped and

raced across the rocky floor.

Jerry again was vividly, strongly alive as the cold winds swept him.

He leaped hugely through the whirling wisps of dried out

vegetation--the sun had stripped the surface of every living thing.

Again the rocky slopes rose naked in the rosy light of evening. The

sun was hidden below a distant range of jagged hills. The long night

was begun.

"You're going the wrong way," Jerry shouted. "We left it over there."

He stopped to point where the sun had set. "See, that's where we

fought the beasts--"

"Come on!" repeated Winslow. "Hurry! We mustn't lose out now. I flew

the ship over this way while I was up here before."

A ridge of rock cut off the view where Winslow pointed. "Bully for

you!" Jerry shouted and turned to follow. They stopped as the slope

ahead, from its multitude of honeycomb caverns, erupted men.

* * * * *

The priests were ahead, and behind them swarmed their men. Vindictive

and revengeful, the wily enemy was fighting to the end. The two

stopped in consternation.

"What's the use!" demanded Jerry. His voice was tired, utterly

hopeless. "And the ship's right over there...."

"A million miles away," said Winslow slowly, "as far as we're

concerned." The army was sweeping down the long slope: they had found

their quarry. There were other figures, too, pouring from the throat

of the volcano--white, naked figures that swarmed in growing numbers

and rushed across upon them from the rear.

"Trapped," said Jerry Foster savagely, "and we almost made it." He

rose wearily to his feet. "We'll take it standing."

The armored warriors were approaching; in leaping triumph they raced

to be the first ones at the death. The shouts of the priests were

ringing encouragement in their ears.

* * * * *

But the leaders from the rear were nearer. One deep breath Jerry drew

as he turned to meet them. Then stared, astonished, as the figures

swept past. They streamed by in confusion. They were armed with rocks,

with clubs or copper metal--some even carried bars of gold above their

heads. They came in a great swarm that swept past and beyond them. And

they met, like an engulfing wave, the bounding figures of the men in

copper. Smothered and lost were the warriors in the horde that poured

increasingly on.

The wave, before Jerry's eyes, swept on over the crest, while he still

stood in amazed unbelief at the battle that raged.

It was Marahna who brought understanding. He turned to see her kneel

in sobbing, thankful abasement at his feet.

Marahna! Her people! She had saved them! There was time needed for the

full force of the truth to banish the hopeless despair from his heart.

Then he stooped to raise the crouching figure with arms that were

suddenly strong.

* * * * *

The pale rose light of the departed sun above shone softly within a

rocky valley of the moon. It tipped the tall crags with lavender hues,

and it touched with soft gleaming reflections a blunted cylinder of

aluminum alloy.

The valley was silent, save for the hushed whispers of wondering

thousands who peopled the enclosing hills, and the rushing roar from

the cylinder itself where the inventor was testing his machine.

There were figures in priestly robes--scores of them--and they were

surrounded by a white throng that, silent and watchful, held them

captive.

Beyond, in the open, where bare rock made a black rolling floor, there

were two who stood alone. The golden figure of a girl, and beside her,

Jerry Foster, in wordless indecision.

Behind him was the ship. Its muffled thunder came softly to his

unheeding ears. He looked at the girl steadily, thoughtfully.

Gone was all trace of her imperious dignity. The Princess Marahna was

now all woman. And Jerry, looking into her dark eyes, read plainly the

yearning and adoration in their depths. The Princess Marahna had

forgotten her deference to the god in her love for the man. The tale

was told in her flushed face, openly, unashamed.

And his gray eyes were thoughtful and tender as he gazed into hers. He

was thinking, was Jerry Foster, of many things. And he was weighing

them carefully. His hand clasped and unclasped at something safely

hidden in his pocket. He had taken it from his pack; he had wanted

something for Marahna, something she would treasure.

* * * * *

And now she was offering him herself. He could take her with him, take

her to that far-off world that she never dreamed existed. He could

show her the things of that world, its wonders and beauties. He could

train her in its ways. He would watch over her, love her.... And she

would be miserable and heartsick for the sight of this awful

desolation. He knew it--he told himself it was the truth--and he hated

himself for the telling.

