Edmond Hamilton - A Yank at Valhalla

A Yank at Valhalla

By

Edmond Hamilton

A Renaissance E Books publication

ISBN 1-58873-167-7

This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission.

For information contact:

Renaissance E Books

P. O. Box 1432

Northampton MA 01060

USA

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PageTurner Editions

A Futures-Past Classic – Selected and Introduced by Jean Marie Stine

CONTENTS

Introduction

Chapter I

The Rune Key

Chapter II

Mystery Land

Chapter III

Jotun and Aesir

Chapter IV

Odin Speaks

Chapter V

Shadow of Loki

Chapter VI

Ancient Science

Chapter VII

Ambush!

Chapter VIII

World of Gnomes

Chapter IX

Loki's Prison

Chapter X

Captive in Jotunheim

Chapter XI

The Arch-fiend

Chapter XII

The Laboratory

Chapter XIII

Flight and Death

Chapter XIV

Thor's Oath

Chapter XV

The Fire World

Chapter XVI

The Flame Creatures

Chapter XVII

Magic Science

Chapter XVIII

The Battle for Asgard

Chapter XIX

Swords Athirst

Chapter XX

Ragnarok

Epilogue

INTRODUCTION

Edmond Hamilton (1904-1977) was one of the early grandmasters of epic

science-fantasy adventure. Whether it was galaxy-spanning space operas, with the

seeming impossibility of crashing suns for weapons, or world of magic and mystery

where the ancient Aztec Gods possessed seemingly supernatural powers, Hamilton,

like Dean Koontz, was always able to supply a plausible scientific premise for his

tales – which is, perhaps, not surprising considering he received his degree in

physics. A poetic stylist and superb storyteller, in the vigorous, colorful Chretien de

Troyes tradition, whose tales never let down or became boring for a moment once

they begin, the consistent quality of Hamilton's work earned him a place in the top

ranks of science fantasy writers for more than four decades, beginning in the

mid-1920s. Most of his novels, and many of his shorter works, were recognized as

classics on publication. At the top of any list of his novels are The Star Kings, The

Valley of Creation, The Star of Life, Battle for the Stars, A Yank at Valhalla, The

Sun Smasher, The City at World's End, and The Haunted Stars. Memorable

shorter works include: What's It Like Out There?, The Man who Evolved, Exile,

Devolution, The Birthplace of Creation, The Cosmic Pantograph, He that Hath

Wings, Requiem, and Sunfire.

In A Yank at Valhalla, the author's euphonious protagonist, a war-weary aircraft

pilot on a scientific expedition in the Artic, helps discover a strangely shaped gold

cylinder covered with runic symbols. Flying it back to the mainland he soon finds

his plane is being drawn northward by an irresistible force. When he spots a vast

chasm in the earth spanned only by a shimmering bridge of rainbow hues, with a

noble castle rising on the far side, and a golden-haired Valkyrie on a flying horse

being pursued by hideous giants, our hero realizes he may have flown over the

rainbow, but he hasn't landed in Oz! When he is rescued by the Valkyrie, he

discovers her name is Freya, and although he wasn't planning to fall in love with a

warrior-maid and demigoddess, he does. Soon Odin, Thor, Baldur, and the other

Norse Gods welcome him into the fraternity of Valhalla, as a brother warrior and

reveal the super-scientific secrets that have kept them alive – and hidden – for tens

of thousands of years. But what he does not suspect is that he, and his love for

Freya, is part of Loki's long-brewed plan to free the sinister giants of Jotunheim,

trigger Ragnarok, and bring on the Twilight of the Gods! The Encyclopedia of

Science Fiction calls A Yank at Valhalla one Hamilton's most "formidably

composed" novels, "dark in texture," "one of the novels for which he will be

remembered.

Here is how Edmond Hamilton author described himself for the lamented science

fiction pulp, Startling Stories, around the time he was writing A Yank at Valhalla

(which title is, of course, a play on the titles of a number of World War II era films):

"One of the toughest jobs a writer has is trying to write a few lines about himself.

I've tackled this chore a couple of times in the past, and each time I've found It

harder than trying to do twice as many words of fiction.

"When Joe Doakes, writer, sits down to do a little piece about himself, he finds

himself smack on the horns of a dilemma. He can write a modest little piece

intimating that he is a quiet little guy who never did anything and doesn't deserve

any notice. But, if he does, the readers are likely to declare, "Doakes is a worm."

