Part 32 (1/2)

We now skip seven years.

The Slans are up to their old tricks.

They raid his hideout in the sticks.

Poor Tommy's in an awful fix, In trouble to his ears.

With rays they blast his hideout, and He runs out into s.p.a.ce.

Although they have the upper hand; They're led a merry chase.

I hardly think I need to say That once again he gets away.

He does it twenty times a day; By now it's commonplace.

He goes to Mars because he thinks True Slans are hidden there.

He soon finds that idea stinks; They aren't there anywhere.

”A most disgusting state,” says he, ”The only place that they can be Is highly dangerous to me; I wonder if I dare?”

So, back on Earth, he sneaks into The offices of Gray.

He's caught, and Gray says, ”This won't do. I fear you'll have to pay.”

For Gray, it seems, is not a man; Instead we find that he's a Slan.

Says Gray: ”I do not think you can Expect to get away.”

Then Jommy shrugs and says, ”Pooh-pooh,” And gives his head a toss.

Gray grins and shouts, ”Hurray for you!

You must be Jommy Cross!

My daughter Kathleen Layton Gray Is somehow still alive today!”

Poor Jommy nearly faints away, He's thrown for such a loss.

The story's ended at this spot; I trust you get the gist.

This is a d.i.c.kens of a plot; The point cannot be missed.

The story of a little boy Pursued by all the hoi polloi- And so Van Vogt, we note with joy, Gives us a brand new Twist.

POUL ANDERSON'S.

”THREE HEARTS AND THREE LIONS”.

A Calypso in Search of a Rhyme By Randall Garrett

I said earlier that constructing light verse is like an engineering project, and that the rhyming must be precise. But rules are made to be broken; you just have to know what you're doing.

This is the only one of these Reviews in Verse that was written to be sung. (The others have been sung to various tunes at science fiction conventions, but that's not my doing.) The first time Poul Anderson heard this one sung, he laughed. Now he just looks pained. Too much of a good thing.

The song is, as the subt.i.tle says, a calypso. It sounds best when done with a broad Jamaican accent.

Here's a tale of knighthood's flower And of one man's finest hour: The story of a most strange land, Of Holger Carlsen's little band, Of fights with trolls and giants, and The winning of a swan-may's hand.

By one of Denmark's n.o.blest scions.

(Chorus) Three Red Hearts and Three Gold Lions!

Holger Carlsen's fighting n.a.z.is; While he's dodging their pot-shots, he's Wounded badly in the head, But he does not fall down dead, Nor go to hospital bed, But to Middle World instead.

Magic here holds sway, not science.

(Chorus) Three Red Hearts and Three Gold Lience!

When he wake up, there beside him, Stands, for Carlsen to ride him, A horse with armor, s.h.i.+eld and sword, Clothing and misericord, Fine enough for any lord; Holger Carlsen climb aboard.

Hungry, he must search for viands.

(Chorus) Three Red Hearts and Three Gold Liands!

Holger rides up to a cottage, Where an old witch offers pottage.

”How can I get home?” says he.

”Well,” the witch says, ”seems to me That thou ought to go and see Good Duke Alfric in Faerie.