The voice of Winslow aroused him. The inventor had come from his ship.

"We had better be starting," he said.

The slim figure of the girl in her robe of pure gold trembled visibly.

She knew, it was plain, the import of the words. She spoke rapidly,

beseechingly, in her own tongue. The words were liquid music in the

air. Then, realizing their impotence, she resorted to her poor

vocabulary of their own strange sounds.

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

She motioned to wait, and she called loud and clear across the silence

to her own people. There was a stir about the priests. One in the

robes and head-dress of the high priest was brought forward, led by

two others of her men. They stopped a few steps from her and bowed

low.

Again she called, and the leaders among the vast throng came, too, and

made their obeisance before her.

* * * * *

She turned then to Jerry. And now it was Marahna, Princess of the

Moon, who stood quiet and poised before him. The light, he saw, made

soft wavelets of radiance in her hair, and her eyes were still glowing

and tender. She stepped forward toward the priest.

The helmet of the sun god was upon his head. It marked him, Jerry

knew, as the master of their world. True, they had bowed in

submission to that other master, whose vile head lay horrible and

harmless on the floor of the great hall--they had believed in the

commands the priests had pretended to receive from him--but this

emblem on the helmet marked the leader of the race, the master of this

world, for these simple folk.

Marahna reached her slim hands and lifted the thing of gold. She

turned, and held it above the startled eyes of Jerry Foster, and she

placed it upon his head with all the dignity that became a queen. A

word from her, and the men before him dropped in humbleness to the

ground. The Princess Marahna was among them in honoring salutation to

their king.

Jerry was beyond speech. Not so Winslow. "It looks to me," he said

dryly, "as if you were being offered the kingdom of the earth--I mean

the moon. Think it over, Jerry--think it over."

* * * * *

And Jerry Foster thought it over, deeply and soberly. He could rule

this people, he and Marahna, rule in peace and quiet and comfort. He

could bring them knowledge and wisdom of infinite help; he could make

their new civilization a measure of advancement for a whole race. He

could teach them, train them, instruct them. And he and Marahna--there

would be children who would be princes born--could be happy--for a

time. And then ... and then he would be old. Old and lonely for his

kind, hungering and longing for his own people. As Marahna would be on

earth, so would he be here....

His decision was formed. And with it he knew he must not hurt the

heart of Marahna. She loved him, Jerry Foster, the man. He must leave

her as Jerry Foster, the god, child of the sun. He stood suddenly to

his full height, and who shall say that for a moment the man did not

approach the stature of divinity--for he was wholly kind.

He placed a hand upon the head of the kneeling girl before him. He

held her in her submissive pose, then, turning to the waiting men, he

spoke in measured tones.

"I thank you," he said, and the words came from a full heart, "but my

place is not here. I leave with you one more worthy."

Before their wondering gaze he removed the glowing circlet from his

head; he leaned to place it on the head of Marahna, humbled before

him. With strong hands he raised her to her feet. His look, so tender

yet reserved, was full of meaning. She followed his every sign.

* * * * *

He waved once toward the sun, hidden behind the distant hills: he

pointed again to Winslow and himself and to their shining ship: and

again he marked the going of the sun. His meaning was plain--these

children of the sun must return to their far-off home.

He turned now to Marahna. In his hand was the object he had taken from

his pack. It was a treasured thing, this locket of platinum on its

thin and lacy chain; it had been his mother's, and he thought of her

now as he opened the clasp to show his own face framed within the

oval. His mother--she had worn this. And she would have approved, he

knew, of its disposal.

Gravely he faced Marahna. He showed her the picture within the case,

then held it aloft where all might see. He closed it and taught her

the pressure that released the spring. Then, with gentle dignity that

made of the gesture a rite, he placed the chain about the neck of

Princess Marahna--Queen, now, of the People of the Moon. And he knew

that he gave into her keeping their only relic of a being from the

sun. It marked her beyond all future question with a symbol of

mastery. And it made of him a god.

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

It was well that Winslow's hand was there to guide him as he walked

with unseeing eyes toward the ship.

* * * * *

Time may lose at times all meaning and measure--moments become

timeless. It seemed ages to Jerry Foster when Winslow spoke in casual

tones. "I'm going straight up," he said, above the generator's roar.

