Mouthpiece
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.
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
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-f 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!
Mouthpiece
Mouthpiece
I
T
had been a long time since Mat Lawrence had stood upon the corner
of a city street; and he found that the sound of trafficâthat nerve-tearing
clamor of bells, horns, motors and flat-wheeled streetcarsâwas 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
becomeâfor Mat and his engineers had been turned walnut brown by the blazing
desert sun.
New buildings, odd cars, new parksâhe caught himself
wondering if heâthe son of Lawrence, the gangsterâhad 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 expectâ”
“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
whereâ”
“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,
nowâtonight?”
“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 live to tell the yarn.”
S
harply 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 torsoâgreen 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.
“Say, Petey,” he hurled over his shoulder. “Were you in
at Dad's finish?”
Leaning forward, Petey obliged. “Nope, I arrived about
ten minutes afterwards. This Rat-Face O'Connell had cleared out with most of
the papers and all the loose
jack
. I been itchin' ta get my
mitts
on him ever
since.”
He pointed with a dirty finger. “Ya turn down that next
road there. The little one.”
“Okay.” Mat did as he was directed. “This bird sure
lives a helluva ways out, doesn't he? Listen, I'm going to drive right up in
front of the house. You two birds circle around back and try to get in that
way. After that we'll see what we'll see. Get me?”
“Sure,” said Petey.
“If I'm right, this Rat-Face is a rotten shot. And I
want him alive, get that? Alive! He's going to burn, see?”
“Sure,” said Petey.
“Say!” Mat sat up suddenly and slowed down. “This is the
city dump!”
“Sure!” said Petey. “Slow down and stop.” He pressed a
gat into Mat's ear where it bored viciously. “You didn't know it,
bo
, but you
was takin' yerself fer a ride!”
Mat stiffened, involuntarily reaching for the foot
brake. The gun in his ear was a round, hard snarl. Then, still moving at thirty
miles an hour, he stamped down on the gas. “Yeah? Well, Petey, if you blow me
to hell now, you'll go along too!”
“Slow down!” screamed Blake. “You'll kill all of us!”
Petey drew the pistol away from Mat's head, staring
beadily at the treacherous, curving road over which they were hurtling. “Jeeze!
Quit, fer God's sakes!”
Mat's square face was savage. He jerked the car around
the twisting turns as though he could have picked it out of the road by the
steering wheel and whirled it around his head. The headlights clashed on cans
and broken glass, throwing themselves over the edge of a twenty-foot drop to
the right of the car.
Petey was frozen with terror as he watched that bank
full of darkness. He knew that if he shot Mat then and there, he could never
snatch the wheel in time to save the car and his own hide.
Watching the cans and glass ahead of them, Mat's eyes
were the shade, temperature and density of ice. His left hand sneaked away from
the wheel and his fingers closed over the door catch. Holding his breath he saw
a left turn dart around ahead. With a lunge he twisted the car wheel to the
right and sprang out and away, to light doubled up and rolling on the sharp,
scorching earth.
The sedan careened, flopped over to the right. Its
headlights whacked up and then gracefully swept down into emptiness. A brittle
crunch was followed by splintering glass and a scream.
Mat had stopped rolling. Before the crash had ceased to
echo, he was on his feet, lunging toward the embankment after the car, his
automatic almost engulfed in his huge hand. Cans crunched under his boots and
cinders scattered away when he came to a halt above the sedan.
One headlight, still burning, pointed up at him, though
the car was on its tattered back, its engine coughing gradually into silence.
Mat's jaw was thrust out and a smile pulled up one corner of his mouth.
Unthinkingly, he stood directly in the beam from the headlight.
Flame spurted from one side of the car and lead
whispered past Mat's hand. A second flash came from the right; but the target
had dived down and now lay at full length on the piles of ashes.
Coolly, Mat brought up the pistol and sighted on a
saffron ribbon below. He squeezed the trigger with marksmanlike perfection, but
the hammer clicked emptily.
“What the hell?” bellowed Mat, pulling back the slide
for a second try. The same result snicked in his ears. He started to throw the
gun to one side and then changed his mind, placing it carefully in his torn
pocket.
Inching along the dark rim, he crawled out of range of
the lights and then slipped over the embankment to slide silently down to the
car's level. Now, in back of it, he could see a silhouette in the headlight's
glare and recognized Petey, tensed on one elbow, his gun trained on the bank
above.