"On the other hand, he can give subtle, not-too-blatant hints to the effect that he

is a combination of D'Artagnan, Casanova, and Einstein. That will be

interesting, all right, but those who read it will probably announce, "Doakes is an

egotistic ass."

"In an effort to steer a middle course, I will simply give a few of the vital statistics

and pass to more interesting subjects. The statistics – white and unmarried and a

little too old for the military, say they; some two hundred-odd published stories

behind me, and I hope –some more ahead.

"Until the war cut off civilian travel, I knocked around a good bit between

Canada and Panama. But the only place I ever went back to five times is Mexico,

where my variety of Spanish always puts people in stitches and does much to

further good relations between the two countries. The tragedy of my life was when

the tourists discovered Acapulco and living went up from a buck and a half a day

to nine dollars.

"The most interesting thing about any science fiction writer, I should think, is

why he does it – why he spends year after year writing futuristic stories. And,

believe it or not, the answer is childishly simple. It is because the writers are the

deepest dyed fans of all.

"Perhaps that statement will be challenged by some of the younger fans. I've

met a lot of them across the country, I think they're swell people and I've had a lot

of good times with 'em. But – I've never met any who had any deeper enthusiasm

for fantasy fiction than the average s-f writer.

"In my own case, though it sounds like a big lie, I was an enthusiastic science

fiction fan before I could read. That was way back in the halcyon times, years

before World War One, when H. G. Wells published an article in the old

Metropolitan Magazine called "The Things that Live on Mars." I couldn't

decipher the text but the fantastic illustrations got me.

"Later on, I graduated to the old weekly magazines that ran occasional

fantasies. Julius Unger, that indefatigable bibliophilist of science fiction, once

dug up some of my own published fan-letters from those journals and cast them in

my teeth.

"All that was a long time ago. I've done a lot of reading in three or four

languages since then. But I will still always drop anything in my library for a

new science-fiction story, and I still get as much blast out of a good one as ever.

"The point that I'm trying to get over is that science fiction writers turn out the

stuff because they like it. If they didn't, they'd turn to the far easier existence of

riveters or refrigerator-salesmen. And if anyone says that that would be

wonderful, I here and now denounce him as a low character unworthy of

fandom."

It should be noted that although unmarried at the time of this article, Hamilton

would soon marry Leigh Bracket, the award-winning author of science fiction,

mystery and western novels, and, as screen writer, of such films as The Big Sleep

(the Bogart and the Mitchum), Rio Bravo, Hatari!, and Star Wars: The Empire

Strikes Back. During the period when Hamilton was writing the now impossible to

find Captain Future stories, Ms Brackett even pinch-hit for her husband on one, The

Comet Kings, which most fans consider the best novel in the series. A close

comparison of Hamilton's best novel, The Star of Life, and Brackett's best, The

Starmen, reveals remarkable similarities of style, theme and intent and demonstrates

just how much these two authors came to influence and expand each other over the

years.

Jean Marie Stine

3/15/2003Chapter I The Rune Key

Bray called excitedly to me from the forward deck of the schooner.

"Keith, your hunch was right. There's something queer in this trawl!"

Involuntarily I shuddered in the sudden chill of fear. Somehow I had known that

the trawl would bring something up from the icy Arctic sea. Pure intuition had made

me persuade Bray to lower his trawl in this unpromising spot.

"Coming, Bray!" I called, and hurried through the litter of sleds and snarling dogs.

Our schooner, the sturdy auxiliary ice-breaker Peter Saul, was lying at anchor in

the Lincoln Sea, only four hundred miles south of the Pole. A hundred yards away,

the dazzling white fields of ice stretched northward – a vast, frozen, scarcely

explored waste.

When we had reached the ice pack the night before, I had somehow conceived

the idea that Bray, the oceanographer, ought to try his luck here. Bray had laughed

at my hunch at first, but had finally consented.

"Are you psychic, Keith?" he demanded. "Look what the trawl brought up!"

A heavy, ancient-looking gold cylinder, about eight inches long, was sticking out

of the frozen mud. On its sides were engraved a row of queer symbols, almost

worn away.

"What in the world is it?" I breathed. "And what are those letters on it?"

Halsen, a big, bearded Norwegian sailor, answered me.

"Those letters are in my own language, sir."

"Nonsense," I said sharply. "I know Norwegian pretty well. Those letters are not

in your language."

