SELECTED FICTION WORKS BY
L. RON HUBBARD
FANTASY
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
SCIENCE FICTION
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
ADVENTURE
The Hell Job series
WESTERN
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.
The Grease Spot story illustration: © 1936 Standard Magazines, Inc. Reprinted with permission of Hachette Filipacchi Media. 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. Cover artwork and Story Preview illustration is from Detective Fiction Weekly © 1936 Argosy Communications, Inc. All Rights Reserved. Reprinted with permission from Argosy Communications, Inc.
ISBN 978-1-59212-597-5 eBook version
ISBN 978-1-59212-356-8 Print version
ISBN 978-1-59212-270-7 Audiobook version
ISBN 978-1-59212-502-9 eAudiobook version
Library of Congress Control Number: 2007903529
Contents
FOREWORD
MOUTHPIECE
FLAME CITY
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CALLING SQUAD CARDS!
THE GREASE SPOT
STORY PREVIEW:
KILLER'S LAW
GLOSSARY
L. RON HUBBARD
IN THE GOLDEN AGE
OF PULP FICTION
THE STORIES FROM THE
GOLDEN AGE
FOREWORD
Stories from Pulp Fiction’s Golden Age
AND 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—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—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—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—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—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—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—hence this series—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—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—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.
—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!
Mouthpiece
Mouthpiece
IT had been a long time since Mat Lawrence had stood upon the corner of a city street; and he found that the sound of traffic—that nerve-tearing clamor of bells, horns, motors and flat-wheeled streetcars—was a foreign and intolerable thing. For three years he had worked in a silent desert, building a mammoth power dam. The loudest noise had been a coyote’s howl at midnight and the swiftest movement that of a buzzard a mile in the air.
With his usual self-sufficiency he did not know that his dusty boots and battered Stetson made him conspicuous; he only remarked to himself that it was strange how pale the people of his former city had become—for Mat and his engineers had been turned walnut brown by the blazing desert sun.
New buildings, odd cars, new parks—he caught himself wondering if he—the son of Lawrence, the gangster—had ever belonged to this world of sound and steel. Then he caught the name of a building across the street and he reverted to his mission.
In direct contradiction to his tremendous height and bulk, he slid swiftly and easily through the ranks of speeding cars.
He arrived at the building’s entrance to soar upwards to the eleventh floor. His leather heels clanged in the marble corridor and he swung back the door marked: “C. G. Swartz, Attorney at Law.”
With his eyes fixed on a man who sat indolently at an ornate desk in the second room, he failed to notice that a protesting office boy was attempting to hold the gate. Lawrence walked on through, to come to a deliberate stop beside the desk.
Behind a scattered array of papers which lapped over the edges of an old-fashioned sand blotting box, Swartz looked up. A startled expression attempted to hide in his dark eyes; his round, hairless head gleamed as shiny as though newly polished.
“Harumph!” coughed Swartz. “I didn’t expect—”
“No!” drawled Mat. “You probably didn’t. Why in hell didn’t you wire me that Dad was dead?”
His poise regained, Swartz pulled his beefy length out of the swivel chair and offered a hand which Mat shook dubiously.
“I didn’t think it was necessary, Mr. Lawrence. And besides, telegrams cost money.”
“Sure they cost money. Why so careful about Dad’s finances all of a sudden? You didn’t use to worry about it! I remember one case where—”
“Now, now, now!” cut in Swartz. “You don’t fully understand. Didn’t you read the letter I sent you?”
“Why, I guess I did. What’s that got to do with it?”
Seated and securely entrenched behind his fancy desk, Swartz assumed a consoling air. “My boy, your father died penniless. There was neither will nor estate.”
“What?” demanded Mat. “At last report, Swartz, he had a cool million sacked away. That’s a hell of a wad to fade!”
He slapped the Stetson on the desk, where it eddied dust.
“If Dad died broke, he died broke. I’d like to know why; but what I really want to know is every detail of his dying. I don’t want news talk, I want facts. You’ve got them. You’ve always got them. Dad paid you out dough in six figures many a time, and I guess it still ought to buy the dope.”
“As for your father’s fortune,” murmured Swartz, “I only know that he invested heavily in worthless securities. He was an impulsive man, and though I often attempted to advise him, he would never listen to me.”
Mat snorted. “Probably not, and I don’t blame him. Now, I want to know what happened.”
“You can never quite tell in this game, Mr. Lawrence. You know that.”
“Come on, Swartz, quit stalling.”
