the Blonde from Barsoom

                          By ROBERT F. YOUNG

                        Illustrated by SUMMERS

            _The Tarks were attacking, the bosomy princess
            was clinging to him in terror, and Harold Smith
             realized he was at the end of his plot-line.
              What a dilemma! And what an opportunity!!_

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
                      Amazing Stories July 1962.
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


For the most part, all Harold Worthington Smith's Martian stories
ever netted him were standard rejection slips, but every now and then
one or another of the editors to whom he submitted them would pen him
a brief note to the effect that his writing indicated an unusually
vivid imagination. However, they invariably added, his dialogue was
stilted, his heroines were dimensionally impossible, and his stories
were wish-fulfillment reveries in a Burroughs vein--unredeemed,
unfortunately, by Burroughs' high-flown puritanical idealism.

Harold agreed with them wholeheartedly on point no. 1. Thanks to
his ability to achieve total identification with his protagonists,
he did have an unusually vivid imagination. Take this very minute,
for instance: His main character--Thon Carther the Earthman--was
standing on the ocher moss of the Martian dead-sea bottom beside the
big-breasted blond princess whom he had rescued from Tarkia some two
thousand words ago, fearlessly awaiting the oncoming horde of Tarks.
But it wasn't really Thon Carther who was standing there, it was Harold
Worthington Smith--a tall, tanned and handsome Harold Worthington
Smith, to be sure, but Harold Worthington Smith just the same.

On points no. 2 and 3, however--be it said forthwith--he did not agree.
He had, moreover, written to the editors in question and said so. A
Burroughs influence, he had said, was an essential ingredient in the
makeup of any science-fiction writer, and he was reasonably certain
that he didn't exhibit one any more than half a dozen other scribes he
could name. And as for his heroines being dimensionally impossible,
such an attitude merely betrayed an inherent geocentricism: simply
because 46-21-46 females didn't exist on Earth was no reason to take it
for granted that they didn't exist on Mars. (He discreetly avoided any
reference to point no. 4: there were times when he wondered about his
dialogue himself.)

       *       *       *       *       *

It was a warm afternoon in August. His wife had gone to visit her
sister, giving him temporary respite from her nagging, and there was no
sound in the apartment except the steady hum of the electric fan and
the sporadic clacking of the ancient typewriter. Altogether it was one
of those rare moments when it was possible for his imagination to take
over completely. It was, in fact, though he was not yet aware of it,
the climactic moment in his career as a creative writer.

The Tark horde was rapidly closing in, and Thon Carther/Harold
Worthington Smith decided it was high time he drew his sword.
_Clackety-clack-clack._ The blond princess, who hailed from the triple
cities of Hydrogen and whose name was Thejah Doris, moved closer to
him, and her golden shoulder brushed his sinewy arm. A tingling phalanx
of thrills charged up and down his backbone. _Clack-clackety-clack.
Clack!_

"Fear not, my princess," he said. "This noble sword has tasted the
blood of many a Tark and is keen for the taste of the blood of many
more!"

"My chieftain," she breathed, moving even closer.

He hefted the big sword, and the rays of the declining sun danced
brightly on its burnished surface. For all its size, it was as light as
a yardstick in his big brown masculine hand. The foremost Tark rider
was very close now. Startlingly close, Thon-Smith realized with a
start--and startlingly realistic. The malevolent green features stood
out with dismaying clarity, and the tusks of the elongated eyeteeth
gleamed with terrifying vividness.

Wildly Thon-Smith felt for his typewriter. Next he felt for his desk.
Finally he looked around him for the familiar walls of the apartment.
They, too, had disappeared. A shudder shot through his tall, tanned
body. Something awful had happened.

