THE
WORLDS
OF
EDMOND HAMILTON
5 CLASSIC NOVELS
Edmond Hamilton
Flyboy707 eBooks
Flyboy707 eBooks
No copyright 2011 by Flyboy707
No rights reserved. Any part of this book may be reproduced in any form and by any means without the prior written consent of anyone.
About the Author
THE CITY AT WORLD'S END
Chapter I
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
THE STARS, MY BROTHERS
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
THE LEGION OF LAZARUS
PRELUDE
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
WORLD WITH A THOUSAND MOONS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
THE THREE PLANETEERS
PRELUDE
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XIX
CHAPTER XX
CHAPTER XXI
CHAPTER XXII
EPILOGUE
About this eBook
About the Author
In the history of science fiction, there are very few authors who were able to make the transition from the early days of pseudo-science into the harsh reality of the post-nuclear world. Of those who made the transition, still fewer were able to adapt to the changing moods of the Cold War or the social upheavals of the 60s. But, there were a very few authors who managed to write stories and novels throughout it all: from the time of the Space Opera through the first landing on the moon and beyond.
One of these authors was Edmond Hamilton.
Edmond Hamilton was born in 1904 in Youngstown, Ohio. A child prodigy, he completed high school and entered into college at the age of 14 with the dream of becoming an electrical engineer. Unfortunately, the age discrepancy between Hamilton and the other students made it very difficult for him to adapt socially to his new surroundings and he never completed his degree. He flunked out during his third year and took a job with the Pennsylvania Railroad while he tried to figure out what to do with the rest of his life.
Hamilton had always been a voracious reader, particularly of the works of A. Merritt and Burroughs. Although he had never shown any inclination towards writing before, he decided in the mid-20s to be an author. Whether this decision was just an intellectual exercise or was born out of necessity is not known, but his first attempt, the short story "The Monster-God of Mamurth”, was submitted to Weird Tales and published in 1926. A second story was accepted with equal ease. Within a very short time, Hamilton was an established author, writing both atmospheric horror stories and science fiction stories in the space opera style of E. E. "Doc" Smith for a variety of outlets.
The early science fiction stories also gained Hamilton the nickname of "World Wrecker" since most of these tales involved a major menace to the galaxy that had to be defeated, usually, by a space armada and the destruction of a planet or two.
From the 20s to the mid-40s, Hamilton worked solely as a freelance author and was very prolific, often writing several short stories simultaneously while working on a novel-length serial. He also dabbled in some mystery and detective fiction during slow periods for the sale of science fiction. Some estimates suggest that his short story output alone may have numbered in the hundreds, but, because some of Hamilton's work was published under pseudonyms as well as his own name, the true number of stories may never be known. He also established a number of firsts during this extremely fertile period, including the first use of a space suit in science fiction, the first space walk and the first use of an energy sword, the prototype for what George Lucas, a Hamilton fan, would later dub a light saber. He also found time to travel during this period and visited much of the US and parts of Mexico, often in the company of his friend, author Jack Williamson.
In 1946, Hamilton's output slowed and with good reason. First, he married author Leigh Brackett and they began to restore a 130 year old house in Kinsman, Ohio, which became their primary home for many years. Secondly, Hamilton embarked on a secondary career as a comic book writer.
Exactly how Hamilton entered into comic book writing is a bit of a mystery. The long accepted sequence of events (a chronology substantiated in later years by Hamilton) is that he was contacted by his old friend, and former editor, Mort Weisinger in 1946. Weisinger, had been the senior editor for Standard Magazines prior to moving to DC Comics in 1941, just after he and Hamilton had created the pulp character, Captain Future. Back from a stint in the military, Weisinger was looking up many of the writers he had worked with in the pulps to offer them jobs writing comic books for DC. Research, however, would suggest differently.
The Grand Comic Book Database website shows a credit for Hamilton as early as 1942 at DC with a story in Batman #11. In and of itself, this not a great stretch, since Weisinger entered the military in late 1942 or early 1943. One could assume that this might have been a tryout of some sort on Hamilton's part and Weisinger was the editor of Batman at this point. Of even greater interest are the writing credits for some Black Terror stories in America's Best Comics in 1945. Again, this would also be a fairly logical connection, since Black Terror was published by Standard and even without Weisinger, Hamilton would most likely have had some connections within the company. Exactly how these earlier stories have been left out of most chronologies is not known and why Hamilton chose not to mention them is yet another enigma. What is known, however, is that the pulp market was slowing, Weisinger was looking for writers, Hamilton was interested and, at some point in the mid-40s, he began his second career as a comic book writer.
