Burroughs, Edgar Rice
Published: 1939 Categorie(s): Fiction, Science Fiction Source: http://gutenberg.net.au
.About Burroughs: Edgar Rice Burroughs (September 1, 1875 – March 19, 1950) was an American author, best known for his creation of the jungle hero Tarzan, although he also produced works in many genres.
IF A female figure in a white shroud enters your bedchamber at midnight
on the thirteenth day of this month, answer this letter otherwise,
Having read this far in the letter, I was about to consign it to the
wastebasket, where all my crank letters go; but for some reason I read
on, "If she speaks to you, please remember her words and repeat them to
me when you write." I might have read on to the end; but at this juncture
the telephone bell rang, and I dropped the letter into one of the baskets
on my desk. It chanced to be the "out" basket;...
Credit story to Wild Pat Morgan, that laughing, reckless, black-haired
grandson of Ireland's peat bogs. To Pat Morgan, one-time flying lieutenant
of the AEF, ex-inventor, amateur boxer, and drinking companion par
I met Pat Morgan at the country club bar, one of those casual things.
After the third highball we were calling each other by our first names. By
the sixth we had dragged the family skeletons out of the closet and were
shaking the dust off them. A little later we were weeping on one
another's shoulders, and that's how it began....
WHEN Jason Gridley got in touch with me recently by radio and told me
it was The Year of Our Lord Nineteen Hundred and Thirty-nine on the
outer crust, I could scarcely believe him, for it seems scarcely any time at
all since Abner Perry and I bored our way through the Earth's crust to
the inner world in the great iron mole that Perry had invented for the
purpose of prospecting for minerals just beneath the surface of the Earth.
It rather floored me to realize that we have been down here in Pellucidar
for thirty-six years...
Particularly disliking forewords, I seldom read them; yet it seems that I
scarcely ever write a story that I do not inflict a foreword on my longsuffering
readers. Occasionally I also have to inject a little weather and
scenery in my deathless classics, two further examples of literary racketeering
that I especially deplore in the writings of others. Yet there is
something to be said in extenuation of weather and scenery, which, together
with adjectives, do m
We had attended a party at Diamond Head; and after dinner, comfortable
on hikiee and easy-chairs on the lanai, we fell to talking about the legends
and superstitions of the ancient Hawaiians. There were a number
of old-timers there, several with a mixture of Hawaiian and American
blood, and we were the only malihinis-happy to be there, and happy to
Most Hawaiian legends are rather childish, though often amusing; but
many of their superstitions are grim and sinister-and they are not confined
to ancient Hawaiians, either.
As he dropped the last grisly fragment of the dismembered and mutilated
body into the small vat of nitric acid that was to devour every trace
of the horrid evidence which might easily send him to the gallows, the
man sank weakly into a chair and throwing his body forward upon his
great, teak desk buried his face in his arms, breaking into dry, moaning
Beads of perspiration followed the seams of his high, wrinkled forehead,
replacing the tears which might have lessened the pressure upon
his overwrought nerves.
Several years had elapsed since I had found the opportunity to do any
big-game hunting; for at last I had my plans almost perfected for a return
to my old stamping-grounds in northern Africa, where in other days I
had had excellent sport in pursuit of the king of beasts.
The date of my departure had been set; I was to leave in two weeks.
No schoolboy counting the lagging hours that must pass before the beginning
of "long vacation" released him to the delirious joys of the summer
camp could have been filled with greater impatience or keener
IT WAS EARLY in March, 1969, that I set out from my bleak camp on the
desolate shore some fifty miles southeast of Herschel Island after polar
bear. I had come into the Arctic the year before to enjoy the first real vacation
that I had ever had. The definite close of the Great War, in April
two years before, had left an exhausted world at peace-a condition that
had never before existed and with which we did not know how to cope.
I think that we all felt lost without war-I know that I did; but I managed
to keep pretty busy with the changes that...