Something even more awful was going to happen if he didn't do
something and do it soon, for the Tarks, looming building-tall astride
their six-legged mounts, were almost upon them. He remembered the plot
just in time, and seizing Thejah Doris around her slender waist, he
gave a mighty leap that carried them--thanks to the tenuous Martian
gravity--over the entire green horde to a resilient section of the
dead-sea bottom a hundred feet behind the rearmost rider. It was, he
reflected, somewhat of a _deus ex machina_ stratagem now that he came
to think of it; but now was no time to be hyper-critical.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Tark horde had become a milling mass of chlorophyllic bodies,
white tusks and squealing mounts. The warriors in the front ranks had
tele-reined their toats before those in the middle ranks had wised
up to what had happened, and those in the rear ranks still hadn't
wised up. Chaos reigned. Thon-Smith was not slow to take advantage
of the situation which he had so fortuitously provided. He was still
upset over his missing typewriter, his missing desk, and his missing
apartment, not to mention his missing civilization, but there would be
time for reconnaissance later. Right now there was the little matter of
Escape to be taken care of.

Briefly he referred to his mental synopsis of the plot. Oh, yes, there
was an atmosphere boat hidden in the mound of desiccated algae before
which his leap had conveniently terminated. (Another _deus ex machina_
stratagem, he thought with annoyance; but again he reminded himself
that now was no time to be quibbling over the literary aspects of the
situation.)

"Come, my princess," he said, taking Thejah Doris' arm.

"Lead on, my chieftain!"

The atmosphere boat was there, just as he had visualized it. After
uncovering it, they boarded its narrow deck, and soon they were
rising into the darkening sky, once again thwarting the Tarks, who
had reorganized their ranks and were charging with redoubled ferocity
toward the mound.

Thejah Doris lay down beside him on the comfortable pilot's couch. "At
last we are alone!" she breathed in her Martian-Hungarian accent.

Reconnaissance could wait, Thon-Smith decided quickly. There were worse
fates after all than writing oneself so completely into one's stories
that one could not extricate oneself. "My princess," he said, directing
the prow of the atmosphere boat toward the littoral of an ancient
continent and slipping his arm beneath her bare shoulders.

Immediately there came a frenzied scratching from the small forward
cabin, and before he could even gain his feet a great eight-legged
creature with multi-fanged, slavering jaws leaped upon him and began
caressing his face with its long tongue. His faithful Droola! He
winced. He'd forgotten all about his faithful watchdog. But a plot was
a plot, and like any other scheme of things you had to go along with
it. "Droola," he said. "Good old faithful Droola!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Presently the nearer moon appeared and began its hurtling journey
across the night sky. Stars winked into cold clean brightness. The
atmosphere boat reached the mainland, floated over shadow-filled
ravines and moon-kissed hilltops. The argent ribbon of a canal showed
in the distance.

Thon-Smith's heartbeat quickened as he thought of the next sequence. He
could hardly wait till the canal was beneath them, till the time came
to guide the boat down to the argent sward that bordered the farther
bank. He stepped lightly down to the soft turf and lifted Thejah Doris
down beside him. He answered her questioning eyes: "A swim will refresh
us, my princess. It will sharpen our senses and re-double our chances
of eluding our persistent pursuers."

"But I cannot swim, my chieftain."

The externals did not call for a leer at this point; nevertheless, he
had a hard time averting one. "Fear not, my princess," he said. "I,
Thon Carther, will instruct you."

They walked together to the bank and stood there hand in hand. Behind
them, Droola leaped from the deck and went romping up and down the
esplanade. The nearer moon was high in the sky now, and the farther
moon was just beginning to show above the hills. "First," Thon-Smith
said, "we must remove our accouterments. They will weigh us down in the
water and make movement well nigh impossible."

"All of them, my chieftain?"

"Yes, my princess, all of them."

She raised her hand to the gossamer thread that held her Martian
equivalent of a halter in place. Abruptly the muffled thunder of padded
toat hooves sounded in the distance.

Her hand dropped like a stone. "The Tarks!" she cried. "Oh, my
chieftain, the mortal enemies of my people are close upon our heels!"

