Science Fiction
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Stowaway to Mars
A space opera set on Mars by one of the twentieth century's most brilliant-and neglected-science fiction and horror writers, whom Stephen King called "the best writer of science fiction that England has ever produced."
What if alien life-forms included autonomous, conscious machines?
An international prize is offered to the first man to complete an interplanetary journey. For British pilot Dale Curtance, it is the ultimate challenge; he must build a ship, assemble a top-notch crew, and beat the Russians and the Americans, too. Soon the Gloria Mundi heads for Mars. There's only one problem: a stowaway named Joan Shirning.
At first, the men resent Joan's presence. But they come to realize that she is the only one who has firsthand knowledge of the Martians-or at least the intelligent beings that will one day replace them. . . .
What if alien life-forms included autonomous, conscious machines?
An international prize is offered to the first man to complete an interplanetary journey. For British pilot Dale Curtance, it is the ultimate challenge; he must build a ship, assemble a top-notch crew, and beat the Russians and the Americans, too. Soon the Gloria Mundi heads for Mars. There's only one problem: a stowaway named Joan Shirning.
At first, the men resent Joan's presence. But they come to realize that she is the only one who has firsthand knowledge of the Martians-or at least the intelligent beings that will one day replace them. . . .
Editorial Reviews
Praise for John Wyndham
"The best writer of science fiction that England has ever produced."-Stephen King
"Wyndham was a true English visionary, a William Blake with a science doctorate."-David Mitchell
"[Wyndham] did more than any other British writer since H. G. Wells to make science fiction popular. . . . His plots, however fantastic, were characterized by inventiveness, clarity and a profound sympathy for mankind."-The New York Times
"[John Wyndham] singlehandedly invented a whole pile of sub-genres of science fiction. It's as if . . . he was plugged in to the world's subconscious fears and articulated them one by one in short, amazingly readable novels."-Jo Walton
"The best writer of science fiction that England has ever produced."-Stephen King
"Wyndham was a true English visionary, a William Blake with a science doctorate."-David Mitchell
"[Wyndham] did more than any other British writer since H. G. Wells to make science fiction popular. . . . His plots, however fantastic, were characterized by inventiveness, clarity and a profound sympathy for mankind."-The New York Times
"[John Wyndham] singlehandedly invented a whole pile of sub-genres of science fiction. It's as if . . . he was plugged in to the world's subconscious fears and articulated them one by one in short, amazingly readable novels."-Jo Walton
Readers Top Reviews
Mark SpeedSeventysev
A not-too-thrilling early novel from John Wyndham. It was probably cutting-edge in its time but it lacks any of the tremendous feats of imagination that marked his later novels. The only daring bit is the alien sex in the last couple of chapters.
Andrew RasanenGreg H
Written by a young, pre-Triffids Wyndham under the name John Beynon, this is a less well developed effort that nonetheless shows his talent. The plot is standard, with an attractive female stowaway joining an all-male crew on a race to be the first nation to land on Mars, but it's graced with original details and intelligent epithets such as "Mind is the control of brain by memory," and the fast-paced plot keeps you reading. The most interesting elements are the Martian landscape, the rusty berserk Martian robots, and the sad remains of the Martian people whose cities are like a series of empty rooms. When the story turns into a space romance, you understand why the stowaway had to be female. Wyndham always wrote with a sure hand, and that was no less true of this early effort than of his later, better novels.
DKMichael David Newt
Wyndham has written much better stuff, but you can still feel the Wyndham charm on occassion. Probably best left for only the most die hard of Wyndham fans. The kindle edition, however, is poorly prepared. I own a physical copy of the book and the two can hardly be compared -- all formatting has essentially been lost in the kindle edition; medium and long dashes (--) have vanished as well, resulting in conversation with sentences that bleed together without boundaries.
Short Excerpt Teaser
1
Death of a Stranger
Jake Reilly, the nightwatchman, made his usual round without any apprehension of danger. He was even yawning as he left the laboratory wing and came into the main assembly hangar. For a moment he paused on the threshold, looking at the structure in the center of the floor. He wondered vaguely how they were getting on with it. Mighty long job, building a thing like that. It hadn't looked any different for months, as far as he could see.
But Jake could not see far. The towering object of his inspection was so closely scaffolded that only here and there could the dim lights filter between the poles to be reflected back from a polished metal surface.
"Workin' inside it mostly, now, I s'pose," he told himself.
He switched on his lamp and let its white beam wander about inquisitively. The floor plan of this, the central part of the building, was circular. Around the walls, lathes, power drills and other light machine tools were disposed at intervals. The constructional work cut off his view of the opposite wall, and he moved round it, conscientiously conducting his search. He let his light play upward, sweeping the narrow gallery which circled the wall and noticing that the doors giving upon it were all shut. He sent the beam still higher, above the level of the dim, shaded lights, to the distant roof. There was a criss-crossing of heavy girders up there, supporting huge pulley blocks. The cables and chains depending from them came curving down, looped back out of the way now onto iron hooks on the walls. He tilted his lamp so that its bright circle ran down the curved metal side again.
"Like bein' inside a blessed gasholder, that's what it is," he told himself, not for the first time. "Pile o' money that thing must've cost, and I don't s'pose it'll ever go."
A sudden sound caused him to stiffen. Somewhere there had been a faint clink of metal upon metal. He transferred his lamp to his left hand, and a large, black, businesslike pistol suddenly appeared in his right. He swung the light around, sweeping the dimmer parts of the place with its beam.
"Now then. 'Oo's there? Come out of it," he ordered.
There was no answer. His voice boomed round the metal wall, slowly diminishing into silence.
"Better come out quick. I got a gun," Jake told the dimness.