"Then we'll swing around above the other side. We'll follow the

sun--make the full circle of the moon before we start."

But Jerry neither thought nor heard. His eyes were close to a window

of thick glass. Below him was a shrinking, dwindling landscape,

wind-swept and desolate.

There was a multitude of faces, turned worshipping toward the sky. On

one, who stood apart in tiny loneliness, his vision centered. He

watched and strained his aching eyes until the figure was no more.

Only the pale rose of a dying sun, and a torn, volcanic waste that

tugged strangely at his heart.

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

a couple of sun gods."

He laughed strangely as he regarded his companion.

If Winslow wondered at the weariness in the voice he made no sign. He

was busy with a rheostat that made thunderous roaring of the blast

behind their ship: that swung them in a sweeping arc through velvet

skies, away from the far side of the moon, to follow the path of the

setting sun--homeward bound.

_The Readers' Corner_

_A Meeting Place for Readers of_

Astounding Stories

[Illustration:]

"_Second Better Than First_"

Dear Editor:

The second number of Astounding Stories is better than the

first. "Spawn of the Stars," by Charles Willard Diffin, was

the best story, closely followed by "Creatures of the

Light," by Sophie Wenzel Ellis and "The Beetle Horde," by

Victor Rousseau. I like stories of vibration as in "Mad

Music," and of acceleration, as in "The Thief of Time." I am

glad to see Harl Vincent in the pages of Astounding Stories.

I have read many good stories by him. Interplanetary stories

are my favorites, and the more you have of them the better.

I wish that you would put Astounding Stories out twice a

month or put out a quarterly containing twice as much

reading material as the monthly. In this you could put one

book-length novel and a few shorter stories.

Are you going to start a department containing the readers'

letters soon?--Jack R. Darrow, 4225 N. Spaulding Avenue,

Chicago, Ill.

_Size and Paper_

Dear Editor:

I certainly am glad to see your magazine appear on the

newsstands. I also view with appreciation the fact that you

have such brilliant authors as Harl Vincent and Captain S.

P. Meek, U. S. A., on your list of contributors. Your

stories are of the very highest value in the line of Science

Fiction. However, I did not like "The Corpse on the

Grating." It did not have an inkling of scientific

background. I really am surprised it was published in a

Science Fiction magazine. Aside from the fact that the idea

of the story was merely a fantastical surmise I was very

favorably impressed with the author's style and his use of

the English language.

Why don't you try for some more of the works of the other

well-known authors in this line of fiction?

My main object in writing this letter was that I think you

rub the name of Science Fiction in the dust by printing it

on such paper and in such a small magazine. If you intend to

compete with your several contemporaries, you will almost

have to alter your size and quality of your paper.

You might include a full page Illustration for each story

also, but, you will admit, that to combat these other

influential Science Fiction magazines, you will have to put

your magazine on a par materially with the others in your

line.

I admire the type of stories which you publish and want to

see your magazine get ahead.--Warren Williams, 545

Dorchester, Chicago, Illinois.

_They Will!_

Dear Editor:

I am a monthly reader of your Astounding Stories and I am

greatly interested in them.

The best story I have so far read is "Creatures of the

Light." It is a story of Super-science indeed. If the author

of this story would write more like it, I am sure they would

be greatly appreciated.

Here is hoping that more of their kind appear in the very

near future. Yours for more good stories.--Quenton Stockman,

245 Dixon Street, Portland, Oregon.

"_Surpasses the First_"

Dear Editor:

I have just finished the February issue of your magazine. It

surpasses the first issue by far. I am glad to see that you

have eight stories in this issue. That is just enough. I

like one serial (not too long), one or two novelettes, and

five or six short stories in each issue. Tell Captain S. P.

Meek to write more adventures of Dr. Bird.

I have arranged the stories of the first two issues

according to my own liking. Excellent: "The Beetle Horde"

and "Phantoms of Reality." Good: "The Care of Horror,"

"Tanks" and "Invisible Death." Fair: "The Stolen Mind" and

"Compensation."

