Under the Moons of Mars: A History and Anthology of the Scientific Romance in the Munsey Magazines, 1912-1920

by Sam Moskowitz (ed. )

  "Clothes, too," the girl suggested. "Plain cotton cloth is worth ten million dollars an inch now."

  "Right," answered Stern, gazing about him with wonder. "And I offer a bushel of diamonds for a razor and a pair of scissors." Grimly he smiled as he stroked his enormous beard.

  "But come, this won't do. There'll be plenty of time to look around and discuss things in the morning. Let's get busy!"

  Thus began their search for a few prime necessities of life, there in that charnel-house of civilization, by the dull reflections of the firelight and the pallid torch glow.

  Though they forced their way into ten or twelve of the arcade shops, they found no clothing, no blankets or fabric of any kind that would serve to cover them or to sleep upon. Everything at all in the nature of cloth had either sunk back into moldering annihilation or had at best grown far too fragile to be of the slightest service.

  They found, however, a furrier's shop, and this they entered eagerly.

  A few warped fragments of skins still hung from rusted metal hooks, moth-eaten, riddled with holes, ready to crumble at the merest touch.

  "There's nothing in any of these to help us," judged Stern. "But maybe we might find something else in here."

  Carefully they searched the littered place, all dust and horrible disarray, which made sad mockery of the gold-leaf sign still visible on the window: "Adele, Importer. All the Latest Novelties."

  On the floor Stern discovered three more of those little dust-middens which meant human bodies. Pitiful remnants of an extinct race, of unknown people in the long ago. What had he now in common with them? The remains did not even inspire repugnance in him.

  All at once Beatrice uttered a cry of startled gladness.

  "Look here! A storage chest!"

  True enough, there stood a cedar box, all seamed and cracked and bulging, yet still retaining a semblance of its original shape.

  The copper bindings and the lock were still quite plainly to be seen, as the engineer held the torch close, though green and corroded with incredible age.

  One effort of Stern's powerful arms sufficed to tip the chest quite over.

  As it fell it burst, and disintegrated into a mass of pulverized, worm-eaten splinters.

  Out rolled furs, many and many of them, black, and yellow, and striped —the pelts of the grizzly, of the leopard, the cheetah, the royal bengal himself.

  "Hurray!" shouted the man, catching up first one, then another, and still a third. "Almost intact. A little imperfection here and there doesn't matter. Now we've got clothes and a bed—beds, I mean.

  "What's that? Yes, maybe they are a trifle warm for this season of the year, but this is no time to be particular. See, how do you like that?"

  As he spoke, he flung the tiger-skin over the girl's shoulders.

  "Magnificent!" he judged, standing back a pace or two and holding up the torch to see her better. "When I find you a big gold pin or clasp to fasten that at the throat, you'll make a picture of another and more splendid Boadicea!"

  He tried to laugh at his own words, but merriment seemed out of place there, and with such a subject. For the woman, clad this way, had suddenly assumed a wild, barbaric beauty.

  Bright gleamed her gray eyes by the light of the flambeau; limpid, and deep, and earnest, they looked at Stern. Her wonderful hair, shaken out in bewildering masses over the striped, tawny savagery of the robe, made colorful contrasts, barbarous, seductive.

  Half hidden, the woman's perfect body, beautiful as that of a wood-nymph or a pagan dryad, roused atavistic passions in the engineer.

  He dared speak no other word for the moment, but bent beside the shattered chest again and fell to looking over all the furs.

  A polar-bear skin attracted his attention and this he chose. Then, with it slung across his shoulder, he stood up.

  "Come," said he, steadying his voice with an effort, "come, we must be going now. Our light won't hold out very much longer. We've got to find food and drink before the alcohol's all gone; got to look out for practical affairs, whatever happens. Well, let's be going."

  Fortune favored them.

  In the wreck of a small fancy grocer's booth down toward the end of the arcade, they came upon a stock of goods in glass jars.

  All the tinned foods had long since perished, but the impermeable glass seemed to have preserved fruits and vegetables of the finer sort, and chipped beef and the like, in a state of perfect soundness.

