Mind Over Matter - A Collection of Short Fiction Read online

  Mind Over Matter:

  A Collection of Short Fiction,

  by

  Raymond Z. Gallun

  Tom's eBooks May 2021 (c, ebook) - 110,900 words

  Introduction, Tom Dean, (in) *

  The Crystal Ray, (ss) Air Wonder Stories Nov. 1929 – 5917

  Space Flotsam, (ss) Astounding Feb. 1934 - 3606

  The Machine from Ganymede, (ss) Astounding Nov. 1934 - 3926

  Mind Over Matter, (ss) Astounding Jan. 1935 - 4324

  Blue Haze on Pluto, (ss) Astounding June 1935 - 4382

  Saturn’s Ringmaster, (ss) Thrilling Wonder Stories Dec. 1936 – 3881

  Eyes That Watch, (ss) Comet Dec. 1940 - 5449

  The Raiders of Saturn’s Ring, (nv) Planet Stories Fall 1941 - 11941

  Space Oasis, (ss/nv) Planet Stories Fall 1942 - 9579

  The Eternal Wall, (ss) Amazing Nov. 1942 – 4144

  Operation Pumice, (ss) Thrilling Wonder Stories April 1949 - 5126

  Asteroid of Fear, (nv) Planet Stories March 1951 – 13896

  Return of a Legend, (ss) Planet Stories March 1952 - 5529

  Big Pill, (nv) Planet Stories Sep. 1952 – 7705

  Captive Asteroid, (nv) Science-Fiction Plus April 1953 - 11231

  Give Back a World, (nv) Planet Stories May 1953 - 8837

  Bonus Story:

  Bright Message, (vi) Collier's Weekly May 18 1946 - 1493

  Table of Contents

  Introduction

  The Crystal Ray,

  Space Flotsam,

  The Machine from Ganymede,

  Mind Over Matter,

  Blue Haze on Pluto,

  Saturn's Ringmaster,

  Eyes That Watch,

  The Raiders of Saturn's Ring,

  Space Oasis,

  The Eternal Wall,

  Operation Pumice,

  Asteroid of Fear,

  Return of a Legend,

  Big Pill,

  Captive Asteroid,

  Give Back a World,

  Bright Message,

  Introduction

  Here's a collection by one of the great "Golden Age" writers of science fiction, Raymond Z. Gallun (rhymes with "balloon"). Shocking fact: The first collection of his work was 1978's The Best of Raymond Z. Gallun!

  Renaissance eBooks was at one time planning on releasing a collection of stories from his Demigods universe, but those plans fell through, I guess. His first two novels (Passport to Jupiter, and People Minus X) belong to it, as do the stories "Coffins to Mars," "The Restless Tide," "The First Long Journey," and "Then and Now." This will have to remain a stretch-goal of mine, for the time being.

  The stories in this collection were chosen so as not to overlap the earlier Renaissance eBooks collections The Old Faithful Saga, and A First Glimpse and Other Stories (which, the last I looked, was available for free at Amazon/Kindle).

  Tom Dean

  May 2021

  *******************************

  The Crystal Ray,

  by Raymond Z. Gallun

  Air Wonder Stories Nov. 1929

  Short Story – 5917 words

  THE greatest advances in science will come during the next hundred years, when our understanding of the different forms of rays emitted by various strange materials is better developed. The past century witnessed the discovery of X-rays, as well as the emanation rays of radium and others. Only very recently a new ray, the cosmic ray, has been announced as a very potent factor in our lives. That many more materials found to emit powerful rays will be discovered, some of them with deadly and altogether unexpected qualities, is a foregone conclusion. The present story deals with such instrumentalities and, incidentally, the author has built a marvelous stirring story which cannot fail to impress you.

