Trouble on His Wings
S
ELECTED
F
ICTION
W
ORKS
BY
L. R
ON
H
UBBARD
F
ANTASY
The Case of the Friendly Corpse
Death's Deputy
Fear
The Ghoul
The Indigestible Triton
Slaves of Sleep & The Masters of Sleep
Typewriter in the Sky
The Ultimate Adventure
S
CIENCE
F
ICTION
Battlefield Earth
The Conquest of Space
The End Is Not Yet
Final Blackout
The Kilkenny Cats
The Kingslayer
The Mission Earth Dekalogy*
Ole Doc Methuselah
To the Stars
A
DVENTURE
The Hell Job series
W
ESTERN
Buckskin Brigades
Empty Saddles
Guns of Mark Jardine
Hot Lead Payoff
A full list of L. Ron Hubbard's
novellas and short stories is provided at the back.
*Dekalogy: a group of ten volumes
Published by
Galaxy Press, LLC
7051 Hollywood Boulevard, Suite 200
Hollywood, CA 90028
© 2012 L. Ron Hubbard Library. All Rights Reserved.
Any unauthorized copying, translation, duplication, importation or distribution, in whole or in part, by any means, including electronic copying, storage or transmission, is a violation of applicable laws.
Mission Earth
is a trademark owned by L. Ron Hubbard Library and is used with permission.
Battlefield Earth
is a trademark owned by Author Services, Inc. and is used with permission.
Horsemen illustration from
Western Story
Magazine
is © and ⢠Condé
Nast Publications and is used with their permission. Fantasy, Far-Flung
Adventure and Science Fiction illustrations:
Unknown
and
Astounding
Science Fiction
copyright ©
by Street & Smith Publications, Inc. Reprinted with permission of Penny
Publications, LLC. Story Preview illustration:
Argosy Magazine
is © 1936 Argosy
Communications, Inc. All Rights Reserved. Reprinted with permission from Argosy
Communications, Inc.
ISBN 978-1-59212-627-9 eBook version
ISBN 978-1-59212-336-0 Print version
ISBN 978-1-59212-308-7 Audiobook version
ISBN 978-1-59212-538-8 eAudiobook version
Library of Congress Control Number: 2007903534
FOREWORD
Stories from Pulp Fiction's Golden Age
A
ND
it
was
a golden age.
The 1930s and 1940s were a vibrant, seminal time for a gigantic audience of eager readers, probably the largest per capita audience of readers in American history. The magazine racks were chock-full of publications with ragged trims, garish cover art, cheap brown pulp paper, low cover prices
â
and the most excitement you could hold in your hands.
“Pulp” magazines, named for their rough-cut, pulpwood paper, were a vehicle for more amazing tales than
Scheherazade
could have told in a million and one nights. Set apart from higher-class “slick” magazines, printed on fancy glossy paper with quality artwork and superior production values, the pulps were for the “rest of us,” adventure story after adventure story for people who liked to
read
. Pulp fiction authors were no-holds-barred entertainers
â
real storytellers. They were more interested in a thrilling plot twist, a horrific villain or a white-knuckle adventure than they were in lavish prose or convoluted metaphors.
The sheer volume of tales released during this wondrous golden age remains unmatched in any other period of literary history
â
hundreds of thousands of published stories in over nine hundred different magazines. Some titles lasted only an issue or two; many magazines succumbed to paper shortages during World War II, while others endured for decades yet. Pulp fiction remains as a treasure trove of stories you can read, stories you can love, stories you can remember. The stories were driven by plot and character, with grand heroes, terrible villains, beautiful damsels (often in distress), diabolical plots, amazing places, breathless romances. The readers wanted to be taken beyond the mundane, to live adventures far removed from their ordinary lives
â
and the pulps rarely failed to deliver.
In that regard, pulp fiction stands in the tradition of all memorable literature. For as history has shown, good stories are much more than fancy prose. William Shakespeare, Charles Dickens, Jules Verne, Alexandre Dumas
â
many of the greatest literary figures wrote their fiction for the readers, not simply literary colleagues and academic admirers. And writers for pulp magazines were no exception. These publications reached an audience that dwarfed the circulations of today's short story magazines. Issues of the pulps were scooped up and read by over thirty million avid readers each month.
