No one had ever escaped from Venus’ dread Stellar Legion. And, as Thekla the low-Martian learned, no one had ever betrayed it and—lived. Leigh Brackett was the undisputed Queen of Space Opera and the first women to be nominated for the coveted Hugo Award. She wrote short stories, novels, and scripts for Hollywood. She wrote the first draft of the Empire Strikes Back shortly before her death in 1978.
This collection brings together the first six titles in E. C. Tubb's epic SF saga, Dumarest, containing: The Winds of Gath Derai Toyman Kalin The Jester at Scar Lallia
The Woman From Altair and Other Stories – two classic novelettes of interstellar love and betrayal, and one story about simple betrayal by Leigh Brackett. The Woman From Altair (1951) – Ahrian was a fragile creature – yet beneath her feminine softness lurked the steel purpose of bitter dedication! Chapter I – Ahrian Chapter II – Stranger on Earth Chapter III – Gifts of Love Chapter IV – Star Dreams Chapter V – About Altair Chapter VI – The Last Magic The Stellar Legion (1940) – No one had ever escaped from Venus’ dread Stellar Legion. And as Thekla the low-Martian learned, no one had ever betrayed it——and lived The Last Days of Shandakor (1952) – An Earthman finds love and tragedy in a long-dead city of ancient Mars that denies death. A novelette in six chapters.
Strange adventures on other worlds – The universe of future centuries Stories: Beyond Light - (Planet Stories Winter 1940) The Stellar Legion - (Planet Stories Winter 1940) The War-Nymphs of Venus - (Planet Stories Spring 1941) Satellite of Fear - (Planet Stories Spring 1941) 4-1/2B, Eros - (Planet Stories Spring 1941)
Sam Falkirk, Captain of the World Police and stationed at the World Council building in New York, has a special interest in investigating the sudden and inexplicable death of Angelo Augustine, the brother of his girl friend. A messenger employed by the Council, Augustine was also a spy in the pay of Senator Rayburn, a fanatical Nationalist who is fighting both to retain his power and to destroy the Orient before they, as he believes, turn against the Occident. Augustine had died while delivering a parcel containing a statue of a Buddha for an employee of Senator Sucamari of the Japanese Legation, and who, in his own way, is as fanatical as Rayburn himself. Sucamari wants to gain living room for the teeming millions of the Orient, and his secret plan involves the releasing of a deadly bacterial plague across the Americas. The bacteria is contained in a special coating on the Buddha statue, but when the statue is stolen by a petty criminal, millions of people hover on the brink of agonizing death, unless Falkirk can find the criminal in time . . .
THE HAND OF DR KAIFENG By tampering with the genes of humanity to create a super-race - that was the ideal of many scientific Utopians. By tampering with the genes of humanity to create a super-army - that was a dream of many military commanders. By tampering with the genes of humanity to create a horde of obedient but brilliant monsters - that was the scheme of Dr. Kaifeng. For Cap Kennedy, the abduction of a dozen leading geneticists spelled trouble for Earth. For their trails led not to some idealist, or to some would-be Napoleon, but pointed only at the one man in the galaxy who might prove to be more powerful than the legions of Terra themselves.
Attempting to make Venus safe for colonists turns out to be a very dangerous job for Tex and his partner Breska.excerptTex stirred uneasily where he lay on the parapet, staring into the heavy, Venusian fog. The greasy moisture ran down the fort wall, lay rank on his lips. With a sigh for the hot, dry air of Texas, and a curse for the adventure-thirst that made him leave it, he shifted his short, steel-hard body and wrinkled his sandy-red brows in the never-ending effort to see.A stifled cough turned his head. He whispered, "Hi, Breska."The Martian grinned and lay down beside him. His skin was wind-burned like Tex's, his black eyes nested in wrinkles caused by squinting against sun and blowing dust.For a second they were silent, feeling the desert like a bond between them. Then Breska, mastering his cough, grunted: "They're an hour late now. What's the matter with 'em?"Tex was worried, too. The regular dawn attack of the swamp-dwellers was long overdue."Reckon they're thinking up some new tricks," he said. "I sure wish our relief would get here. I could use a vacation."Breska's teeth showed a cynical flash of white."If they don't come soon, it won't matter. At that, starving is pleasanter than beetle-bombs, or green snakes. Hey, Tex. Here comes the Skipper."Captain John Smith-Smith was a common name in the Volunteer Legion-crawled along the catwalk. There were new lines of strain on the officer's gaunt face, and Tex's uneasiness grew.He knew that supplies were running low. Repairs were urgently needed. Wasn't the relief goin' to come at all?But Captain Smith's pleasant English voice was as calm as though he were discussing cricket-scores in a comfortable London club."Any sign of the beggars, Tex?""No, sir. But I got a feeling. . . .""H'm. Yes. We all have. Well, keep a sharp. . . ."