In the second issue: Excellent: "Creatures of the Light,"

"Old Crompton's Secret," "The Beetle Horde" and "Spawn of

the Stars." Good: "The Thief of Time" and "Mad Music." Fair:

"The Corpse on the Grating" and "Into Space."

I hope there will be more stories under "Excellent" next

month--Ward Elmore, 2012 Avenue J, Ft. Madison, Ia.

"_Only One Trouble_--"

Dear Editor:

I have just finished reading your new magazine and think

it's great. The only trouble with it is that it doesn't have

enough stories.

I liked "Phantoms of Reality," by Ray Cummings, best, and

"The Cave of Horror," by Capt. S. P. Meek, next best. "The

Beetle Horde," and "Tanks" were also good.

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

Fiction authors.

I like best interplanetary stories and stories of the

aircraft of the future. I would like to see a good

interplanetary story by R. H. Romans in this magazine pretty

soon.

Other good authors whose stories I would like to read are:

Dr. David H Keller, Dr. Miles J. Breuer, Lilith Lorraine, Ed

Earl Repp and Walter Kateley.

In your editorial you mention the fact that some day in the

future a person can disintegrate his body in New York and

reintegrate it in China. I would like to see a good story

about that by either Ray Cummings or S.P. Meek.

Something else: why not make your magazine a little bigger

and include a scientific article or two once in a while?--J.

W. Latimer, 1000 East 8th Street, National City, Calif.

"_No Horror Stories_"

Dear Editor:

I am taking this opportunity to let you know what I think of

Astounding Stories. The worst fault is the tendency to print

terror stories. Please don't do this. If I never see another

story like "The Corpse on the Grating" in your magazine it

will be too soon.

Don't print so many detective stories. Capt. Meek's splendid

stories are plenty. Please start a discussion column and put

Wesso's drawings inside the magazine, too.

Are you planning on any reprints? I would like to see some

reprints of Ray Cummings', A. Merritt's, H. G. Wells',

Garret Smith's and George A. England's stories soon.

"Phantoms of Reality," "The Beetle Horde," "The Cave of

Horror," "Into Space," "Creatures of the Light," and "Old

Crompton's Secret" were splendid.

I hope for fewer detective stories and no horror

stories.--Joe Stone, 123 20th Street, Toledo, Ohio.

_We Liked It, Too!_

Dear Editor:

Just a line to tell you that I bought my first copy of

Astounding Stories and they certainly are good, especially

"Creatures of the Light," by Sophie Wenzel Ellis. It's the

best short story I've read in ages. I hope to read more by

her in the future. Yours for success.--F. J. Michaslow,

Battery "D," Ft. Hancock, N. J.

"_Strikes a Mystic Chord_"

Dear Editor:

I think that your Astounding Story Magazine is a fine

magazine. It seems to strike a mystic cord within me and

makes me respond to it.

One thing lacking--I believe, that is--a department for

letters from your readers.

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

I wish that the author of "Into Space" would write a sequel

to his story.--Ronald Bainbridge, Rockford, Illinois.

_We're Avoiding Reprints_

Dear Editor:

I am writing again about Astounding Stories. It seems more

people are interested in science to-day than ever before,

and an easy and interesting way to gain this knowledge is

through reading an entertaining science story.

Regarding stories in your February issue, will list them

according to my likes and dislikes. "Into Space" and "Mad

Music" contained science maybe not impossible in the future.

"Spawn of the Stars," "The Beetle Horde," "Creatures of the

Light," "The Thief of Time" and "Old Compton's Secret" were

very interesting science, and good reading, but "The Corpse

on the Grating" did not appeal to me.

I like interplanetary stories and stories of what might be

on other planets.

I notice some familiar names among your authors. Why not

print some (not too many) stories from H. G. Wells, E. R.

Burroughs and Jules Verne? Some of their stories which were

considered just wild dreams of the author at the time of

writing have actually become a reality, as, for instance,

the submarine. If you keep on as you started or improve I

can see only success--C. E. Anderson, 3504 Colfax Avenue

South, Minneapolis, Minn.

_A Few Favorites_

Dear Editor:

I am an electrical engineer. I read the last two issues of

your magazine. I liked it very much. It is thrilling and

very well edited. I will buy it regularly.