He choked back his disappointment. How could he have forgotten? He, the
author, the creator! "Quickly," he said, seizing her arm. "Into the
atmosphere boat. The canal will not stop them!"

       *       *       *       *       *

By the time they gained the deck the foremost rank of the Tark horde
had reached the opposite bank. The green warriors did not pause for so
much as a second, but goaded their mounts into the water. Once in the
canal, Tark and toat became as one, and the horde took on the aspect
of a school of gigantic green porpoises, leaping in and out of the
water with incredible swiftness, reaching the other bank in a matter
of minutes. But by then Thon-Smith and Thejah Doris were rising once
again into the night sky. The romping Droola discovered their departure
just in time, and with a mighty leap managed to gain the after deck and
scramble to safety.

As soon as the craft gained sufficient altitude Thon-Smith threw it
into fast-flight and aligned the prow with the canal bank. The cool
night air became a cold wind and the countryside blurred beneath them.
He maintained the speed till he was sure their pursuers could no
longer overtake them, then he cut down to slowflight and returned his
attention to Thejah Doris.

She was lying on her side, gazing at him admiringly. Again he slipped
his arm beneath her shoulders, but he had no sooner done so when
Droola, still shivering from the wind of fast-flight, bounded forward
and snuggled between them.

The interruption was essential to the story's word count, but just the
same it was frustrating. Even Thejah Doris looked put out, though she
didn't say anything. Instead, she turned and reclined upon her back,
hands clasped behind her head, and let the two moons vie with one
another to do justice to her charms. It was an interesting contest to
watch, and soon Thon-Smith became engrossed. He became so engrossed, in
fact, that he failed to see the tower till it was too late.

It was a tall tower--remarkably tall when you considered the altitude
of the atmosphere boat. He yanked the tiller savagely, but their
momentum was too great, and a moment later the bow crumpled against
stone. The deck tilted abruptly, and he barely managed to grab Thejah
Doris before she tumbled over the low rail, and it was all he could do
to maintain his balance till the rapidly sinking craft came opposite
the dark aperture of a window. He leaped lightly to the sill, his
Martian princess in his arms, and stepped into the musty gloom of a
lofty chamber.

       *       *       *       *       *

The faithful Droola was not so fortunate. It essayed the leap, but
missed the sill by a good two feet. (He'd been planning on getting rid
of Droola for a long time.) Dutifully he listened for the sound of the
faithful body striking the ground, but when, an appropriate time later,
the sound came, he could not summon the emotional response which the
plot called for. All he could manage was a sort of vague contrition
which was immediately negated by the realization that at last he and
Thejah Doris were really alone.

She had discovered tapers on the dusty shelves that lined one wall of
the chamber, and now she lit three of them and set them upon the rough
wooden table that stood in the middle of the stone floor. "There is
nothing to fear, my chieftain," she said. "This is one of the deserted
locktowers once maintained by the ancient Mii when Mars was young
and great barges plied her blue canals. Above us is the control room
itself, from which the mighty locks, now rusted and fallen to ruin,
were manipulated by the ancient Miian tenders. Now the towers stand
silent and forlorn, the havens of occasional wandering bards who find
the lofty rooms and empty echoing stairways conducive to their search
for the ever-elusive Muse."

He stared at her. It was, he had to admit, rather incongruous
phraseology to be issuing from the lips of a blonde who, for all her
royal blood, still looked more like a burlesque queen than she did a
princess. Well, no matter. "You look lovely by candlelight," he said.

"You are very gallant, my chieftain."

She lit another candle and went over and placed it in a wall niche
beside an ancient sleeping couch. She turned and faced him. "At last we
are alone."

He started toward her, arms outstretched. Simultaneously the thunder of
padded toat hooves sounded in the distance.

"The Tarks!" Thejah Doris cried, eluding him and running to the window.
"They've seen our light! Oh, my chieftain, the mortal enemies of my
people threaten us once again!"