Writing for comic books presented a new venue for Hamilton. Comics paid better than pulps in the post-war years and he could do as many, or as few, as he wanted, even to the point where he could put his comic writing on hold to work on a novel or short story. Hamilton was also allowed to mail his scripts to DC, which meant trips to New York were unnecessary. Originally hired as a writer for Batman, Hamilton was soon doing Superman and the Batman/Superman stories in World's Finest, as well. In addition, Julius Schwartz, Hamilton's former literary agent, was a DC editor and he started to send assignments to Hamilton for his stable of science fiction comics. Over the next 20 years, Hamilton proved himself to be prolific as ever, creating some
fondly remembered stories for a number of DC characters, including a long run in the 60s on the "Tales of the Legion of Super-Heroes" series in Adventure Comics. Along with his comic book writing, Hamilton also traveled for pleasure, made trips to Hollywood (as part of his wife's screenwriting career) and still found time to turn out out novels and short stories on a fairly regular basis, but by no means as quickly as he had in the previous twenty years.
Later, in the 1960s, he would return to his roots for a series of novels and stories that combined the vivid interstellar settings of his early work with the more thoughtful perceptions and the moody, poetic style he had developed as he matured. These include The City at World's End (1957), The Star of Life (1959), and The Haunted Stars (1961).
What Hamilton did best, according to Donald Tuck's Encyclopedia of Science Fiction and Fantasy, “involved the creation and popularization of the classic early space operas presenting galaxy-spanning conflicts between humans and other races, piratical or merely monstrous, which in turn, did much to define the field's sense of wonder...” That Hamilton did all this without ever losing the human scale and the human touch, is a tribute to his genius. All this evident in such a thundering adventure as The Three Planeteers, Hamilton's version of The Three Musketeers, his D'Artagnan, fittingly for a man married to a tomboy who grew up to be a celebrated writer of tough-guy fiction, is a woman!
By 1966, Hamilton decided it was time to think about retirement, so he resigned his position at DC. He and Leigh divided their time between the restored house in Kinsman and their second home in Lancaster, California, where they spent the winters. They also spent a great deal of time traveling to various destinations around the world. Hamilton still found time to write the occasional short story during the 1960s. Unfortunately, his health became increasingly frail and by the early to mid-70s, he was under fairly constant medical care and not allowed to travel very far from either home.
Eventually he passed away in 1977.
Flyboy707
September, 2011
The City at World's End
(1951)
Chapter I
cataclysm
Kenniston realized afterward that it was like death. You knew you were going to die someday, but you didn't believe it. He had known that there was danger of the long-dreaded atomic war beginning with a sneak punch, but he hadn't really believed it.
Not until that June morning when the missile came down on Middletown. And then there was no time for realization. You don't hear or see a thing that comes faster than sound. One moment, he was striding down Mill Street toward the plant, getting ready to speak to the policeman coming toward him. The next moment, the sky split open.
It split wide open, and above the whole town there was a burn and blaze of light so swift, so violent, that it seemed the air itself had burst into instantaneous flame. In that fraction of a second, as the sky flared and the ground heaved wildly under his feet, Kenniston knew that the surprise attack had come, and that the first of the long-feared super-atomic bombs had exploded overhead....
Shock, thought Kenniston, as his mouth crushed against the grimy sidewalk. The shock that keeps a dying man from feeling pain. He lay there, waiting for the ultimate destruction, and the first eye-blinding flare across the heavens faded and the shuddering world grew still. It was over, as quickly as that.
He ought to be dead. He thought it very probable that he was dying right now, which would explain the fading light and the ominous quiet. But in spite of that he raised his head, and then scrambled shakily to his feet, gasping over his own wild heartbeats, fighting an animal urge to run for the mere sake of running. He looked down Mill Street. He expected to see pulverized buildings, smoking craters, fire and steam and devastation. But what he saw was more stunning than that, and in a strange way, more awful.
He saw Middletown lying unchanged and peaceful in the sunlight.
The policeman he had been going to speak to was still there ahead of him. He was getting up slowly from his hands and knees, where the quake had thrown him. His mouth hung open and his cap had fallen off. His eyes were very wide and dazed and frightened. Beyond him was an old woman with a shawl over her head. She, too, had been there before. She was clinging now to a wall, the sack of groceries she had carried split open around her feet, spilling onions and cans of soup across the walk. Cars and street-cars were still moving along the street in the distance, beginning erratically to jerk to a halt. Apart from these small things, nothing was different, nothing at all.
The policeman came up to Kenniston. He looked like a young, efficient officer. Or he would have, if his face had not gone so slack and his eyes so stunned. He asked hoarsely:
"What happened?"