Because pulp fiction writers were often paid no more than a cent a word, they had to become prolific or starve. They also had to write aggressively. As Richard Kyle, publisher and editor of
Argosy,
the first and most long-lived of the pulps, so pointedly explained: “The pulp magazine writers, the best of them, worked for markets that did not write for critics or attempt to satisfy timid advertisers. Not having to answer to anyone other than their readers, they wrote about human beings on the edges of the unknown, in those new lands the future would explore. They wrote for what we would become, not for what we had already been.”
Some of the more lasting names that graced the pulps include H. P. Lovecraft, Edgar Rice Burroughs, Robert E. Howard, Max Brand, Louis L'Amour, Elmore Leonard, Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chandler, Erle Stanley Gardner, John D. MacDonald, Ray Bradbury, Isaac Asimov, Robert Heinlein
â
and, of course, L. Ron Hubbard.
In a word, he was among the most prolific and popular writers of the era. He was also the most enduring
â
hence this series
â
and certainly among the most legendary. It all began only months after he first tried his hand at fiction, with L. Ron Hubbard tales appearing in
Thrilling Adventures,
Argosy,
Five-Novels Monthly,
Detective Fiction Weekly,
Top-Notch,
Texas Ranger,
War Birds,
Western Stories,
even
Romantic Range.
He could write on any subject, in any genre, from jungle explorers to deep-sea divers, from
G-men
and gangsters, cowboys and flying aces to mountain climbers, hard-boiled detectives and spies. But he really began to shine when he turned his talent to science fiction and fantasy of which he authored nearly fifty novels or novelettes to forever change the shape of those genres.
Following in the tradition of such famed authors as Herman Melville, Mark Twain, Jack London and Ernest Hemingway, Ron Hubbard actually lived adventures that his own characters would have admired
â
as an ethnologist among primitive tribes, as prospector and engineer in hostile climes, as a captain of vessels on four oceans. He even wrote a series of articles for
Argosy,
called “Hell Job,” in which he lived and told of the most dangerous professions a man could put his hand to.
Finally, and just for good measure, he was also an accomplished photographer, artist, filmmaker, musician and educator. But he was first and foremost a
writer,
and that's the L. Ron Hubbard we come to know through the pages of this volume.
This library of Stories from the Golden Age presents the best of L. Ron Hubbard's fiction from the heyday of storytelling, the Golden Age of the pulp magazines. In these eighty volumes, readers are treated to a full banquet of 153 stories, a kaleidoscope of tales representing every imaginable genre: science fiction, fantasy, western, mystery, thriller, horror, even romance
â
action of all kinds and in all places.
Because the pulps themselves were printed on such inexpensive paper with high acid content, issues were not meant to endure. As the years go by, the original issues of every pulp from
Argosy
through
Zeppelin Stories
continue crumbling into brittle, brown dust. This library preserves the L. Ron Hubbard tales from that era, presented with a distinctive look that brings back the nostalgic flavor of those times.
L. Ron Hubbard's Stories from the Golden Age has something for every taste, every reader. These tales will return you to a time when fiction was good clean entertainment and the most fun a kid could have on a rainy afternoon or the best thing an adult could enjoy after a long day at work.
Pick up a volume, and remember what reading is supposed to be all about. Remember curling up with a
great story
.
â
Kevin J. Anderson
KEVIN J. ANDERSON
is the author of more than ninety critically acclaimed works of speculative fiction, including The Saga of Seven Suns, the continuation of the Dune Chronicles with Brian Herbert, and his
New York Times
bestselling novelization of L. Ron Hubbard's
Ai! Pedrito!
Trouble on His Wings
Chapter
One
J
OHNNY BRICE
lounged in the shade
of the hangar, eyes half-shut, cigarette smoldering, forgotten in his fingers,
thinking about absolutely nothing. He should have known better. Every time he
had ever relaxed in his life, Fate had sent her legions scurrying and foraging
for some trouble to get Johnny into; and this time was no exception.
Running footsteps
turned the end of the hangar and Johnny, with a chill of premonition, glanced
up to see Irish Donnegan, his pint-size coat holder and mechanic, come tearing
up in a cloud of dust and sweat. Johnny deplored such activity on a warm day.
“Johnny!” cried Irish.
“Look, Johnny! Gee goshâ!”
“Hold the pose,” said
Johnny with a sigh.