  Best of all, they discovered the remains of a case of mineral water. The case had crumbled to dust, but fourteen bottles of water were still intact.

  "Pile three or four of these into my fur robe here," directed Stern.

  "No, a few of the other jars—that's right. Tomorrow we'll come down and clean up the whole stock. But we've got enough for now.

  "We'd best be getting back up the stairs again," said he. And so they started.

  "Are you going to leave that fire burning?" asked the girl, as they passed the middle of the arcade.

  "Yes. It can't do any harm. Nothing to catch here; only old metal and cement. Besides, it would take too much time and labor to put it out."

  They abandoned the gruesome place and began the long, exhausting climb.

  It must have taken them an hour and a half at least to reach their aerie. They found their strength taxed to the utmost.

  Before they were much more than halfway up, the ultimate drop of alcohol had been burned.

  The last few hundred feet had to be made by slow, laborious feeling, aided only by such dim reflections of the gibbous moon as glimmered through a window, cobweb-hung, or through some break in the walls.

  At length, however—for all things have an end—breathless and spent, they found their refuge. And soon after that, clad in their savage robes, they ate.

  Allan Stern, consulting engineer, and Beatrice Kendrick, stenographer, now king and queen of the whole wide world domain (as they feared) sat together by a little blaze of punky wood fragments that flickered on the eroded floor.

  They ate with their fingers and drank out of the bottles, without apology. Strange were their speculations, their wonderings, their plans—now discussed specifically, now half-voiced by a mere word that thrilled them both with sudden, poignant emotion.

  And so an hour passed, and night deepened toward the birth of another day. The fire burned low and died, for they had little to replenish it with.

  Down sank the moon, her pale light dimming as she went, her faint illumination wanly creeping across the disordered, wrack-strewn floor.

  And at length Stern, in the outer office, Beatrice in the other, they wrapped themselves within their furs and laid them down to sleep.

  Despite the age-long trance from which they both had but so recently emerged, a strange lassitude weighed on them.

  Yet long after Beatrice had lost herself in dreams, Stern lay and thought strange thoughts, yearning and eager thoughts, there in the impenetrable gloom.

  All-Story Weekly

  December 18, 1915-January 1, 1916

  ".".".*.w.w.v.

  POLARIS OF THE SNOWS

  by Charles B. Stilson

  Charles Billings Stilson was one of the earliest and most effective imitators of Edgar Rice Burroughs. Polaris of the Snows and its two sequels established his reputation, and he returned to the writing of science fiction and fantasy often, though he found a ready market for westerns and other types of fiction.

  He was an ingenious storyteller but only an average stylist. Nevertheless, some of his stories would gain a good reception if reprinted today. A Man Named Jones (ALL-STORY WEEKLY, October 25, 1919 to November 22, 1919), of a whacky set of characters in search of an emerald mine, and its sequel, Land of the Shadow People (ALL-STORY WEEKLY, June 26, 1920 to ARGOSY-ALL-STORY WEEKLY, July 24, 1920), of the race of Indians whose coloring changes chameleonlike with their surroundings, are outstanding entertainment.

  He was as facile at the short story as the novel. Yedra of the Painted Desert (ALL
-STORY WEEKLY, May 10, 1919), perhaps his most literary work, tells with beauty and poignancy the experience of a man lost in the desert who finds an idyllic oasis inhabited by a beautiful girl who has never seen civilization; Dr. Martone's Microscope (ALL-STORY WEEKLY, March 27, 1920) mentions in its context that it was inspired by Ray Cummings' The Girl in the Golden Atom; perhaps his most famous short story, The Sky Woman (ARGOSY ALL-STORY WEEKLY, September 25, 1920), features a woman who has traveled to earth from another planet.

  During his writing career, he had published a number of hardcover books from the pages of the Munsey magazines: Black Wolf of Picardy as The Ace of Blades; Son of the Black Wolf as Swordplay; and The Centaur of Navarre as Cavalier of Navarre; fine adventures of old France, but none of his fantasy novels achieved this distinction.