  MID-AFTERNOON sun of the stirring war year 2141 A.D. shone upon a small battle flier which was speeding southward at an altitude of fifteen miles. It was a two-seated outfit, cigar-shaped and made of an aluminum alloy. On the shining metal of its body were painted several red, white and blue stars—the insignia of the United States; mounted on its prow were two dangerous looking automatic guns. Beneath the body of the machine was a convex, hollow sheet of metal containing a substance which neutralized gravity when acted upon by the electromagnetic waves sent out by the power stations throughout the western hemisphere; this device, the Whitley gravitational screen, supported the craft in the air. Hissing jets of gas ejected at the stern were driving the machine through the thin atmosphere at a velocity of nearly a thousand miles an hour. A faint wake of bluish vapor trailed behind like the tail of a comet.

  In the flier were two men wearing the oxygen masks and metal armor necessary at extreme altitudes; attired in this fantastic garb they looked for all the world like a pair of goblins from some distant planet.

  As members of the U. S. Scout Squadron Number Five, both had done their bit in the seemingly hopeless battle of Caucasian nations against the yellow men of Asia. Holding the controls was George Calhoun, the ace who had to his credit more than sixty aerial victories, including the bombing of two great battleships of the skies. Joseph Pelton, his companion, who in peace time had devoted all his spare moments to science, was not so successful a fighter; but he had participated in many hazardous struggles.

  These men were now on a three days’ leave of absence. The United States—the only formidable power of the Occident that had so far escaped being wiped out by the air fleets of Asia, could ill spare either; but science had not yet found a way to relieve the fatigue that comes with constant war.

  Above them the aviators could see the deep blue-black sky, sprinkled with stars because of the rarity of the atmosphere. Beneath rolled an ever-changing panorama of earth, seemingly turned up at the edges like an enormous saucer. Now they were over the Gulf of Mexico veiled in its gray-blue mist; now above the verdant agricultural districts of Cen-America, long ago occupied by the invaders. A little more than three hours after they set out from Chicago, the young men hung over the snow-capped pinnacles of the Andes, which looked like mere ash heaps far beneath. Here was one of the few spots on earth that did not yet resound with the din of war; it was such a place they sought.

  Presently the airboat began to descend in a long spiral; a few minutes later it settled gently at the edge of a little adobe village on the eastern slope of the mountains.

  The Legend of the Mountain

  A FLIER was an unusual sight here and the inquisitive inhabitants, men, women and children, crowded around to get a glimpse at the wonderful machine.

  There was nothing resembling a hostelry in the village; but, when the worthy Señor Hernando Diaz, its richest citizen, learned that these young men were soldiers like his own three sons who were fighting against the Asiatics in Argentina, he offered his hospitality.

  After the evening meal Señor Diaz and his guests repaired to a broad veranda which faced west. For quite a time the three men remained silent. Pelton and Calhoun were absorbed in the grandeur of the mountains over which dusk was settling, and Hernando Diaz knew too well the power of silence and the spell of that majestic sight, to break it with words.

  At length Calhoun murmured musingly: “God is up there—God and Peace. Even war couldn’t disturb the eternal serenity of those Andes.”

  He spoke in Spanish. Both Calhoun and Pelton had a fairly complete mastery of that language.

  Diaz leaned far forward in his chair: “God in those mountains, Señor? Ah, yes, perhaps in the great peaks far off; but do you see that one which is quite near? It is less than two thousand meters high and at its summit there is a small depression or crater. Madre de Dios—there inde
ed is the lair of Satan!”

  A quizzical smile came over Calhoun’s lips. He turned toward the Ecuadorian: “I’m afraid the gentleman you mention has gone north to help with the big row up there. But let’s hear the rest of what you were going to say. I’m intensely interested and I think that Joe is perfectly willing to listen, too.”

  “There is a legend about ‘The Devil’s Nest’ which says that in ancient times the Indians made human sacrifices to the sun there,” Diaz began in a low voice, while he toyed nervously with the ends of his curling mustache: “Certainly there is something dreadful about the place still, but no one knows what. In the memory of living men, only two have ventured into it. That was ten years ago. A certain youth named Pedro Menendez was driven by the spirit of adventure, which is the inherent possession of most boys, to scale the heights of ‘The Devil’s Nest.’ He failed to return. Three days later his father ventured up the walls of the extinct volcano in search of him. No human eye has seen either of them since. Truly, it was as though Satan had swallowed up both.”