Irish panted,
swallowed and then, eyes starting from their sockets at the effort, slowed his
speech. “Johnny, the
Kalolo
burned this morning at sea! Twenty lives
lost! Ship abandoned, passengers and crew taken off by the
SS
Birmingham
Alabama
. Thrilling sea rescue, women and childrenâdrama!”
“You got to quit this
excitement,” sighed Johnny. “It'll get your cerebellum displaced and your liver
cirrhosified!”
“The old man is wild.
He found out some of the passengers had hand movie cameras and he bought all
the film aboard by radio. He's getting out a special release and he needs that
film in three hours, and the rescue craft is still two hundred miles at sea. He
says you gotta get an idea. He says you gotta get that film. And you know
Felznick!”
Johnny took one last
drag of his cigarette and threw the butt away. “An' he said that I could have a
month off for gettin' those hurricane pictures. Irish, take my advice. Don't
never get efficient in the newsreel business. Here I am, my bruises hardly
healed and my pay unspent and we gotta go chasing after some film two hundred
miles at sea. Am I a cameraman or an errand boy? Is this a job or a hard way to
commit suicide?”
“We ain't got much
time,” panted Irish. “Gee, think of it, Johnny. The
Kalolo,
biggest
round-the-world ship, burning to the waterline, boilers exploding, women
screaming, men gettin' burned alive! Gosh, Johnny, I bet if we'd been there we
coulda made an epic, huh? I bet we coulda got some swell shots.”
“Yeah,” said Johnny.
“You sure can think of some of the damndest things.”
“You got an idea yet?
Old Felznick is on fire. Never heard him so excited. He said get right out
there and check the rescued list.”
Johnny
Irish
“Huh,” said Johnny
with a start. “Wasn't his wife comin' back from Europe on that tub? What a guy!
His wife may be burned upâand he thinks of special editions. Come on, fellah, I
think maybe I've got us an idea, at that.”
They headed around the
corner and zigzagged their way through the hangar to the
amphibian
. It was one
of three company ships, squat and sleek and powerful, its wheels sticking out
of the big fuselage like short lizard's legs. On its side was the red-and-gold
insignia of the outfit, a lens emblazoned with the words, “World News, âThe
Best First.'”
Johnny signed to a
mechanic, who swiftly dollied the ship out on the
tarmac
with a small electric
tractor. Irish eagerly slid into the rear cockpit and threw the starter
switches. The big engine clanked and wheezed, and then with an angry roar
blasted a dust-filled
slipstream
back into the hangar.
Meantime, Johnny was
struggling into a parachute. When he had fastened the webbing about his legs
and shoulders, he dragged a small hand camera out of the locker and draped it
around his neck by a strap. Stuffing a rubber film protector into his overalls,
he started toward the amphib.
His way was blocked by
a man built of spheres, a man who looked like anything but the ace cameraman of
“Mammoth Pictures, âAll the News Always.'”
“Goin' places?” said
Bert Goddard innocently.
Johnny slowed down
with great unconcern. “Hello, fellah. Say, I got a hot tip. There's a big oil
fire over in Jersey. Million-dollar blaze. Got to cover it right off. Ain't you
heard about it?”
Goddard grinned
complacently. “You know, Johnny, little boys that tell lies never go to heaven.
It's something in the shipping lanes, says that amphib.”
“Why, Bert, you never
heard me tell a lie in my life. Honest, it's just an old old fireâ”
“Goddard!” bellowed a
teletype man from a nearby office. “The
Kalolo
burned at sea!”
“My pal,” said
Goddard.
“Well, I tried
anyhow,” said Johnny. “Besides, we bought all the amateur film aboard not half
an hour ago.”
“How you goin' to pick
it up?”
“Guess,” said Johnny,
adjusting his harness and surging past.
“Y'damned fool,” said
Goddard. “Y'want to get yourself drowned?”
“I regret that I have
only one life to give to my company,” said Johnny above the clatter and clank
of the engine, as he climbed in.
“I'm going to get some
air shots, anyhow,” said Goddard.
“Take your pick,” said
Johnny, grasping the controls.
He let off the brakes
and the amphib wallowed ahead, wings flashing in the Long Island sunlight. He
kicked her around into the wind and lanced down the concrete track and into the
air.
