Astounding British Edition, Vol. 6, No. 8 — page 32: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

30 ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION seemed to throb inside my head, setting up _a vibration, a burning, in the brain tissue. Imagine Puccini’s “Recondita Armonia” re-orchestrated by Stravinsky then _ re- arranged by Honneger, played by fifty symphony orchestras in the Hollywood Bowl, and you might begin to get the idea. I was getting too much of it. Did I say music was my hobby? Certainly—but the onl’ instrument I play is the harmonica. Quite well, too. And with a microphone, I can make lots of nice noise. A microphone—and plenty of amplifiers. I pulled the harmonica from my pocket, took a deep breath, and whooped into “Tiger Rag,” my. favorite party-piece. A stunning blast-wave of jubilant jazz, riffs, tiger-growls and tremolo discords from the tiny mouth organ, crashed into the vast hall from the amplifiers, completely swamp- ing Craswell’s mad music. . I heard his agonized shout even above the din. His tastes in music were evidently not as catholic as mine. He didn’t like jazz. The music-machine quavered, the multi- limbed organists, ludicrous in their haste to escape from an unreal doom, shrank, withered to scuttling black beetles: the lighting effects that had sprayed a rich, unearthly effulgence over the consoles died away into pastel, blue gloom; then the great machine itself, caught in swirl upon wave of augmented chords complemented and reinforced by its own outpourings, shivered into fragments, poured in a chaotic stream over the floor of the hall. I heard Craswell shout again, then the scene changed abruptly. I assumed that, in his desire to blot out the triumphant paean _ of jazz from his mind, and perhaps in an unconscious attempt to confuse me, he had skipped a part of his plot and, in the opposite of the flash-back beloved of screen writers, shot himself forward. We were— somewhere else. Perhaps it was the inferiority complex I was inducing, or in the transition he had for- gotten how tall he was supposed to be, but he was now a mere six feet, nearer my own height. He was so hoarse, I nearly suggested a gargle. “I. ..I left you in the Hall of Madness... Your magic caused the roof to collapse. I thought you were—killed.” So the flash-forward wasn’t just an attempt to confuse me. He’d tried to lose me, write me out of the script altogether. I shook my head. “Wishful thinking, Cras- well old man,” I said reproachfully.=“You can’t kill me off between chapters. You see, I'm not one of your characters at all. Haven't you grasped that yet? The only way you can get rid of me is by waking up.” there was little confidence in his voice, The place in which we stood was a great, high-vaulted chamber. The lighting effects— as I was coming to expect—were unusual _ and admirable—many colored shafts or radiance from unseen sources, slowly moving, meeting and merging at the farther end of the chamber in a white, circular blaze which seemed to be suspended. over a throne- like structure. Craswell’s size-concepts were stupendous. He'd either. studied the biggest cathedrals in Europe, or he was reared inside Grand Central Station. The throne was apparently a good half-mile away, over a completely bare but softly-resilient floor. Yet it was coming nearer. We were not walking. I looked at the walls, realized that the floor itself, a gigantic endless belt, was carrying us along. The slow, inexorable movement was im- pressive. I was aware that Craswell was covertly glancing at me. He was anxious that I should be impressed. I replied by speeding up the belt a trifle’ He didn’t appear to notice. He said: ““We approach the Throne of the Snake, before which, his protector and disciple, stands the female magician and sorceress, Garor. Against her, we shall need all your strange skilis,.Nelpar, for she stands invulnerable within an invisible shield of pure force. 3 “You must destroy that barrier, that I may slay her with the Sword, Without her, the Snake, though her master and self- proclaimed master of this world, is power- less, and he will be at our mercy.” The belt came to a halt. We were at the foot of a broad stairway leading to the throne itself, a massive metal platform on which the Snake reposed beneath a brilliant bail of light. The Snake was—a snake. Coil on coil of overgrown python, with an evil head the size of a football swaying slowly from side to side. Sees I spent little time looking at it. I’ve seen snakes before. And there was something worth much more prolonged study standing just below and slightly to one side of the throne. ee : Craswell’s taste in feminine pulchritude was unimpeachable. I had half-expected an ancient, withered horor, but if Flo Ziegfield had seen this baby, he’d have been scram- bling up those steps waving a contract, force- shield or no force-shield, before you could get out the first glissando of a wolf-whistle. She was a tall, oval-faced, green-eyed brunette, with everything just so, and nothing much in the way of covering—a scanty metal chest-protector and a_ knee-length, filmy green skirt. She had a tiny, delightful mole on her left cheek. = There was a curious touch of pride in Craswell’s voice as he said, rather. unneces- sarily: “We are here, Garor,” and looked at me expectantly. (COPMIC OO) KSeeO