"Not the one my people write today," Halsen explained, "but the old Norse – the

rune writing. I have seen such writing on old stones in the museum at Oslo."

"Norse runes?" I blurted. "Then this must be damned ancient."

"Let's take it down to Dubman," Bray suggested. "He ought to be able to tell us."

Dubman, the waspish little archaeologist of the expedition, looked up in

annoyance from his collection of Eskimo arrowheads when we entered. Angrily he

took the cylinder and glared at it. Instantly his eyes lit up behind the thick

spectacles.

"Old Norse!" he exclaimed. "But these are runes of the most ancient form –

pre-Valdstenan! What is it?"

"Maybe the runes on it can give us a clue," I said eagerly.

"I'll soon find out what they mean," Dubman declared.

With a magnifying glass, he began to examine the symbols graven on the golden

cylinder. Bray and I waited. I felt queerly taut. I could not understand just why I

was so excited about this find, but everything about it had been queer. A persistent

inner voice had kept telling me: "Make Bray let down his trawl here!" And the first

time it was lowered, it had brought up a gold tube that must have lain on the

sea-floor for centuries.

"Got it!" Dubman stated, looking up. "This thing is old, all right – the most

ancient form of runic. The translation doesn't tell much. Listen to this–

Rune key am I,

Chaining dark evil,

Midgard snake, Fenris,

And Loki, arch-devil.

While I lie far,

The Aesir safe are,

Bring me not home,

Lest Ragnarok come."

A chill rippled through me, as though even the translation of those ancient runes

could terrify me. Impatiently I shook off the feeling.

"What does all that stuff about the Aesir and Loki mean?" I asked.

"The Aesir were the ancient Norse gods, eternally youthful and powerful. Ruled

by Odin, they lived in the fabled city of Asgard. Loki turned against them. With his

two familiars, the monstrous wolf Fenris and the great Midgard serpent, Loki joined

the Jotuns, the giant enemies of the gods. The gods finally managed to chain Loki,

his wolf and his serpent. But it was predicted that if Loki ever broke his bonds, that

would bring about Ragnarok – the doom of the Aesir.

"Bring me not home, lest Ragnarok come," he quoted. "This key claims to be the

one with which Loki and his pets were locked up. Probably some ancient Norse

priest made it to 'prove' the old myths, was shipwrecked and lost it in the sea."

"I don't get it," Bray complained. "What made you tell me to let down my trawl in

just that spot, Keith?"

When I picked up the gold cylinder, a current of queer power ran up my arm.

Somehow it seemed to warn me to drop it back into the sea. But I didn't obey, for

something alien commanded me to keep the rune key.

"Can I study this for a few days?" I asked abruptly. "I'll take good care of it."

"I didn't know you had archaeological tastes, Masters," Dubman said, astonished.

"But you were responsible for finding it, so you can keep it awhile. Don't lose it,

though, or I'll skin you."

Through the little ring on one end of the cylinder, I passed a cord and hung it

around my neck. It was cold against my skin – cold and menacing, persistently

warning…

Naturally I tried to convince myself that I just wasn't the superstitious type.

Besides my thirty years of disciplining myself to examine even obvious truths, and

my towering height of lean muscle, I have inherited the canny skepticism of my

Scottish ancestors. Anyhow, a scientist couldn't admit the existence of the

supernatural. Like most other physicists, I claimed there were still a lot of forces

which science hasn't had time to investigate yet. When it does, there will be no room

for superstition, for belief in the supernatural is merely ignorance of natural laws.

But I worked twice as hard as anybody else, unloading our small rocket plane for

my first reconnaissance flight northward. Not even intense physical labor could

make me forget the sinister cold force of the rune key inside my shirt, though.

The menacing current felt even stronger when I stood on deck that night.

Overhead, the aurora borealis pulsated in shifting bars and banners of unearthly

radiance, changing the immense frozen ocean from white to green, violet and

crimson. Like a mad musician, the freezing wind strummed the schooner's halyards

and made the masts boom out their deep voices.

But the rune key under my shirt tormented me with its conflicting demands. It

ordered me to throw it back to the icy waters. Helpless, I ripped it out and tugged at

the cord, trying to snap it. An even stronger command made me put it back.

The moment I buttoned my shirt, I cursed myself for being a fool. Why should I

want to destroy something of potential value to science? Inwardly, though, I realized

that the demands of the rune key were stronger than my own will.

