carried in its by-line the name E. Everett Evans. Of all Smith’s army of admirers, this one-time secretary of The
Galactic Roamers fan club was the most constant, and when he died leaving this novel unfinished, Smith revised it
completely.
The affection in which “The Doc” was held by the science fiction fraternity was demonstrated when, in 1963, at the
21st World Convention in Washington-where The Skylark was hatched-veteran fans presented him with their Hall
of Fame award. By then he was having trouble with his eyes, but he had still not done with writing. The following
year he reappeared in If with The Imperial Stars, in which he tried to recapture some of the atmosphere of the
“Lensman” stories. This tale, too, gave promise of a series featuring a troupe of circus performers involved in
sabotage in a galactic empire. Then editor Frederik Pohl, having egged him on, surprised Smith’s old-time
followers by presenting Skylark DuQuesne, in which the legendary villain who had been dispatched thirty years
before was reincarnated, and compelled to join Dick Seaton in resisting another grim menace from afar. The serial
had hardly ended when the news reached his friends, in August 1965, that “Skylark” Smith had died of a heart attack.
It was the end of what If had called “the most famous science fiction saga of all time.”
WALTER GILLINGS Ilford, Essex, 1975.
TO THE FAR REACHES OF SPACE
Hair-raising explorations and strange ventures into faraway worlds as Man breaks the light-speed barrier
and heads into the black depths of interstellar space.
For forty-eight hours the uncontrolled engine dragged DuQuesne’s vessel through the empty reaches of space with
an awful and constantly increasing velocity. Then, when only a few traces of copper remained, the acceleration
began to decrease. Floor and seats began to return to their normal positions. When the last particle of copper was
gone, the ship’s speed became constant. Apparently motionless to those inside her, she was in reality moving with a
velocity thousands of times greater than that of light.
DuQuesne was the first to gain control of himself. His first effort to get up lifted him from the floor and he
floated lightly upward to the ceiling, striking it with a gentle bump and remaining, motionless and unsupported, in
the air. The others, none of whom had attempted to move, stared at him in amazement.
DuQuesne reached out, clutched a hand-grip, and drew himself down to the floor. With great caution he removed
his suit, transferring two automatic pistols as be did so. By feeling gingerly of his body he found that no bones
were broken. Only then did he look around to see how his companions were faring.
They were all sitting up and holding onto something. The girls were resting quietly; Perkins was removing his
leather costume.
“Good morning, Dr. DuQuesne. Something must have happened when I kicked your friend.”
“Good morning, Miss Vaneman.” DuQuesne smiled, more than half in relief. “Several things happened. He fell into
the controls, turning on all the juice, and we left considerably faster than I intended to. I tried to get control, but
couldn’t. Then we all went to sleep and just woke up.” “Have you any idea where we are?”
“No . . . but I can make a fair estimate.” He glanced at the empty chamber where the copper cylinder had been; took
out notebook, pencil, and slide rule; and figured for minutes.
He then drew himself to one of the windows and stared out, then went to another window, and another. He seated
himself at the crazily tilted control board and studied it. He worked the computer for a few moments.
“I don’t know exactly what to make of this,” he told Dorothy, quietly. “Since the power was on exactly fortyeight
hours, we should not be more than two light-days away from our sun. However, we certainly are. I could recognize
at least some of the fixed stars and constellations from anywhere within a light-year or so of Sol, and I can’t find
even one familiar thing. Therefore we must have been accelerating all the time. We must be somewhere in the
neighborhood of two hundred thirty-seven light-years away from home. For you two who don’t know what a
light-year is, about six quadrillion-six thousand million millionmiles.”
Dorothy’s face turned white; Margaret Spencer fainted; Perkins merely goggled, his face working convulsively.
“Then we’ll never get back?” Dorothy asked.
“I wouldn’t say that–”
“You got us into this!” Perkins screamed, and leaped at Dorothy, murderous fury in his glare, his fingers curved
into talons. Instead of reaching her, however, he merely sprawled grotesquely in the air. DuQuesne, braced one
foot against the wall and seizing a hand-grip with his left hand, knocked Perkins clear across the room with one
blow of his right.
“None of that, louse,” DuQuesne said, evenly. “One more wrong move out of you and I’ll throw you out. It isn’t her
fault we’re here, it’s our own. And mostly yours-if you’d had three brain cells working she couldn’t have kicked you.
But that’s past. The only thing of interest now is getting back.”
“But we can’t get back,” Perkins whimpered. “Me power’s gone, the controls are wrecked, and you said you’re lost.”
“I did not.” DuQuesne’s voice was icy. “What I said was that I don’t know where we are-a different statement
entirely.”
“Isn’t that a distinction without a difference?” Dorothy asked acidly.
“By no means, Miss Vaneman. I can repair the control board. I have two extra power bars. One of them, with
direction exactly reversed, will stop us, relative to the earth. I’ll bum half of the last one, then coast until, by recog-
nizing fixed stars and triangulating them, I can fix our position. I will then know where our solar system is and will
go there. In the meantime, I suggest that we have something to eat.”
“A beautiful and timely thought!” Dorothy exclaimed. “I’m famished. Where’s your refrigerator? But something else
comes first. I’m a mess, and she must be, too. Where’s our room … that is, we have a room?”
“Yes. That one, and there’s the galley, over there. We’re cramped, but you’ll be able to make out. Let me say, Miss
Vaneman, that I really admire your nerve. I didn’t expect that lunk to disintegrate the way he did, but I thought you
girls might. Miss Spencer will, yet, unless you . . .”
“I’ll try to. I’m scared, of course, but falling apart won’t help … and we’ve simply got to get back.’
“We will. Two of us, at least.”
Dorothy nudged the other girl, who had not paid any attention to anything around her, and led her along a handrail.
As she went, she could not help but think-with more than a touch of admiration-of the man who had abducted her.
Calm, cool, master of himself and the situation, disregarding completely the terrible bruises that disfigured half
his face and doubtless half his body as well-she admitted to herself that it was only his example which had enabled
her to maintain her self-control.
As she crawled over Perkins’ suit she remembered that he had not taken any weapons from it, and a glance assured
her that Perkins was not watching her. She searched it quickly, finding two automatics. She noted with relief that
they were standard .45’s and stuck them into her pockets.
In the room, Dorothy took one look at the other girl, then went to the galley and back.
“Here, swallow this,” she ordered.
The girl did so. She shuddered uncontrollably, but did begin to come to life.
“That’s better. Now, snap out of it,” Dorothy said, sharply. “We aren’t dead and we aren’t going to be.”
“I am,” came the wooden reply. “You don’t know that beast Perkins.”
“I do so. And better yet, I know things that neither DuQuesne nor that Perkins even guess. Two of the smartest men
that ever lived are on our tail, and when they catch up with us . . . well, I wouldn’t be in their shoes for anything.”
“What?” Dorothy’s confident words and bearing, as much the potent pill, were taking effect. The strange girl was
coming back rapidly to sanity and normality. “Not really?”
“Really. We’ve got a lot to do, and we’ve got to clean up first. And with no weight . . . does it make you sick?” “It did,
dreadfully, but I’ve got nothing left to be sick with. Doesn’t it you?”
“Not very much. I don’t like it, but I’m getting used to it. And I don’t suppose you know anything about it.” “No. All I
can feel is that I’m falling, and it’s almost unbearable.”
“It isn’t pleasant. I’ve studied it a lot-in theory-and the boys say all you’ve got to do is forget that falling sensation.
Not that I’ve been able to do it, but I’m still trying. The first thing’s a bath, and then-”
“A bath! Here? How?”