From Mars they had come, these vanguards
of a ruthless horde that would conquer
Earth—if they could steal the weapon
of Joe Carson's fertile mind.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Spring 1945.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Joe Carson grinned broadly and again reread his letter to the editorof Galactic Adventures. Galactic Adventures was Joe's favoritescience-fiction magazine and he had spent many happy hours roaming thecold of space and inventing ponderous machines through the medium ofits pages.
The latest issue lay open on the desk before him, its garish covermercifully hidden from view. The cover was Joe's main reason forwriting his missive, although he had several minor motives, not theleast of them being his desire to see his name in print. The book wasopened to the readers' section, which contained various vituperativegripes, complaints and kicks in the pants for the editor, intermingledwith gushy, complimentary notes that praised the magazine to highheaven. Boy! That one from Henry Snade (The Obscure Organism) was alulu. It told the editor, in no uncertain terms, where to go and gavehalf a page of reasons why he should never return.
Joe had all but bashed his brains out trying to pen a letter half asentertaining as the one from Snade and now his eyes flickered withappreciation as he scanned the product of his efforts.
Ye Humble Ed:
Once again the keeper has negligently left my door unlatched and Islyly crawl from my cage, drawn by one, irrevocable purpose. Glancinghither and yon, to make sure I am unobserved, I dash to the fence andclear it with a prodigious leap that carries me half way to the cornerdrugstore.
Snatching a tricycle from a gawping kid, I push his face in the mudand pedal furiously the remaining distance to the store. Leaping off,I rush in and batter my way through the screaming throng, shoutingimprecations at all who stand in my way.
Panting with exhaustion, I at last reach my goal and clutch it to mybreast. The crowd surges forward and frantic hands grab at the prize.
"It's mine! All mine!" I shout in their faces. "No one can take itfrom me!"
Galloping madly from the store I race swiftly across yards and upalleys, quickly losing the howling mob in the distance. Squattingunder a street-lamp, I sneak a triumphant look at the treasure. Whatis it? Yep, you guessed it—Galactic Adventures!
But—shades of Major Mars!—what is that horrible monstrosity on thecover? A BEM, no less ... an abominable, wretched BEM. Why, oh why,can't we have at least one different cover painting? Wesley is nogood. Get Marlini or Sidney to do the covers. I don't mind a BEM nowand then, but a steady diet of them soon palls on the palate. (Hehheh.) All joking aside, your covers are terrific.
Now we come to the task of rating the stories. Only one stands outin my mind as being of excellent quality. I refer to Arthur M. Ron'ssuper-epic, The Infinite Finite. The other stories paled intoinsignificance in comparison to this classic. More power to Ron!Percival's Puissant Pulveriser and Nothing Is Something followRon's story in that order. The rest are not worth mentioning.
The interior illustrations are somewhat better than the cover,although, for the most part, they are inaccurate and do not followthe themes of the stories. Ye gods! Can't your artists read? So muchfor the art, which wasn't so much.
Say! What does that jerk, The Amphibious Android, mean by callingme a "mere child"? His assertion t