"It can be explained scientifically," I muttered uneasily. "Everything has a

scientific explanation, once we can isolate it."

But how could a small, golden cylinder penetrate my mind and order it about like

a servant? What filled my heart with doubt and dread?

For all my canny skepticism and scientific training, I couldn't answer those

insistent questions, nor keep myself from being tormented by the damned thing…

Chapter II

Mystery Land

It was a brilliant Arctic morning. The sun glittered on the white ice-pack, the

placid grey sea and the battered hull of the Peter Saul. I was ready for my first

reconnaissance flight northward. Doctor John Carrul, chief of the expedition, called

down to me from the rail of the schooner.

"Don't go too far the first trip, Masters. And return at once if the weather grows

threatening."

"There won't be any storms for days," I replied confidently. "I know Arctic

weather."

"You'd better leave that rune key with me," Dubman shrilled. "I'd hate to lose it if

you cracked up."

During the past few days, the golden cylinder hadn't been out of my thoughts.

Whatever menacing force radiated from the key, it was still far beyond my science. I

had tested it with electroscopes, but they registered nothing. Yet it did radiate some

disturbing force. It was the same with the mental command that fought the one

which tried to make me throw away the key. Apparently supernatural or not, it had

to have some rational, mundane explanation.

My obsession with the mystery had made me read Dubman's books on old Norse

myths. The Aesir, said the legends, inhabited the fabled city of Asgard, which was

separated from the land of Midgard by a deep gulf that was spanned by a wonderful

rainbow bridge. All around Midgard lay the frozen, lifeless wastes of Niffleheim.

In the great hall Valhalla reigned Odin, king of the Aesir, and his wife Frigga. And

in other castles dwelt the other gods and goddesses. Once Loki had been of the

Aesir, till he turned traitor and was prisoned with his two monstrous pets, the wolf

Fenris and the Midgard serpent Iormungandr.

I read about the Jotuns – the giants who lived in dark Jotunheim and incessantly

battled the Aesir. Then there were the dwarfs of Earth, the Alfings who dwelt in

subterranean Alfheim. Hel, the wicked death-goddess whose dreaded hall was near

the dark city of the Jotuns. Muspelheim, the fiery realm beneath Midgard.

One thing in these legends impressed me. They depicted the Aesir as mortal

beings who possessed the secret of eternal youth in common with the giants and

dwarfs. None of them grew old, but any of them could be slain. If Loki were

released, bringing about Ragnarok – the twilight of the gods – the Aesir would

perish.

As I delved deeper into the books of Rydberg, Anderson and Du Chaillu, I

learned that ethnologists thought there was some real basis to these legends. They

believed the Aesir had been real people with remarkable powers. All my reading had

only intensified my interest in the enigmatic rune key from the sea. I knew it

bordered on superstition, but I felt that if I were away from the influence of others,

the damned thing might actually get coherent.

"I'll be back by four o'clock," I said. "It won't take me long to map a sled route."

"Be sure you take no chances," Dr. Carrul called anxiously.

Streaking across the ice, the rocket plane roared into the chill air. I circled above

the schooner, climbed higher, and then headed northward across the ice-pack.

Within ten minutes, I was flying over the endless expanse of the frozen Arctic

Ocean, warm and snug in the oxygen-filled cabin.

A vast white plain, glittering like diamonds in the sunlight, the sea ice had jammed

and split, and there were long leads of open water. My mission was to chart the

easiest route toward the Pole, so the sleds would lose no time detouring around

leads or scrambling over ridges. Once a weather observation camp was established,

I would carry in supplies in the plane.

Hundreds of thousands of square miles of the enormous sea of ice had never

been seen by man. Earth's last real home of mystery was dazzlingly beautiful – but it

was murderous, terrifying, sinister…

Absorbed in keeping the plane on its course and making a map of the ice below,

my sense of time was temporarily paralyzed. The rocket motor roared tirelessly, and

the ice unrolled endlessly below. When my ship lurched sharply, I abruptly realized

that the wind was suddenly rising. I looked around, startled. A huge dark wall was

rising across the southern horizon.

"Damn it, I'll never call myself a weather prophet again," I swore. "There just

couldn't be any storm. But there it is!"

I banked around sharply and flew southward, fighting to rise above the fury. But

the higher I climbed, the higher the black, boiling wall of the storm seemed to rise. I

knew I was caught.