Irish pulled his hood
shut and clamped the radiophones to his ears, listening attentively. Finally he
tapped Johnny on the shoulder. “Course ninety-three degrees, there's a
thirty-mile tailwind at two thousand.”
“Gotcha,” said Johnny,
banking into the course.
Far behind them, the
smoky towers of Manhattan gradually sank down under the horizon. Below and
ahead, a steel-plated sea with a crisscross pattern of waves, small and
distinct from this height, tried to appear innocent after a roaring night of
it.
Calmly Johnny
scrutinized each ship in the lanes below, checking off freighters and tugs, as
he tried to locate the SS
Birmingham Alabama
. At long last he saw a
pillar of greasy smoke on the far horizon and knew that the rescue ship must be
almost directly below. Then he saw it, a child's toy on a mirror. He shook the
stick and Irish took over.
“Here's the
automatic,” said Johnny, handing back the small camera. “After you drop me,
take a turn around the
Kalolo
out there and get some air shots of it.
Then come back and put her close to the rescue ship. When you see me dive
overboard, put her down and by God, I'll break your neck if you make me swim
more than a hundred yards.”
“You goin' to jump?”
said the startled Irish, getting white and tongue-tied.
“Sure.”
“But . . . but gee
whiz, Johnny, maybe the chute'll sink you. I thought we'd land and let that
rescue ship pick you offâ”
“That captain wouldn't
stop for us,” shouted Johnny above the engine's drone. “He'll have to pick me
up if I'm in the water. It's my only chance of getting aboard. They'll send out
a boatâI hope.”
Irish was speechless,
forgetting that he had the stick in his hands until the amphib started to come
up into a
stall
. He leveled out hurriedly and, with fascination, watched Johnny
stuff a checkbook into the rubber container and then push back the hood to
stand up into the blast of air.
Johnny, taking
cautious holds, worked his way out on the wing, a
hundred-and-eighty-mile-an-hour wind making his overalls thunder against him.
He glanced back at Irish, who nodded. Johnny tightened up on his nerve. He
always hated a jump, hated the wind in his nose, blowing upward until it felt
like he'd lose the top of his head. Sea and sky were too much of a shade to be
detailed. He hurtled down through a blue void, only occasionally catching sight
of the rescue ship below. He felt for his heart to see if it was still beating,
that being the best method of locating a rip cord, never held at the beginning
of a drop, lest it pull and foul on the ship.
The smooth sensation
against the seat of his pants told him that the chute was pleasantly sliding
forth. For a moment of chill he wondered who had packed it, whether it would
crack open. Water split a free-falling body into chunks. Abruptly mighty hands
grabbed him and tried to tear him apart, and then swung him in a long, dizzy
arc, with the great white umbrella tipping slowly high above. He caught his
breath, cursing the wind in his nose.
“Hell of a life,”
Johnny told a sea gull.
He
slipped
the chute,
to get more directly in the path of the SS
Birmingham Alabama,
which now
began to have planks in its deck, and lettering on its lifeboats and a cloud of
smoke pluming back from it. People were staring up at him in wonder.
He hurtled down through a blue void, only occasionally
catching sight of the rescue ship below.
Johnny put his hands
on his harness buckles so he could dive out before the chute collapsed over
him. The sea, which had looked so smooth, was now a series of mountain ridges and
green valleys.
“Hope it isn't cold,”
shuddered Johnny.
It was. He went into
the depths, to be jerked back to the surface like a torpedo. His chute was
towing him, and he fought for the release of his buckles. Before he had them,
the silk was soggy and collapsing. As soon as he was free he worked to keep on
the surface, wondering urgently if the SS
Birmingham Alabama
still had a
few sea traditions kicking about in an old locker after one big rescue the
night before. Would they put out a boat?
Tossed to the crest
and let down like a roller coaster into the trough, he could not see what was
happening, save for the growing bulk of the steamer. Was it going to run him
down? For the matchstick thing it had appeared from the air, it certainly was
increased in size. Johnny hadn't ever seen anything so big.
He was growing tired,
and the chill was eating through him like knives. Wouldn't the fools ever get
busy? Were they going to let a guy drown?
Suddenly a boat hook
fixed on his collar, choking him. He was towed to the
gunwale
of the lifeboat
and sailors snatched him over the edge, to drop him in the bottom, like a
floundering cod.