Malevolently evil spawn of the dead-blackest, zero coldest regions of utterly outer space, the demoniac aliens came -- leaving blasted planets like shriveled eggplants in their flaming wake. Only one man stood between civilization and chaos -- a man whose superhuman powers were unique, but whose philosophy was: "What -- me worry?"

Stars of the Slave Giants

by
CALVIN AAARGH

First of Four Parts

PROLOGUE

Floyd Scrilch was the sort of man who made the heavens tremble when he walked. Across the blazing skies he cut a swath of fire, back in the early days of space travel when men were men and the sense of wonder yet endured.

This is his story the immortal saga of Floyd Scrilch, startossed hero of a thousand adventures. Read it and sigh, you Earthlubbers! Read it and know that here lived a man -- proud and lonely, spitting defiance at the contemptuous stars till the tragic day the mad dogs kneed him in the groin. Read it!

You might as well; you've already bought the mag.

CHAPTER ONE

Dark Doom

Black clouds swept across the chocolate-hued horizon as Floyd Scrilch brought his spaceship Rosebud to a landing. He swung down the catwalk, knife between his teeth, sword in one hand, gun in the other, waving his speer aloft.

"Ho, Green Ones!" he cried. As he spoke, the knife slipped from between his clenched teeth and dropped dizzyingly to the ground, embedding itself fiercely in the soft spongy muck of the alien world.

"An omen," remarked Kors Hack, the high priest of the Scaled People. "You drop your knife on Xfusian soil, Earthling. Just so will you shed your blood!"

"As well you know," observed Scrilch balefully, "I am not given to accepting insults of this sort. Defend yourself!"

And without further ado he plunged his flashing sword between the high priest's tightly-packed vertebrae.

"A hit! A hit! A palpable hit!" Scrilch exclaimed triumphantly.

"You lie in your teeth," Kors Hack sneered malevolently, plucking the sword from between his tightly packed vertebrae and hurling it to one side. Green ichor flowed revoltingly from the gaping wound, but the hiseous alien paid no attention and advanced relentlessly.

Schilch stood his ground. "If you kill me," he stated determinedly, "we will find ourselves at our wits end to find enough plot to fill the rest of this story."

"A questionable point," the priest commented coldly, and drove his dagger home.

Scrilch clutched at his throat, drew his hand away covered with blood. His blood.

"Alien, you will pay for this." he grated hemoglobically, as he sank to the ground.

CHAPTER TWO

Mutiny on the Bounty

Slowly and painfully, Scrilch leaped to his feet. He was mightily pained by the wound in his throat, but he shrugged the agony off light-heartedly and began freeing his feet of the cement globes attached to them. This task concluded, he began to swim to the surface.

"Avast there!" someone shouted.

Scrilch blinked; his eyes, unaccustomed to the sunlight, wavered, finally focussed and observed the awe-inspiring figure to the starboard.

"What are ye doing in the sea, Lubber?"

"Drowning," Scrilch muttered, and shrewdly allowed himself to slip beneath the waves. Immediately the vibration of the water told him that the captain of the ship nearby was rapidly making toward him. Scrilch allowed himself to drift helplessly.

Strong arms lifted him, pulled him up. He lay gasping on the deck while figures hovered around him.

"What be your name, Earthling?" the alien asked.

"Gosseyn," Scrilch improvised desperately. "Norbert Gosseyn. I -- I was on Venus, you see, and --"

"Tell it to the judge," the alien hissed sibilantly. "How came you by that scar on your throat?"

"This?" Scrilch asked casually, putting one hand to his throat and negligently massaging his exposed phanynx? "A mere scratch," he remarked. A sudden savage fire lit his eye and he said, "Kors Hack, the high priest?"

"My brother," the seacaptain said, "We're not on very good terms."

"You are, then, Eshb Hack?" Scrilch aspired interrogatingly. "The very same," the captain replied affirmatively.

"Excellent," Scrilch responded enthusiastically. "For you are the very man whom I quest!" Drawing his gun, he advanced rapidly upon the loathsome figure of the alien.

"Quarter me this pig," Eshb Hack ultimated imperiously. Four burly crewmen stepped forward to block the onward motion of Floyd Scrilch.

"Out of my way," Scrilch ordered.

The crewmen paid no attention. They lifted their shimmering swords of finest damascus steel high overhead, chanting their savage alien war cries.

"Aliens, you will pay for this," Scrilch rasped threateningly, as the four razor-keen blades descended implacably.

TO BE CONTINUED

--- Bob Silverberg
(October, 1956)

Data entry by Judy Bemis
Hard copy provided by Geri Sullivan

Data entry by Judy Bemis

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