I liked "Invisible Death" best. "The Beetle Horde" was good,

"Phantoms of Reality," good. "Into Space" and "Mad Music,"

very good. "Creatures of the Light," "Old Crompton's Secret"

and "Spawn of the Stars," good.--Adolph Wasserrogel, Gedden

Terrace, Waterbury, Conn.

"_Going Some!_"

Dear Editor:

I purchased one of your magazines when I first saw them. I

always had a liking for Super-science stories, but your

magazine was the best I ever got hold of. Thought I could

never wait until the next issue to finish "The Beetle

Horde." I believe "The Cave of Horror" was the best story in

that issue. It really seemed as if it could be true.

Due respect must be paid the author of "The Corpse on the

Grating," for it was exciting and fantastic. "Phantoms of

Reality" was good.

All the stories in the second magazine seemed as good as the

best of the first number, and that's going some.

May you succeed in getting the same good and better stories

as you have in the first two issues of a magazine that I am

sure will grow to fame.--Harold Rakestraw, Box 25, Winthop,

Wash.

_We Intend To_

Dear Editor:

Having read the first two issues of your new magazine, I

find it has a larger variety of stories than any of the

other Science Fiction magazines now found on the newsstands.

Why not keep it that way? It will be unique.

Mr. Wessolowski, your artist, is great. He is one who can

draw when it comes to a good scientific background.

I consider "Tanks" your best story as yet, with "Spawn of

the Stars" close second. "Invisible Death," "Creatures of

the Light" and "Mad Music" were also good. Try to give us

some stories by Edgar Rice Burroughs and A. Merritt. Did not

think much of "The Beetle Horde"--too many like it--Ted

Shatkowski, 812 Hoffman St., Hammond, Ind.

_Some Good Suggestions_

Dear Editor:

I received the pleasure of purchasing a copy of Astounding

Stories the other day, the first copy I have seen. I have

not yet read it, but I am unable to wait that long to inform

you of my great joy in greeting a new magazine of this type.

I am a reader of other magazines similar to A. S., Stories

of Harl Vincent, Capt. S. P. Meek, Murray Leinster, and

others appear in these magazines, also, so I am familiar

with your authors.

But you have asked me what sort of stories I'd like to see

in A. S., so here goes. First of all, I would earnestly beg

you not to print such stories as those that deal with

ghosts, etc., because in my opinion there are far too many

good stories available to cast them aside for trash.

The type of story I prefer is the kind that is fanciful, odd

and interesting. Some tales deal with a new invention of

some sort, but contain no action or plot. However, I fail to

see any like that in the present A. S., unless it's "Mad

Music."

A few utterly impossible stories are so interestingly told

that it is worth while to publish them. Some examples are

stories by A. Merritt (whose stories are the most

fascinating I have ever read). H. P. Lovecraft (master of

the bizarre and the grotesque) and G. A. England.

My letter seems to be mostly composed of suggestions, but

that is only because I am interested in anything pertaining

to stories of imagination, or Science Fiction, as it is

called. However, Astounding Stories seems to be very

satisfying to me. I am glad that you have Wessolowski on

your artist's staff. I hope that you will have a story

contest some time in the future, as they are very

interesting, and often uncover hitherto unknown talent in

the contestants.

I sincerely wish you the utmost of success in Astounding

Stories and hope that it will live a long, enduring life.

I hope, as time goes on, you will favor us with more

illustrations, for this type of story needs a large amount

of drawings so that the readers won't overwork their

imaginations.

Astounding Stories seems to be very shy, for I heard of it

from a friend and got the February, 1930 issue only after an

exhaustive search. The place where I got it appears to be

about the only one in town selling it. I hope more stores

will handle your great magazine. (I didn't intend the words

"great magazine" to be sarcastic. I really think it's

great!)

I hope you will have a department in which the readers may

discuss the merits or lacks of stories published. Or at

least print excerpts now and then.

Enclosed find twenty cents in stamps for which please send

me the first issue.--A. W. Bernal, 1374 E. 32 Street,

Oakland, Calif.