"Two minutes to live," I gritted. "It'll be a fast death–"

Driving before it a cloud of stinging snow, the storm smacked my plane like a

giant hand. Stunned by the impact, deafened, I swung the nose around and let the

wind sweep the plane northward. There was no hope of fighting. I could only run

before the gale until its fury subsided. The whole sky was dark and raging around

me, filled with screaming wind and snow. Gripping the firing wheel, I battled to keep

the reeling plane in the air.

But why did the rune key inside my shirt seem to throb with frantic warning? Why

did that alien voice in my mind seem eager and exultant? Why did I feel there was

something purposeful about this gale's direction? The storm had come up suddenly

out of a clear sky as soon as my plane was well in the air. Now it was hurling me

straight in one direction.

The imminent peril of death grew less unnerving than the mounting suspicion that

there was something deliberate about the storm. The warning force throbbing from

the rune key, and the wildly exultant alien voice in my brain, combined to demoralize

me.

After nearly six hours of ceaseless storm-driven flight, I received the greatest

shock. Peering ahead through the frosted cabin windows, I realized suddenly that

there was a great area dead ahead – which I could not see!

"It can't be real!" I gasped. "A colossal blind spot–"

My vision seemed to slide around that vast area. I could see the ice-pack beyond

it, scores of miles away. I could see the ice on either side of it. But the area itself

just didn't register.

"Some trick of refraction, perhaps due to the terrestrial magnetic currents that are

strong here," I muttered. "Maybe it's connected with the mystery of the aurora."

My scientific reasoning didn't quiet my nerves. For the storm that bore me on

was carrying me straight toward that huge blind spot. When I was almost to the

edge of the enigmatic area my vision seemed to slide away to either side, almost at

right angles. If this was refraction, it was a type that was completely unknown to

science.

My storm-tossed plane hurtled with reckless speed toward the edge of the vast

blind spot; I could see nothing whatever ahead. Everything seemed crazily twisted

out of focus, distorted by that weird wall.

Abruptly the gale flung my reeling plane directly through the fantastic wall that

defied my vision – and I was inside the blind spot! But now I could not see outside

it. "This – this is impossible!" I gasped with startled terror.

I could see nothing but the interior, a great space of tossing ocean, curving

ominously to every sinister horizon. Black waves, black clouds … Suddenly I

gasped in amazement. Far ahead loomed a long, high mass of forbidding, dark land.

The storm still howled with all its original fury, carrying me dangerously low over

the foam-fanged waves toward the distant land. Through the scudding snow, I

detected a faint greenish radiance. But realization of my immediate peril swept away

my demoralization. I could not land in that vicious sea. Yet neither could I climb

again in that gale.

The land I had glimpsed was now a mile ahead of me, its frowning eastern cliffs

stretching right across my course. The gray precipices were hundreds of feet high.

Above them, the land ran back into dark forests and shaggy wooded hills where no

landing was possible. Then I saw a small beach strewn with boulders. Pure

desperation made me head the plane toward it.

Over the boiling white hell of breakers I shot. My wheels touched the beach.

Before I could brake with the forward jets, the port window smashed against a

projecting boulder. But that was the only damage when I stopped out of reach of

the waves.

I shut off the rocket motor and stumbled out of the ship. My knees were

trembling with the reaction of prolonged tenseness. But the land and sea inside the

incredible blind spot made me forget my exhaustion.

The air was keenly cold. It was the cold of an ordinary northern spring, though,

not the bitter polar chill it should have been. The sky was dark with clouds, fleeing

before the gale. The boom of raging surf and keen of wailing winds were loud in my

ears. Stranger even than the comparative warmth was the faint green radiance that

seemed to pervade the air. An eldritch glow that could barely be seen, it seemed to

stream upward from the ground. It was oddly exhilarating.

"Might be gamma radiation from some unknown source," I reasoned. "That may

account for the refraction that makes this whole area a blind spot. I wish I had

instruments here to check. Hope it doesn't have the usual effects of gamma radiation

on human tissue. But it seems invigorating."

Excitement began to rise in me. I had found a hidden land of strange warmth

completely unknown to civilization, here in the polar wastes. Its strange trick of

refraction had defied discovery until now. No scientist could have been dropped in

that blind spot without feeling the urge to explore. Waiting for the storm to die

Edmond Hamilton - A Yank at Valhalla

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