"Oh, for Pete's sake!" Thon-Smith said, throwing up his hands. "No
wonder my stories get bounced!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Resignedly he went over and joined her at the window. Sure enough, the
Tark horde was back in the running again. Wearily he explored his mind
for the next sequence. All he could find were the words, END OF PART
ONE. That was when he remembered that he'd been trying his hand at a
serial and had neglected to plot it beyond the first installment.

"Oh, my chieftain, what are we going to do?"

He did not answer. He was thinking--thinking furiously. If a writer
could write himself so completely into a story that he became
physically involved in it, was there any reason why he couldn't
extricate himself by writing a factual account of his real life?

It was worth a try. The alternative was to plot Installment Two, and
somehow he didn't feel quite up to it. Installment One had been rather
an enervating experience.

Abruptly another thought struck him: _Why a factual account?_

He remembered his dingy little apartment, his dilapidated typewriter,
his collection of rejection slips, his nagging, flat-chested
wife--Suddenly he looked at Thejah Doris standing beside him with
heaving breast, anxiously watching the relentless approach of the Tarks.

Why a factual account indeed!

He concentrated. When he had the plot firmly fixed in his mind he
sat down at the table to write. A momentary crises arose. There was
no paper, no pen, not even a pencil. Then he remembered what Thejah
Doris had said about the wandering bards, and he began searching for a
drawer. Even Martian poets needed something to write on. Presently he
found one and pulled it out. Sure enough, it contained several sheets
of parchment-like paper, a long quill pen and a small vial of black
fluid.

The thunder of padded toat hooves was growing louder by the minute.
"Oh, my chieftain, what are we going to do!" Thejah Doris cried again.

"We're going to swap serials," Thon-Smith said, and began to write.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was a fine bright morning. Harold Worthington Smith awoke late and
lay for a while watching the robins flitting among the branches of
the box elder outside his bedroom window. Then he got up and slipped
leisurely into his lounging robe. Yawning, he stepped across the hall
to his study. Below him in the kitchen his wife was humming happily,
and he could smell coffee perking, wheatcakes frying and sausage
sizzling.

He entered his study and walked over to the desk. He sat down. There
were three long thin letters lying beside his solid gold typewriter
where his wife had placed them. He opened them nonchalantly. The
first one was from _The Edgar Rice Burroughs Reader_ and contained a
check for $750.00, the second was from _Dead-Sea Bottom Stories_ and
contained a check for $2500.00, and the third was from _Red Planet
Stories_ and contained a check for $5000.00.

The phone rang. He picked it up. "HWS speaking."

"Good morning, sir. This is Parker, of _Mammalian Blonde Stories_.
Regarding that last piece you were kind enough to let us have a look
at, would $10,000.00 be--"

"Sorry," Harold Worthington Smith said, "I never discuss business
matters before breakfast. Call me back later."

_Click._

"Harold," his wife called from the foot of the stairs, "there's an
editor outside."

"Another one?"

"Yes. Shall I let him in?"

"I suppose so. Tell him I'll try to give him a minute while I'm having
my coffee."

He stacked the checks neatly and placed them on the large pile of
checks to the right of the gold typewriter. He made a mental note to
try to make the bank today. Checks were a nuisance when you let too
many of them accumulate. He threw the three long thin envelopes into
the wastebasket marked "Long Thin Envelopes." It was full again, he
noticed. He could have sworn he'd just emptied it a day or two ago.

His wife came running up the stairs. "Harold, two more editors just
drove up! Shall I let them in, too?"

"You might as well," Harold Worthington Smith said. "If you don't,
they'll just hang around the door all day and make a nuisance of
themselves." He looked at her critically. She'd come through remarkably
well. If anything she was even better stacked than she'd been before.
"Tell them I'll be down presently, princess. And put some clothes on.
For now," he added.

After she had gone he looked the study over carefully. When he was sure
that no traces of his previous reality were present he descended slowly
and majestically to the hall where the three editors humbly awaited him.


                                THE END