I did as he said and waited two months (the minimum time I could interpret as “some months”) and brought in the fourth version on August 8.
This time, Campbell hesitated over it till September 6, and then rejected it permanently on the ground that Robert A. Heinlein had just submitted an important short novel (later published as “If This Goes On-”) that had a religious theme. Since “Pilgrimage” also had a religious theme, John couldn’t use it. Two stories on so sensitive a subject in rapid succession were one too many.
I had written the story four times, but I saw Campbell’s point. Campbell said Heinlein’s story was the better of the two and I could see that an editor could scarcely be expected to take the worse and reject the better simply because writing the worse had been such hard work.
There was nothing, however, to prevent me from trying to sell it elsewhere. I kept trying for two years, during which time I rewrote it twice more and retitled it “Galactic Crusade.”
Eventually I sold it to another of the magazines that were springing up in the wake of Campbell’s success with Astounding . This was Planet Stories , which during the 1940s was to make its mark as a home for the “space opera,” the blood-and-thunder tale of interplanetary war. My story was of this type, and the editor of Planet , Malcolm Reiss, was attracted.
The religious angle worried him, too, however. Would I go through the story, he asked during luncheon on August 18, 1941, and remove any direct reference to religion. Would I, in particular, refrain from referring to any of my characters as “priests.” Sighing, I agreed, and the story was revised for a sixth time. On October 7, 1941, he accepted it and, after two and a half years that included ten rejections, the story was finally placed.
But, having put me to the trouble of that particular remove-the-religion revision, what did Reiss do? Why, he retitled it (without consulting me, of course) and called the story “Black Friar of the Flame.”
I might mention two points about this story before presenting it.
First, it was the only story I ever sold to Planet .
Second, it was illustrated by Frank R. Paul. Paul was the most prominent of all the science fiction illustrators of the pre-Campbell era, and, to the best of my knowledge, this is the only time our paths crossed professionally.
I did see him once from a distance, though. On July 2, 1939, I attended the First World Science Fiction Convention, which was held in Manhattan. Frank Paul was guest of honor. It was the first occasion on which I was publicly recognized as a professional, rather than as merely a fan. With three published stories under my belt (“Trends” had just appeared) I was pushed up to the platform to take a bow. Campbell was sitting in an aisle seat and he waved me toward the platform delightedly, I remember.
I said a few words, referring to myself as the “worst science fiction writer unlynched.” I didn’t mean it, of course, and I doubt that anyone thought for a moment that I did.
Black Friar of the Flame
Russell Tymball’s eyes were filled with gloomy satisfaction as they gazed at the blackened ruins of what had been a cruiser of the Lhasinuic Fleet a few hours before. The twisted girders, scattered in all directions, were ample witness of the terrific force of the crash.
The pudgy Earthman re-entered his own sleek Strato-rocket and waited. Fingers twisted a long cigar aimlessly for minutes before lighting it. Through the up-drifting smoke, his eyes narrowed and he remained lost in thought
He came to his feet at the sound of a cautious hail. Two men darted in with one last fugitive glance behind them. The door closed softly, and one stepped immediately to the controls. The desolate desert landscape was far beneath them almost at once, and the silver prow of the Strato-rocket pointed for the ancient metropolis of New York.
Minutes passed before Tymball spoke, “All clear?”
The man at the controls nodded. “Not a tyrant ship about. It’s quite evident the ‘Grahul’ had not been able to radio for help.”
“You have the dispatch?” the other asked eagerly.
“We found it easily enough. It is unharmed.”
“We also found,” said the second man bitterly, “one other thing-the last report of Sidi Peller.”
For a moment, Tymball’s round face softened and something almost like pain entered his expression. And then it hardened again, “He died! But it was for Earth, and so it was not death. It was martyrdom!”
Silence, and then sadly, “Let me see the report, Petri.”
He took the single, folded sheet handed him and held it before him. Slowly, he read aloud:
“On September 4, made successful entry into ‘Grahul’ cruiser of the tyrant fleet. Maintained self in hiding during passage from Pluto to Earth. On September 5, located dispatch in question and assumed possession. Have just shorted rocket jets. Am sealing this report in with dispatch. Long live Earth!”
Tymball’s voice was strangely moved as he read the last word. “The Lhasinuic tyrants have never martyrized a greater man than Sidi Peller. But we’ll be repaid, and with interest The Human Race is not quite decadent yet.”
Petri stared out the window. “How did Peller do it all? One man-to stow away successfully upon a cruiser of the fleet and in the face of the entire crew to steal the dispatch and wreck the fleet. How was it done? And we’ll never know; except for the bare facts in his report.”
“He had his orders,’“ said Willums, as he locked controls and turned about. “I carried them to him on Pluto myself. Get the dispatch! Wreck the ‘Grahul’ in the Gobi! He did it! That’s all!” He shrugged his shoulders wearily.
The atmosphere of depression deepened until Tymball himself broke it was a growl. “Forget it. Did you take care of everything at the wreck?”
The other two nodded in unison. Petri’s voice was businesslike, “All traces of Peller were removed and de-atomized. They will never detect the presence of a Human among the wreckage. The document itself was replaced by the prepared copy, and carefully burnt beyond recognition. It was even impregnated with silver salts to the exact amount contained in the official seal of the Tyrant Emperor. I’ll stake my head that no Lhasinu will suspect that the crash was no accident or that the dispatch was not destroyed by it.”
“Good! They won’t locate the wreck for twenty-four hours at least. It’s an airtight job. Let me have the dispatch now.”
He fondled the metalloid container almost with reverence. It was blackened and twisted, still faintly warm. And then with a savage twist of the wrist, he tore off the lid.
The document that he lifted out unrolled with a rustling sound. At the lower left hand corner was the huge silver seal of the Lhasinuic Emperor himself-the tyrant, who from Vega, ruled one third of the Galaxy. It was addressed to the Viceroy of Sol.
The three Earthmen regarded the fine print solemnly. The harshly angular Lhasinuic script glinted redly in the rays of the setting sun.
“Was I right?” whispered Tymball.
“As always,” assented Petri.
Night did not really fall. The sky’s black-purple deepened ever so slightly and the stars brightened imperceptibly, but aside from that the stratosphere did not differentiate between the absence and the presence of the sun.
“Have you decided upon the next step?” asked Willums, hesitantly.
“Yes-long ago. I’m going to visit Paul Kane tomorrow, with this,” and he indicated the dispatch.
“ Loara Paul Kane!” cried Petri.
“That-that Loarist !” came simultaneously from Willums. “The Loarist,” agreed Tymball. “He is our man!”