  He never was among Munsey's higher-paid authors, despite his popularity with the readers. He received four-hundred dollars for the 59,000 words of Polaris of the Snows; four-hundred dollars for its sequel, Minos of Sardanes, which was of comparable length; and seven-hundred dollars for Polaris and the Goddess Glorian, an 84,000-worder. At his best he never was paid more than two cents a word. Yet of all Burroughs imitators, he was the most effective, probably because he was fundamentally a storyteller. The efficacy of his method may be sampled in the opening chapters of Polaris of the Snows, where the hero kills polar bears with little more than his muscles and a knife, discovers a stranded American girl in the antarctic, and eventually casts his lot with a lost civilization in the ice wilderness. The episodes presented offer the authentic feel of the setting and situation of the novel, which inspired two highly popular sequels.

  "NORTH! NORTH! To the north, Polaris. Tell the world—ah, tell them —boy—The north! The north! You must go, Polaris!"

  Throwing the covers from his low couch, the old man arose and stood, a giant, tottering figure. Higher and higher he towered. He tossed his arms high, his features became convulsed; his eyes glazed. In his throat the rising tide of dissolution choked his voice to a hoarse rattle. He swayed.

  With a last desperate rallying of his failing powers he extended his right arm and pointed to the north. Then he fell, as a tree falls, quivered, and was still.

  His companion bent over the pallet, and with light, sure fingers closed his eyes. In all the world he knew, Polaris never had seen a human being die. In all the world he now was utterly alone!

  He sat down at the foot of the cot, and for many minutes gazed steadily at the wall with fixed, unseeing eyes. A sputtering little lamp, which stood on a table in the center of the room, flickered and went out. The flames of the fireplace played strange tricks in the strange room. In their uncertain glare, the features of the dead man seemed to writhe uncannily.

  Garments and hangings of the skins of beasts stirred in the wavering shadows, as though the ghosts of their one-time tenants were struggling to reassert their dominion. At the one door and the lone window the wind whispered, fretted, and shrieked. Snow as fine and hard as the sands of the sea rasped across the panes. Somewhere without a dog howled—the long, throaty ululation of the wolf breed. Another joined in, and another, until a full score of canine voices wailed a weird requiem.

  Unheeding, the living man sat as still as the dead.

  Once, twice, thrice, a little clock struck a halting, uncertain stroke. When the fourth hour was passed it rattled crazily and stopped. The fire died away to embers; the embers paled to ashes. As though they were aware that something had gone awry, the dogs never ceased their baying. The wind rose higher and higher, and assailed the house with repeated shocks. Pale-gray and changeless day that lay across a sea of snows peered furtively through the windows.

  At length the watcher relaxed his silent vigil. He arose, cast off his coat of white furs, stepped to the wall of the room opposite to the door, and shoved back a heavy wooden panel. A dark aperture was disclosed. He disappeared and came forth presently, carrying several large chunks of what appeared to be crumbling black rock.

  He threw them on the dying fire, where they snapped briskly, caught fire, and flamed brightly. They were coal.

  From a platform above the fireplace he dragged down a portion of the skinned carcass of a walrus. With the long, heavy-bladed knife from his belt he cut it into strips. Laden with the meat, he opened the door and went out into the dim day.

  The house was set against the side of a cliff of solid, black, lusterless coal. A compact stockade of great boulders enclosed the front of the dwelling. From the back of the building, along the base of the cliff, ran a low shed of timber slabs, from which sounded the howling and worrying of the dogs.

  As Polaris entered the stockade the clamor was redoubled. The rude plank at the front of the shed, which was its door, was shaken repeatedly as heavy bodies were hurled against it.

  Kicking an accumulation of loose snow away from the door, the man took from its racks the bar which made it fast and let it drop forward. A reek of steam floated from its opening. A shaggy head was thrust forth, followed immediately by a great, gray body, which shot out as if propelled from a catapult.

  Catching in its jaws the strip of flesh which the man dangled in front of the doorway, the brute dashed across the stockade and crouched against the wall, tearing at the meat. Dog after dog piled pell-mell through the doorway, until at least twenty-five grizzled animals were distributed about the enclosure, bolting their meal of walrus-flesh.