Kenniston answered, and the words sounded queer and improbable as he said them. "We've been hit by a bomb-- a super-atomic."
The policeman stared at him. "Are you crazy?"
"Yes," said Kenniston, "I think maybe I am. I think that's the only explanation."
His brain had begun to pound. The air felt suddenly cold and strange. The sunshine was duskier and redder and did not warm him now. The woman in the shawl was crying. Presently, still weeping, she got painfully down upon her thick old knees and Kenniston thought she was going to pray, but instead she began to gather up her onions, fumbling with them as a child does, trying to fit them into the broken paper bag.
"Look," said the policeman, "I've read stuff about those super-atomic bombs, in the papers. It said they were thousands of times more powerful than the atom-bombs they used to have. If one of them hit any place there wouldn't be anything left of it." His voice was getting stronger. He was convincing himself. "So no super-atomic bomb could have hit us. It couldn't have been that."
"You saw that terrific flash in the sky, didn't you?" said Kenniston.
"Sure I did, but--" And then the policeman's face cleared. "Say, it was a fizzle. That's what it was. This super-atomic bomb they've been scaring the world with-- it turned out to be just a fizzle." He laughed noisily, in vast relief. "Isn't that rich? They tell for years what terrible things it's going to do, and then it just makes a big fizz and flash like a bad Fourth of July firecracker!"
It could be true, Kenniston thought with a wild surge of hope. It could be true.
And then he looked up and saw the Sun.
"It was maybe a bluff, all the time," the policeman's voice rattled on. "They maybe didn't really have any super-atomic bomb at all."
Kenniston, without lowering his gaze, spoke in a dry whisper. "They had them, all right. And they used one on us. And I think we're dead and don't know it yet We don't know yet that we're only ghosts and not living on Earth any more."
"Not on Earth?" said the policeman angrily. "Now, listen--"
And then his voice trailed away to silence as he followed Kenniston's staring gaze and looked up at the Sun.
It wasn't the Sun. Not the Sun they and all the generations of men had known as a golden, dazzling orb. They could look right at this Sun, without blinking. They could stare at it steadily, for it was no more than a very big, dull-glowing red ball with tiny flames writhing around its edges. It was higher in the sky now than it had been before. And the air was cold. "It's in the wrong place," said the policeman. "And it looks different." He groped in half-forgotten high-school science for an explanation. "Refraction. Dust that that fizzle-bomb stirred up--"
Kenniston didn't tell him. What was the use? What was the good of telling him what he, as a scientist, knew-- that no conceivable refraction could make the Sun look like that. But he said, "Maybe you're right."
"Sure I'm right," said the policeman, loudly. He didn't look up at the sky and Sun, any more. He seemed to avoid looking at them.
Kenniston started on down Mill Street. He had been on his way to the Lab, when this happened. He kept on going now. He wanted to hear what Hubble and the others would say about this.
He laughed a little. "I am a ghost, going to talk with other ghosts about our sudden deaths."
Then he told himself fiercely, "Stop that! You're a scientist. What good is your science if it cracks up in the face of an unexplained phenomenon?"
That, certainly, was an understatement. A super-atomic bomb went off over a quiet little Midwestern town of fifty thousand people, and it didn't change a thing except to put a new Sun into the sky. And you called that an unexplained phenomenon.
Kenniston walked on down the street. He walked fast, for the air was unseasonably cold. He didn't stop to talk to the bewildered-looking people he met. They were mostly men who had been on their way to work in Middletown's mills when it had happened. They stood now, discussing the sudden flash and shock. The word Kenniston heard most often was "earthquake." They didn't look too upset, these men. They looked excited and a little bit glad that something had happened to interrupt their drab daily routine. Some of them were staring up at that strange, dull-red Sun, but they seemed more perplexed than disturbed.
The air was cold and musty. And the red, dusky sunlight was queer. But that hadn't disturbed these men too much. It was, after all, not much stranger than the chill and the lurid light that often foreshadow a Midwestern thunderstorm.
Kenniston turned in at the gate of the smoke-grimed brick structure that bore the sign, "Industrial Research Laboratories." The watchman at the gate nodded to him unperturbedly as he let him through.
Neither the watchman nor any of Middletown's fifty thousand people, except a few city officials, knew that this supposed industrial laboratory actually housed one of the key nerve centers of America's atomic defense setup.
Clever, thought Kenniston. It had been clever of those in charge of dispersal to tuck this key atomic laboratory into a prosaic little Midwestern mill town.
"But not clever enough," he thought.
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