He began to back toward the door where the alarm button was situated. No good trying to get the man single-handed in here. Might chase him round and round that scaffolding for hours.
"Better come quiet, 'nless you want a bullet in you," he said.
But still there was no reply. He was in reach of the alarm now. He hesitated. It might have been only a rat. Better be sure than sorry, though. He hung the lamp on the little finger of his pistol hand and reached, without turning, for the switch.
There was a sudden "phut" somewhere in the shadows. Jake shuddered convulsively. The pistol and the lamp clattered together to the ground, and he slumped on top of them.
A dark figure slipped from behind the scaffolding and ran across the floor. It bent for a moment over the fallen watchman. Reassured, it dragged the body aside, and laid it inconspicuously behind one of the lathes. Returning, it kicked the lamp away, picked up the fallen pistol and slid it into its own pocket. For some seconds the dark figure stood silent and motionless, then, satisfied that there had been no alarm, it raised its arm and took steady aim at the nearest of the dim lamps. Four times came the muffled "phut" as of a stick hitting a cushion, and each time it was followed by a not very different sound as an electric globe collapsed into fragments. In the utter darkness followed clicks which told of a new magazine sliding into the pistol. Then, with a series of carefully shielded flashes, the intruder made his cautious way toward the central scaffolding.
A door of the balcony suddenly opened, letting a fan of light into the blackness.
"Hullo," said a voice, "what's happened to the lights? Where's that fool Reilly? Reilly! Where the devil are you?" it bawled.
The figure on the floor below delayed only an instant, then it raised its pistol against the man silhouetted in the doorway. Again came the muffled thud. The man above disappeared, and the door slammed shut. The man with the pistol muttered to himself as he continued on his way to the scaffolding.
He had barely reached it when a blaze of intense floodlighting threw every detail of the place into view. He looked round wildly, dazzled by the sudden glare, but he was still alone. Again he raised his pistol, training it on one of the blinding floods. "Phut!" There went one, now for the next-
But there was ...
Death of a Stranger
Jake Reilly, the nightwatchman, made his usual round without any apprehension of danger. He was even yawning as he left the laboratory wing and came into the main assembly hangar. For a moment he paused on the threshold, looking at the structure in the center of the floor. He wondered vaguely how they were getting on with it. Mighty long job, building a thing like that. It hadn't looked any different for months, as far as he could see.
But Jake could not see far. The towering object of his inspection was so closely scaffolded that only here and there could the dim lights filter between the poles to be reflected back from a polished metal surface.
"Workin' inside it mostly, now, I s'pose," he told himself.
He switched on his lamp and let its white beam wander about inquisitively. The floor plan of this, the central part of the building, was circular. Around the walls, lathes, power drills and other light machine tools were disposed at intervals. The constructional work cut off his view of the opposite wall, and he moved round it, conscientiously conducting his search. He let his light play upward, sweeping the narrow gallery which circled the wall and noticing that the doors giving upon it were all shut. He sent the beam still higher, above the level of the dim, shaded lights, to the distant roof. There was a criss-crossing of heavy girders up there, supporting huge pulley blocks. The cables and chains depending from them came curving down, looped back out of the way now onto iron hooks on the walls. He tilted his lamp so that its bright circle ran down the curved metal side again.
"Like bein' inside a blessed gasholder, that's what it is," he told himself, not for the first time. "Pile o' money that thing must've cost, and I don't s'pose it'll ever go."
A sudden sound caused him to stiffen. Somewhere there had been a faint clink of metal upon metal. He transferred his lamp to his left hand, and a large, black, businesslike pistol suddenly appeared in his right. He swung the light around, sweeping the dimmer parts of the place with its beam.
"Now then. 'Oo's there? Come out of it," he ordered.
There was no answer. His voice boomed round the metal wall, slowly diminishing into silence.
"Better come out quick. I got a gun," Jake told the dimness.
He began to back toward the door where the alarm button was situated. No good trying to get the man single-handed in here. Might chase him round and round that scaffolding for hours.
"Better come quiet, 'nless you want a bullet in you," he said.
But still there was no reply. He was in reach of the alarm now. He hesitated. It might have been only a rat. Better be sure than sorry, though. He hung the lamp on the little finger of his pistol hand and reached, without turning, for the switch.
There was a sudden "phut" somewhere in the shadows. Jake shuddered convulsively. The pistol and the lamp clattered together to the ground, and he slumped on top of them.
A dark figure slipped from behind the scaffolding and ran across the floor. It bent for a moment over the fallen watchman. Reassured, it dragged the body aside, and laid it inconspicuously behind one of the lathes. Returning, it kicked the lamp away, picked up the fallen pistol and slid it into its own pocket. For some seconds the dark figure stood silent and motionless, then, satisfied that there had been no alarm, it raised its arm and took steady aim at the nearest of the dim lamps. Four times came the muffled "phut" as of a stick hitting a cushion, and each time it was followed by a not very different sound as an electric globe collapsed into fragments. In the utter darkness followed clicks which told of a new magazine sliding into the pistol. Then, with a series of carefully shielded flashes, the intruder made his cautious way toward the central scaffolding.
A door of the balcony suddenly opened, letting a fan of light into the blackness.
"Hullo," said a voice, "what's happened to the lights? Where's that fool Reilly? Reilly! Where the devil are you?" it bawled.
The figure on the floor below delayed only an instant, then it raised its pistol against the man silhouetted in the doorway. Again came the muffled thud. The man above disappeared, and the door slammed shut. The man with the pistol muttered to himself as he continued on his way to the scaffolding.
He had barely reached it when a blaze of intense floodlighting threw every detail of the place into view. He looked round wildly, dazzled by the sudden glare, but he was still alone. Again he raised his pistol, training it on one of the blinding floods. "Phut!" There went one, now for the next-
But there was ...
