DIY History | Transcribe | Hevelin Fanzines | Spaceways, v. 3, issue 5, whole no. 21, June 1941

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Spaceways, v. 3, issue 5, whole no. 21, June 1941

12                                      SPACEWAYS
                  HEATHEN!
                        by
           J. EDWARD DAWIS

         "Prepare to land ship!" snapped Captain Miller Cochren, his beady black eyes flashing in indignation. "I'll show these Martian heathens a thing or two."
         The small ten-man exploration ship blasted to a stop several hundred feet from a crude stone building in the middle of one of Mars' glaring red deserts. This was the third sign of life that the explorers had seen that day. The other two groups were no more; Captain Cochren had seen to that.
           The tall dark black-haired Cochren made the same short speech that he had made twice previously that day:
          "Take your guns and go out there and blast hell out of the dirty red scum; don't leave one of 'em alive. We'll clean this planet of these devilish savages, so that civilized earthmen can follow in our tracks and settle Mars. Remember! We're the first, and it's our job to make this land fit for a Christian civilization! Now get to it, men!"
            Snatching their space-sutis from the closet-cabinets, they hurriedly donned them, and with guns in hand they stepped out onto the scorching desert sand. A few long steps took them to the crude stone hut and a good kick sent the "thatched" wooden dor inward. Inside, about twenty large, seven-foot Martians rose at the unexpected entrance of the explorers. They had been seated on the hard dirt floor facing one of their kind who had evidently been leading them in some heathen ritual. The leader of the group of seven-foot red-scaled Martians came forward, one of his three spindly arms held high above his head; to several of the earthmen it seemed a gesture of peace or welcome but from outside came the cry;
             "Kill 'em all!" Captain Cochren had learned never to trust a heathen.
            A thundering report followed-many of the unarmed, scaled Martians fell to the red dirt floor, their thick green blood spurting from their wounds-another report-and the remainder were down.
           "Take no chances, men," wamed Cochren, a mirthless smile on his hard face, "Shoot again!"
           And so it was, the five crewmen shot volley after volley at the fallen Martians-no chances could be taken with such heathens.
         Now that the deed was done, the Captain sauntered in from outside, viewing the cold-blooded massacre of the defenceless savages.
         "Well done," he praised. "Look arounf, there might be something of worth lying about."
        Obeying his orders, the men jumped at his command, and wading through the green blood of the fallen corpes, looked for "something of worth".
        "Here's something, Captain," announced a young blond lad, hardly over 20, "A scroll of skins with strange writing on them. There seems to be several more scrolls here in a box."
        "Humph," grunted Cochren, "they certainly can't be worth much."
       "Let me see them, Mattson," requested Professor Michel, the white-haired archaeologist of the first Mars expedition. "Perhaps I can find some clue as to the history of this race."
       "Let's get back to the ship," commanded Cochren. "Nothing of worth around here. Ah, what could you expect to find among a bunch of svages?" Professor Michel followed close behind the rest, the pile of scrolls tucked preciously under the arm of his space-suit.
               ...............................
         Later that night, after the sun had disappeared over the endless horizon, and the ship had landed for the usual evening's rest, the professor emerged from his small cabin, where he had been all afternoon.
        "Gentleman," he announced, "I have deciphered the meaning of these scrolls." He studied the starled faces of the crew, with a solemn frown on his
          (concluded on page 15)

Saving...

12 SPACEWAYS HEATHEN! by J. EDWARD DAWIS "Prepare to land ship!" snapped Captain Miller Cochren, his beady black eyes flashing in indignation. "I'll show these Martian heathens a thing or two." The small ten-man exploration ship blasted to a stop several hundred feet from a crude stone building in the middle of one of Mars' glaring red deserts. This was the third sign of life that the explorers had seen that day. The other two groups were no more; Captain Cochren had seen to that. The tall dark black-haired Cochren made the same short speech that he had made twice previously that day: "Take your guns and go out there and blast hell out of the dirty red scum; don't leave one of 'em alive. We'll clean this planet of these devilish savages, so that civilized earthmen can follow in our tracks and settle Mars. Remember! We're the first, and it's our job to make this land fit for a Christian civilization! Now get to it, men!" Snatching their space-sutis from the closet-cabinets, they hurriedly donned them, and with guns in hand they stepped out onto the scorching desert sand. A few long steps took them to the crude stone hut and a good kick sent the "thatched" wooden dor inward. Inside, about twenty large, seven-foot Martians rose at the unexpected entrance of the explorers. They had been seated on the hard dirt floor facing one of their kind who had evidently been leading them in some heathen ritual. The leader of the group of seven-foot red-scaled Martians came forward, one of his three spindly arms held high above his head; to several of the earthmen it seemed a gesture of peace or welcome but from outside came the cry; "Kill 'em all!" Captain Cochren had learned never to trust a heathen. A thundering report followed-many of the unarmed, scaled Martians fell to the red dirt floor, their thick green blood spurting from their wounds-another report-and the remainder were down. "Take no chances, men," wamed Cochren, a mirthless smile on his hard face, "Shoot again!" And so it was, the five crewmen shot volley after volley at the fallen Martians-no chances could be taken with such heathens. Now that the deed was done, the Captain sauntered in from outside, viewing the cold-blooded massacre of the defenceless savages. "Well done," he praised. "Look arounf, there might be something of worth lying about." Obeying his orders, the men jumped at his command, and wading through the green blood of the fallen corpes, looked for "something of worth". "Here's something, Captain," announced a young blond lad, hardly over 20, "A scroll of skins with strange writing on them. There seems to be several more scrolls here in a box." "Humph," grunted Cochren, "they certainly can't be worth much." "Let me see them, Mattson," requested Professor Michel, the white-haired archaeologist of the first Mars expedition. "Perhaps I can find some clue as to the history of this race." "Let's get back to the ship," commanded Cochren. "Nothing of worth around here. Ah, what could you expect to find among a bunch of svages?" Professor Michel followed close behind the rest, the pile of scrolls tucked preciously under the arm of his space-suit. ............................... Later that night, after the sun had disappeared over the endless horizon, and the ship had landed for the usual evening's rest, the professor emerged from his small cabin, where he had been all afternoon. "Gentleman," he announced, "I have deciphered the meaning of these scrolls." He studied the starled faces of the crew, with a solemn frown on his (concluded on page 15)