  “Men have gone up into mountains before, and failed to return,” said Pelton: “There are places where footing is precarious, and crevices in which it would be almost impossible to find a human body. However, we have a little mystery here to solve—George, what do you say if we take a trip to ‘The Devil’s Nest’ tomorrow?”

  “Bully enough, old egg,” returned Calhoun laughingly: “We’ve faced devils before, haven’t we? They were real devils hurtling at us from out of the sky and shooting streams of poisoned lead dangerously close to our gills. They will probably get us anyway in a week or two and, if we get killed in the mountains, we will at least have the satisfaction of cheating them.”

  Seeing that argument was useless against such reckless hot-heads, their host merely muttered softly to himself: “They are rash—these soldiers of the United States.”

  The last pale light had faded from above the peaks of the Andes, a faint wind soughed through the trees. The conversation drifted to other topics.

  The Devil’s Nest

  WHEN the early morning sun of another day had mounted up into a cloudless firmament, the two aviators were preparing for their adventure. Believing that the vigorous exercise of climbing would do their little-used muscles good, they decided to leave the flier behind. Since this was so, they realized that it might be necessary to camp on top of the mountain that night; consequently they packed up a light tent, a couple of blankets and some extra provisions.

  Señor Diaz did not urge them to desist from their venture but, when he wished them good luck, Pelton noticed that there was something strangely solemn about his voice and eyes. His attitude was not at all that of a friend bidding him good luck at the outset of a holiday of sport; it resembled, instead, the attitude of a certain fatherly old captain speaking kindly to him when he was about to risk his life in an aerial combat.

  When all was ready, Calhoun and Pelton started out up the slopes of the Andes. For a couple of miles the going was easy; but, as they approached closer to the sinister bulk of “The Devil’s Nest,” the ground grew steep and sterile and the trail more and more difficult.

  Calhoun was outwardly in a carefree mood and he scoffed often about the story. “Just imagine, Joe,” he would say, “demons and what-not in these mountains that are nearer to God than anything on earth—beneath this blue sky that is the very symbol of peace and beauty! What a superstitious lot the Señor and all his kind are!”

  Pelton said very little. Somehow he felt that his friend’s lightheartedness was forced, and over his own mind there was coming a sense of depression that increased as the mountain grew more rugged. Was there really some horror in the ancient, extinct crater far above? “No!” he told himself emphatically. The idea was ridiculous; he was a fool even to think of it.

  The two men paused to eat their noonday meal at a small level space nearly three thousand feet above the village. The stillness of the place and his own gloomy mood inspired strange thoughts in the mind of Pelton. Finally he turned to Calhoun who was vigorously chewing the last fragment of a ham sandwich (yes—this ancient food still delighted palates of the twenty-second century.)

  “Do you think often of Death, George?” he asked.

  The other swallowed hard and then smiling slightly answered: “Death? Well rather. I couldn’t help thinking of him now and then, because you see I play hide-and-seek with him pretty nearly every day. He’s come to be about my most intimate playfellow, and he’s a real sport. He’s always ‘it’ and he never gets sore. So far he hasn’t found me, and I will continue to keep out of his way if I can. However, if it’s necessary, I’ll take my hat off to Death and admit I’m beaten. I’d rather do that than become a slave to those Asiatics.”

  “I don’t fear death in the physical sense any more than you do, George,” said Pelton, “but, Lord! How I hate to be forgotten! I’d like to survive this war and live long enough to work out some of my scientific theories. Since I was just a kid I have dreamed of doing something really big and that idea has grown to be almost an obsession with me. You are lucky; even our enemies will remember you as one of the cleverest aerial duelists that ever fought.”

