Worlds of Edgar Rice Burroughs by Mike Resnick, Robert T. Garcia Page A
Authors: Mike Resnick, Robert T. Garcia
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I were being turned upside down. Through the windows of the machine I could see the Potala fall away beneath us—or was it above us? I looked up—or was it down?—and saw the ceaselessly roiling clouds of Amtor.
One of the planet’s colorful vortices had formed and Bodog headed straight for it. We burst through and found ourselves between two layers of clouds. We sped horizontally until another vortex appeared above and ahead of us. Bodog directed our little craft to that swirling disk of light. We burst through it and suddenly there we were, in the blackness of space. I nearly wept at the beauty of the heavens that I had not seen for so long.
I will not detail the events of our trip Earthward. The little gravity-powered machine attained astonishing speed. Bodog called upon the ancient astronomical knowledge that he had acquired uncounted centuries before in the redoubts of Lemuria and ancient Tibet to navigate our course to Earth.
It had never occurred to me until now, how vast is the void between the planets and how easily travelers could become lost, to drift endlessly through space like the legendary Flying Dutchman.
I wondered where Bodog planned to land. Knowing his wild, almost insane ambitions, I expected him to make his return to the world of his origins in a dramatic fashion, and he did so in a manner that outdid even my wildest guesses.
It was January first, the first day of the new year. A championship football game was in progress in a great stadium in Los Angeles. It was halftime, and the players were resting in their locker rooms while bands played and cheerleaders pranced to entertain the gigantic crowd.
Bodog brought our little craft down precisely on the fifty-yard line, in this stadium packed with 100,000 cheering spectators. He opened the door and the three of us stepped out, still wearing our special protective suits.
Bodog removed his flexible helmet, revealing his naked pate and frightening countenance to the multitude. As the crowd became silent in its curiosity as to this strange display, I followed suit. And then Duare did the same. Duare, whom I had loved on Amtor—or thought I had loved. But in our days as Dr. Bodog’s guests, she had shown her deep interest in Oggar, while I had begun to feel a deeper rapport with Oggar’s tall and lovely sister, Istara.
And as she removed her helmet, revealing her face for the first time since our farewell dinner in her father’s redoubt, I beheld the lovely and beloved features of my one true love, Istara of Amtor!
This is the only reprint in the book. Due to a prior contractual arrangement, ERB, Inc. could not allow any new Mars stories to appear here . . . but we found a way around that.
In 1963, literally half a century ago, I wrote the following, a sequel to the tenth (and then final) Mars book, Llana of Gathol. It was published in 1965 and circulated free of charge with ERB-dom magazine, which may have been part of the reason that ERB-dom became the only Burroughs fanzine in history to win the Hugo Award, back in 1966. A thousand copies were printed, and during the past decade I have seen them going for as high as $300 in convention dealers’ rooms.
This bears no resemblance to what I write these days. It so meticulously emulated ERB’s style that it was my hope, when writing it, that if it were found in his safe (where so many posthumously published treasures were found), no one would doubt that he had written it himself.
—Mike
The Forgotten Sea of Mars
Mike Resnick
Prologue
The day breaks with surprising suddenness in Arizona, and as I stood on a bank overlooking the headwaters of the Little Colorado, I watched the starry heavens fade into the bright blue sky which marks the Southwestern day. I, like so many others before me, had a few weeks ago unplugged the phone, packed my gear, locked my house, and taken a temporary leave from the rigors of that phenomenon we call society.
Arizona had seemed to me the ideal place for
One of the planet’s colorful vortices had formed and Bodog headed straight for it. We burst through and found ourselves between two layers of clouds. We sped horizontally until another vortex appeared above and ahead of us. Bodog directed our little craft to that swirling disk of light. We burst through it and suddenly there we were, in the blackness of space. I nearly wept at the beauty of the heavens that I had not seen for so long.
I will not detail the events of our trip Earthward. The little gravity-powered machine attained astonishing speed. Bodog called upon the ancient astronomical knowledge that he had acquired uncounted centuries before in the redoubts of Lemuria and ancient Tibet to navigate our course to Earth.
It had never occurred to me until now, how vast is the void between the planets and how easily travelers could become lost, to drift endlessly through space like the legendary Flying Dutchman.
I wondered where Bodog planned to land. Knowing his wild, almost insane ambitions, I expected him to make his return to the world of his origins in a dramatic fashion, and he did so in a manner that outdid even my wildest guesses.
It was January first, the first day of the new year. A championship football game was in progress in a great stadium in Los Angeles. It was halftime, and the players were resting in their locker rooms while bands played and cheerleaders pranced to entertain the gigantic crowd.
Bodog brought our little craft down precisely on the fifty-yard line, in this stadium packed with 100,000 cheering spectators. He opened the door and the three of us stepped out, still wearing our special protective suits.
Bodog removed his flexible helmet, revealing his naked pate and frightening countenance to the multitude. As the crowd became silent in its curiosity as to this strange display, I followed suit. And then Duare did the same. Duare, whom I had loved on Amtor—or thought I had loved. But in our days as Dr. Bodog’s guests, she had shown her deep interest in Oggar, while I had begun to feel a deeper rapport with Oggar’s tall and lovely sister, Istara.
And as she removed her helmet, revealing her face for the first time since our farewell dinner in her father’s redoubt, I beheld the lovely and beloved features of my one true love, Istara of Amtor!
This is the only reprint in the book. Due to a prior contractual arrangement, ERB, Inc. could not allow any new Mars stories to appear here . . . but we found a way around that.
In 1963, literally half a century ago, I wrote the following, a sequel to the tenth (and then final) Mars book, Llana of Gathol. It was published in 1965 and circulated free of charge with ERB-dom magazine, which may have been part of the reason that ERB-dom became the only Burroughs fanzine in history to win the Hugo Award, back in 1966. A thousand copies were printed, and during the past decade I have seen them going for as high as $300 in convention dealers’ rooms.
This bears no resemblance to what I write these days. It so meticulously emulated ERB’s style that it was my hope, when writing it, that if it were found in his safe (where so many posthumously published treasures were found), no one would doubt that he had written it himself.
—Mike
The Forgotten Sea of Mars
Mike Resnick
Prologue
The day breaks with surprising suddenness in Arizona, and as I stood on a bank overlooking the headwaters of the Little Colorado, I watched the starry heavens fade into the bright blue sky which marks the Southwestern day. I, like so many others before me, had a few weeks ago unplugged the phone, packed my gear, locked my house, and taken a temporary leave from the rigors of that phenomenon we call society.
Arizona had seemed to me the ideal place for
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