  For a few moments the man sat on the roof of the shed and watched the animals. Although the raw flesh stiffened in the frigid air before even the jaws of the dogs could devour it and the wind cut like the lash of a whip, the man, coatless and with head and arms bared, seemed to mind neither the cold nor the blast.

  He had not the ruggedness of figure or the great height of the man who lay dead within the house. He was of considerably more than medium height, but so broad of shoulder and deep of chest that he seemed short. Every line of his compact figure bespoke unusual strength— the wiry, swift strength of an animal.

  His arms, white and shapely, rippled with muscles at the least movement of his fingers. His hand were small, but powerfully shaped. His neck was straight and not long. The thews spread from it to his wide shoulders like those of a splendid athlete. The ears were set close above the angle of a firm jaw, and were nearly hidden in a mass of tawny, yellow hair, as fine as a woman's, which swept over his shoulders.

  Above a square chin were full lips and a thin, aquiline nose. Deep, brown eyes, fringed with black lashes, made a marked contrast with the fairness of his complexion and his yellow hair and brows. He was not more than twenty-four years old.

  Presently he re-entered the house. The dogs flocked after him to the door, whining and rubbing against his legs, but he allowed none of them to enter with him. He stood before the dead man and, for the first time in many hours, he spoke:

  "For this day, my father, you have waited many years. I shall not delay. I will not fail you."

  From a skin sack he filled the small lamp with oil and lighted its wick with a splinter of blazing coal. He set it where its feeble light shone on the face of the dead. Lifting the corpse, he composed its limbs and wrapped it in the great white pelt of a polar bear, tying it with many thongs. Before he hid from view the quiet features he stood back with folded arms and bowed head.

  "I think he would have wished this," he whispered, and he sang softly that grand old hymn which has sped so many Christian soldiers from their battlefield. "Nearer, My God, to Thee," he sang in a subdued, melodious baritone. From a shelf of books which hung on the wall he reached a leather-covered volume. "It was his religion," he muttered: "It may be mine," and he read from the book: "/ am the resurrection and the Life, whoso believeth in Me, even though he died —" and on through the sonorous burial service.

  He dropped the book within the folds of the bearskin, covered the dead face, and made fast the robe. Although the body was of great weight, he shouldered it without apparent effort, took the lamp in one hand, and passed thro
ugh the panel in the wall.

  Within the bowels of the cliff a large cavern had been hollowed in the coal. In a far corner a gray boulder had been hewn into the shape of a tombstone. On its face were carved side by side two words: "Anne" and

  "Stephen." At the foot of the stone were a mound and an open grave. He laid the body in the grave and covered it with earth and loose coal.

  Again he paused, while the lamplight shone on the tomb.

  "May you rest in peace, O Anne, my mother, and Stephen, my father. I never knew you, my mother, and, my father, I knew not who you were nor who I am. I go to carry your message."

  He rolled boulders onto the two mounds. The opening to the cave he walled up with other boulders, piling a heap of them and of large pieces of coal until it filled the low arch of the entrance.

  In the cabin he made preparations for a journey.

  One by one he threw on the fire books and other articles within the room, until little was left but skins and garments of fur and an assortment of barbaric weapons of the chase.

  Last he dragged from under the cot a long, oaken chest.

  Failing to find its key, he tore the lid from it with his strong hands.

  Some articles of feminine wearing apparel which were within it he handled reverently, and at the same time curiously; for they were of cloth. Wonderingly he ran his fingers over silk and fine laces. Those he also burned.

  From the bottom of the chest he took a short, brown rifle and a brace of heavy revolvers of a pattern and caliber famous in the annals of the plainsmen. With them were belt and holsters.

  He counted the cartridges in the belt. Forty there were, and in the chambers of the revolvers and the magazine of the rifle, eighteen more. Fifty-eight shots with which to meet the perils that lay between himself and that world of men to the north—if, indeed, the passing years had not spoiled the ammunition.

  He divested himself of his clothing, bathed with melted snow-water, and dressed himself anew in white furs. An omelet of eggs of wild birds and a cutlet of walrus-flesh sufficed to stay his hunger, and he was ready to face the unknown.