Eric Falken couldn't run any more. At least he'd led the Hiltonists away from the pitiful starving holes where his people hid, on the outer planets and barren asteroids and dark derelict hulks floating far outside the traveled lanes.ExcerptEric Falken stood utterly still, staring down at his leashed and helpless hands on the controls of the spaceship Falcon.The red lights on his indicator panel showed Hiltonist ships in a three-dimensional half-moon, above, behind, and below him. Pincer jaws, closing fast.The animal instinct of escape prodded him, but he couldn't obey. He had fuel enough for one last burst of speed. But there was no way through that ring of ships. Tractor-beams, criss-crossing between them, would net the Falcon like a fish.There was no way out ahead, either. Mercury was there, harsh and bitter in the naked blaze of the sun. The ships of Gantry Hilton, President of the Federation of Worlds, inventor of the Psycho-Adjuster, and ruler of men's souls, were herding him down to a landing at the lonely Spaceguard outpost.A landing he couldn't dodge. And then . . . .For Paul Avery, a choice of death or Happiness. For himself and Sheila Moore, there was no choice. It was death.The red lights blurred before Falken's eyes. The throb of the plates under his feet faded into distance. He'd stood at the controls for four chronometer days, ever since the Hiltonists had chased him up from Los Angles, back on Earth.He knew it was because he was exhausted that he couldn't think, or stop the nightmare of the past days from tramping through his brain, hammering the incessant question at him. How?How had the Hiltonists traced him back from New York? Paul Avery, the Unregenerate recruit he went to get, had passed a rigid psycho-search-which, incidentally, revealed the finest brain ever to come to the Unregenerate cause. He couldn't be a spy. And he'd spoken to no one but Falken.Yet they were traced. Hiltonist Black Guards were busy now, destroying the last avenues of escape from Earth, avenues that he, Falken, had led them through.But how? He knew he hadn't given himself away. For thirty years he'd been spiriting Unregenerates away from Gantry Hilton's strongholds of Peace and Happiness. He was too old a hand for blunders.Yet, somehow, the Black Guards caught up with them at Los Angles, where the Falcon lay hidden. And, somehow, they got away, with a starving green-eyed girl named Kitty . . . ."Not Kitty," Falken muttered. "Kitty's Happy. Hilton took Kitty, thirty years ago. On our wedding day."A starving waif named Sheila Moore, who begged him for help, because he was Eric Falken and almost a god to the Unregenerates. They got away in the Falcon, but the Hiltonist ships followed.Driven, hopeless flight, desperate effort to shake pursuit before he was too close to the Sun. Time and again, using precious fuel and accelerations that tried even his tough body, Falken thought he had escaped.But they found him again. It was uncanny, the way they found him.Now he couldn't run any more. At least he'd led the Hiltonists away from the pitiful starving holes where his people hid, on the outer planets and barren asteroids and dark derelict hulks floating far outside the traveled lanes.And he'd kill himself before the Hiltonist psycho-search could pick his brain of information about the Unregenerates. Kill himself, if he could wake up.He began to laugh, a drunken, ragged chuckle. He couldn't stop laughing. He clung to the panel edge and laughed until the tears ran down his scarred, dark face.
Few men have gone beyond that barrier, into the vast mystery of Inner Venus. Fewer still have come back.Excerpt The ship moved slowly across the Red Sea, through the shrouding veils of mist, her sail barely filled by the languid thrust of the wind. Her hull, of a thin light metal, floated without sound, the surface of the strange ocean parting before her prow in silent rippling streamers of flame.Night deepened toward the ship, a river of indigo flowing out of the west. The man known as Stark stood alone by the after rail and watched its coming. He was full of impatience and a gathering sense of danger, so that it seemed to him that even the hot wind smelled of it.The steersman lay drowsily over his sweep. He was a big man, with skin and hair the color of milk. He did not speak, but Stark felt that now and again the man's eyes turned toward him, pale and calculating under half-closed lids, with a secret avarice.The captain and the two other members of the little coasting vessel's crew were forward, at their evening meal. Once or twice Stark heard a burst of laughter, half-whispered and furtive. It was as though all four shared in some private joke, from which he was rigidly excluded.The heat was oppressive. Sweat gathered on Stark's dark face. His shirt stuck to his back. The air was heavy with moisture, tainted with the muddy fecundity of the land that brooded westward behind the eternal fog.There was something ominous about the sea itself. Even on its own world, the Red Sea is hardly more than legend. It lies behind the Mountains of White Cloud, the great barrier wall that hides away half a planet. Few men have gone beyond that barrier, into the vast mystery of Inner Venus. Fewer still have come back.Stark was one of that handful. Three times before he had crossed the mountains, and once he had stayed for nearly a year. But he had never quite grown used to the Red Sea.It was not water. It was gaseous, dense enough to float the buoyant hulls of the metal ships, and it burned perpetually with its deep inner fires. The mists that clouded it were stained with the bloody glow. Beneath the surface Stark could see the drifts of flame where the lazy currents ran, and the little coiling bursts of sparks that came upward and spread and melted into other bursts, so that the face of the sea was like a cosmos of crimson stars.It was very beautiful, glowing against the blue, luminous darkness of the night. Beautiful, and strange.There was a padding of bare feet, and the captain, Malthor, came up to Stark, his outlines dim and ghostly in the gloom."We will reach Shuruun," he said, "before the second glass is run."Stark nodded. "Good."The voyage had seemed endless, and the close confinement of the narrow deck had got badly on his nerves."You will like Shuruun," said the captain jovially. "Our wine, our food, our women-all superb. We don't have many visitors. We keep to ourselves, as you will see. But those who do come..."He laughed, and clapped Stark on the shoulder. "Ah, yes. You will be happy in Shuruun!"It seemed to Stark that he caught an echo of laughter from the unseen crew, as though they listened and found a hidden jest in Malthor's words.Stark said, "That's fine.""Perhaps," said Malthor, "you would like to lodge with me. I could make you a good price."He had made a good price for Stark's passage from up the coast. An exorbitantly good one.Stark said, "No.""You don't have to be afraid," said the Venusian, in a confidential tone. "The strangers who come to Shuruun all have the same reason. It's a good place to hide. We're out of everybody's reach."He paused, but Stark did not rise to his bait. Presently he chuckled and went on, "In fact, it's such a safe place that most of the strangers decide to stay on. Now, at my house, I could give you..."