  “Pshaw!” returned Calhoun; “If there isn’t anybody left on earth to remember me but those disgusting Asiatics, I’d rather not be remembered. But listen here, old fellow, I don’t think it is the least bit nice of you to make this holiday disagreeable with your glum talk. Just forget it and stow some food and then let’s be on our way. The top of the mountain is still about three thousand feet above us, and if we want to reach it before sunset we had better get a move on.”

  A few minutes later the adventurers continued with their ascent. Now they began to encounter real difficulties; there were rugged, almost perpendicular crags, offering but the barest hand- and foot-holds. These almost baffled the amateur climbers. Here and there were narrow shelves where they could stop to get their breath.

  The Blue Crystals

  IT was during one of these rests that Pelton noticed crystals of a bluish, semi-opaque mineral clinging to the rocks about him. These crystals appeared to become more and more plentiful as they neared the summit of the volcano. Pelton knew something of mineralogy, but never in his considerable experience had he encountered such a substance. Curious to know its nature, he thrust several pieces into his pack; hoping that some day, if luck was with him, he might analyze them.

  Just as the two Americans were starting on the last hundred feet of climbing that lay between them and their goal a large cloud came over the declining sun and, an ominous gloom settled over the world.

  And now the youths peered eagerly over the rim of the crater into “The Devil’s Nest.” Five minutes later they had descended fifty feet to its floor.

  They found themselves in a small, circular valley about a thousand feet across. Everywhere, topping the walls of multi-colored stone that surrounded it, were pinnacles of the strange blue mineral, pointing toward the sky like the thin minarets of a city of goblins. On the summit of the rocky barrier at the western side of the crater was a huge mass of the crystal that gleamed darkly under the shadow of the obscuring cloud which hung persistently before the sun.

  “This place has more weird beauty than ‘The Island of Death’,” said Calhoun. “It would make a fine painting. Somehow, there’s something about it that gives me a creepy feeling.”

  There were a few patches of hardy grass and several bushes scattered here and there over the floor of the crater. Suddenly Pelton’s searching eyes fell upon a circular spot of bleached earth, not more than ten feet across, lying thirty paces away at the center of the valley. For a moment he scrutinized it intently and then he grasped his companion violently by the arm. “Look, George!” he cried.

  A moment later the two youths were bending over a pair of human skeletons whitened by years of exposure. With them there lay several coins, two tarnished brass buckles and the rusted remnants of a few metal buttons. The owners of those bones had o
bviously been dead for a very long time.

  “These are evidently the men that Diaz spoke of,” said Pelton, “but what in the name of Heaven could have killed them, George?” There was a look almost expressive of fear in his face.

  “Volcanic gases, probably,” essayed Calhoun.

  “Impossible, man!” returned Pelton; “This volcano has certainly been extinct for ages.”

  Calhoun knelt down beside the skeletons and began to examine them. “Let’s see if there are any marks of violence, fractured skulls, broken ribs, or anything,” he said.

  Pelton stepped back from the ghastly patch of earth. Never afterward was he able to tell exactly why.

  And then a miracle happened—a miracle and a tragedy. The setting sun at last escaped from the cloud that covered it and its ruddy rays, coming over the summit of a nearby Andean peak, fell upon the mass of crystal at the western edge of the valley. A beam of bluish light, like the reflection from the glossy scales of a black serpent and more evilly gorgeous than the slumbering fires of a thousand opals, leaped from it. The ray struck Calhoun squarely. He staggered to his feet, uttered a choking cry, and crumpled lifeless to the earth! A few moments later the sun dropped behind the mountains and “The Devil’s Nest” was again in shadow.

  Ready for Battle

  SIX more weeks rolled by and now the Asiatic Air Fleet advancing up the Mississippi Valley was only five hundred miles from Chicago. Should this last big city of the Occident be destroyed, all hope for further resistance would immediately crumble; for here were situated the munition factories and here was the government that kept the dwindling energies of the United States organized.