Swartz made a tent out of his fat fingers and then moved them up to tug at his lower lip, his eyes warily regarding Mat. “All right, I’ll tell you. Rat-Face O’Connell was on his trail. Your father had the dyeing and cleaning protection racket of this town and Rat-Face and his boys didn’t like it. So, one night they went up to your father’s apartment, shot down the guards and took Lawrence for a ride. That’s the story.”
Mat probed into the man’s face as though searching for flaws. “Rat-Face O’Connell, eh?” He looked musingly into the palm of his hand as if it were a textbook. “Rat-Face O’Connell. All right, where does he hang around?”
“Oh no, no!” cried Swartz.
“Oh yes, yes!” disputed Mat. “Where can I find him, now—tonight?”
“But . . . but,” blubbered Swartz. “It’s . . . it’s suicide, Mr. Lawrence. I can’t let you do it.” He whipped out a polka-dot handkerchief and mopped at his brow as though the idea had turned the room into a furnace. “You’d better get out and leave this thing alone!”
“I suppose I’m a yellowbelly. Like the rest of you guys, eh?” Mat threw a twisted smile at Swartz. “Well, you’re wrong. If you think anybody can bump my dad and then get off scot-free, you’re cockeyed as hell.”
His square jaw jutted out and his eyes were the size of match heads. “I’m looking to get Mr. Rat-Face and make him talk. Talk, get me? He’ll burn for that night’s work, or by God, I’ll take him to hell with me.”
“Wheeoo!” breathed Swartz, mopping ever harder. He fanned himself with the silk, leaning back in the chair. It was as though he had cooled his legal brain, for he suddenly crouched forward, confidential and wise. “How much money have you got, Mr. Lawrence?”
“Oh, I see!” snapped Mat. “I’ve got to pay for the dope.”
“No,” purred Swartz, “you haven’t. I’m going to give you the address. The dough is for a couple of your father’s gorillas to go with you. You remember them. Petey and Blake.”
Mat sought for the answer in his palm and after several moments of concentrated searching, looked up. “All right. I’ve got five hundred bucks. That will cover Petey, Blake and a car. You’re going to lend me a gat.”
“Fine.” Swartz leaned back again. “I’ll send them around at seven to your hotel. Where are you stopping?”
“Oh, I guess the Savoy is as good as any. Now,” he got up to leave, “where are my dad’s papers? I want to read them over and find out what the score was.”
Swartz gave Mat a sad stare. “The papers were all taken by O’Connell and his boys. He didn’t leave anything with me, ever.”
Mat frowned and then walked to the door, placing his huge hand on the knob. “I’ll be back and see you tomorrow, Swartz, if I l
ive to tell the yarn.”
Sharply at seven a black sedan stood courteously at the entrance of the Savoy Hotel, two men in the front seat. Mat Lawrence loomed out of the lighted doorway, towering over the gilt-frogged doorman, and looked into the car. He saw Petey first. “Hello, Petey. Hello, Blake.”
Petey was mostly chest and his head resembled nothing so much as a shoe box sunk into his torso—green buttons for eyes and a ragged knife gash for a mouth. Blake was oily and sleek, his hair glistening more than his patent leather shoes, and his black eyes shinier than either. They gave Mat a heartless “Hello” and glanced at each other.
“Get in back, mugs,” commanded Mat. “I’m driving.”
Grudgingly, shying away from the bright lights of the entrance as though they stung, Petey and Blake squirmed out and slunk into the back seat.
Three sizes too big for the seat, Mat crumped the gears and stabbed the headlights out into the blur of traffic. “Where do we go?”
Petey leaned forward, his voice rasping like a saw in mahogany. “Head straight out this street, bo. I’ll put ya wise to the turns.” He glanced at Blake before he sat back and Blake nodded, his lips sliding into a knowing smile as though well oiled.
With a turn here and a curve there, the sedan went on through the glaring city until the house windows were more dimly lighted and the houses themselves seemed to exude darkness. Mat found it hard to distinguish streets from alleys.
“Hey, Petey,” he called over his shoulder. “Where’s the gun Swartz sent?”
Petey slid an automatic pistol across the rear seat. Mat looked at the blue glint and then shoved the weapon into his coat, to slip out the clip and find that it was fully loaded.
“Thanks, Petey.” He glanced up into the rearview mirror. “Say, what the hell are you smiling about?”
“Oh, things,” rasped Petey. “You turn down this next one.”
Suddenly uncomfortable as if he were hearing fingernails scraping over a blackboard, Mat turned the designated corner and found that he was leaving the last of the houses behind him.
He humped over the wheel, speeding up.