"_Stories I Like Best_--"

Dear Editor:

The stories I like best in your Astounding Stories of

Super-science were "The Beetle Horde" by Victor Rousseau,

"The Cave of Horror," by Capt. S. P. Meek, "Compensation,"

by C. V. Tench, "Invisible Death," by Anthony Pelcher. I

have just bought your second copy of Astounding Stories. I

like the book very much, and expect to buy it every

month--Issac Dworkowits, 1262 Valentine Avenue, Bronx, N. Y.

"_Just What Is Needed_"

Dear Editor:

I have read the first two copies of your new magazine and I

would like to make a few comments and criticisms. This

magazine is very popular in my community and is just what is

needed to instill scientific interest in the mind of the

general public. Science Fiction will arouse more interest

and will be read by more people than any amount of dry

science and cold facts. Since you would like to have a

reader's opinion, I will say that "The Beetle Horde" is the

best story that I have read in a long time and was based on

the most excellent science; "The Thief of Time" was good;

try to get some more stories by Capt. S. P. Meek; one in

every copy would not be too many. I could not get all "het

up" over "Spawn of the Stars," it was a little vague; I do

not think the author had a very distinct idea about the

nature of the invaders.

The stories do not have to stick to cold science, but should

not violate an established fact without a reasonable

explanation, as this might cause a mistaken idea in the

minds of the readers. A few good authors are: Dr. Keller, A

Hyatt Verrill, Walter Kately and R. H. Romans.--Wayne Bray,

Campbell, Missouri.

"_Literature That Typifies New Age_"

Dear Editor:

As a member of an organization whose existence was founded

through the medium of Science Fiction, I have watched your

magazine closely, and here are the results:

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

A popular edition of these stories with the name of a great

publishing house behind it.

The authors you have acquired are supreme in this field. Ray

Cummings and Captain Meek need no introduction. And Harl

Vincent is a notable addition whose stories of "Indefinite

Extension" and interplanetary travel are well known to

Science Fiction fans.

Science Fiction, first introduced by Verne, Poe, Wells,

Haggard and other old masters in this line, is a type of

literature that typifies the new age to come--the age of

science. And, in conclusion, may I say that the Science

Correspondence Club extends to your new and most acceptable

publication heartiest wishes for continued and increasing

success. I subscribe myself to the advancement of science

and Science Fiction.--Walter P. Dennis, F. P. S., 4653

Addison Street, Chicago, Ill.

"_Keep Up the Good Work_"

Dear Editor:

I have just completed the perusal of the first issue of

Astounding Stories and am immensely pleased. I am a high

school senior, and though have only a rudimentary knowledge

of science, the subject impresses me and I am eager to gain

new facts and food for thought.

I compliment you on securing the services of such writers of

scientifiction as Ray Cummings, Harl Vincent, and R. F.

Starzl. They are good! Ray Cummings' impressive style, his

vivid imagination, and his knowledge of his subject seem to

me invincible. His stories are always welcome.

Now, concerning the services of other writers of Science

Fiction, I think the majority of the readers would be well

pleased with the following list: Edgar Rice Burroughs, A.

Hyatt Verrill, H.G. Wells, David H. Keller, Otis Adelbert

Kline and Stanton Coblentz. The above mentioned, I am sure,

would greatly please your readers. I believe it would

greatly improve the circulation of your magazine to try to

secure the services of such writers (especially E. R.

Burroughs).

I am greatly interested in the future of your magazine and

wish it every bit of luck in the world. You have made an

astounding start. Keep up the good work.--A. G. Jaweett,

Jr., 132 Murdock Avenue, Asheville, N.C.

"_The Readers' Corner_"

All Readers are extended a sincere and cordial invitation to "come

over in 'The Readers' Corner'" and join in our monthly discussion of

stories, authors, scientific principles and possibilities--everything

that's of common interest in connection with our Astounding Stories.

Although from time to time the Editor may make a comment or so, this

is a department primarily for _Readers_, and we want you to make full

use of it. Likes, dislikes, criticisms, explanations, roses,

brickbats, suggestions--everything's welcome here; so "come over in

'The Readers' Corner'" and discuss it with all of us!

--_The Editor._