Norman Spinrad - The Iron Dream

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Let Adolf Hitler transport you to a far-future

Earth, where only FERIC JAGGAR and his

mighty weapon, the Steel Commander, stand be-

tween the remnants of true humanity and annihi-

lation at the hands of the totally evil Dominators

and the mindless mutant hordes they completely

control.

Lord of the Swastika is recognized as the most

vivid and popular of Hitler's science-fiction novels

by fans the world over, who honored it with a

Hugo as Best Science-Fiction Novel of 1954. Long

out of print, it is now once more available in this

new edition, with an Afterword by Homer Whip-

pie of New York University. See for yourself why

so many people have turned to this science-fantasy

novel as a beacon of hope in these grim and

terrifying times.

Other Science-Fiction Novels

by Adolf Hitler

EMPEROR OF THE ASTEROIDS

THE BUILDERS OF MARS

FIGHT FOR THE STARS

THE TWILIGHT OF TERRA

SAVIOR FROM SPACE

THE MASTER RACE

THE THOUSAND YEAR RULE

THE TRIUMPH OF THE WILL

TOMORROW THE WORLD

About the Author

Adolf Hitler was born in Austria on April 20, 1889.

As a young man he migrated to Germany and served in

the German army during the Great War. After the war,

he dabbled briefly in radical politics in Munich before

finally emigrating to New York in 1919. While learning

English, he eked out a precarious existence as a sidewalk

artist and occasional translator in New York's bohemian

haven, Greenwich Village. After several years of this

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freewheeling life, he began to pick up odd jobs as a

magazine and comic illustrator. He did his first interior

illustration for the science-fiction magazine Amazing in

1930. By 1932, he was a regular illustrator for the sci-

ence-fiction magazines, and, by 1935, he had enough

confidence in his English to make his debut as a science-

fiction writer. He devoted the rest of his life to the

science-fiction genre as a writer, illustrator, and fanzine

editor. Although best known to present-day SF fans for

his novels and stories. Hitler was a popular illustrator

during the Golden Age of the thirties, edited several

anthologies, wrote lively reviews, and published a popu-

lar fanzine. Storm, for nearly ten years.

He won a posthumous Hugo at the 1955 World Sci-

ence-Fiction Convention for Lord of the Swastika, which

was completed just before his death in 1953. For many

years, he had been a popular figure at SF conventions,

widely known in science-fiction fandom as a wit and

nonstop raconteur. Ever since the book's publication,

the colorful costumes he created in Lord of the Swastika

have been favorite themes at convention masquerades.

Hitler died in 1953, but the stories and novels he left

behind remain as a legacy to all science-fiction enthusi-

asts.

With a great groaning of tired metal and a hiss of

escaping steam, the roadsteamer from Gormond came to

a halt in the grimy yard of the Pormi depot, a mere three

hours late; quite a respectable performance by Borgravian

standards. Assorted, roughly humanoid, creatures sham-

bled from the steamer displaying the usual Borgravian

variety of skin hues, body parts, and gaits. Bits of food

from the more or less continuous picnic that these mutants

had held throughout the twelve-hour trip clung to their

rude and, for the most part, threadbare clothing. A sour

stale odor clung to this gaggle of motley specimens as they

scuttled across the muddy courtyard toward the un-

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adorned concrete shed that served as a terminal.

Finally, there emerged from the cabin of the steamer a

figure of startling and unexpected nobility: a tall, power-

fully built true human in the prime of manhood. His hair

was yellow, his skin was fair, his eyes were blue and

brilliant. His musculature, skeletal structure, and carriage

were letter-perfect, and his trim blue tunic was clean and

in good repair.

Feric Jaggar looked every inch the genotypically pure

human that he in fact was. It was all that made such

prolonged close confinement with the dregs of Borgravia

bearable; the quasi-men could not help but recognize his

genetic purity. The sight of Feric put mutants and mon-

grels in their place, and for the most part they kept to it.

Feric carried his worldly possessions in a leather bag

which he hefted easily; this enabled him to avoid the

grubby terminal entirely and embark directly upon Ulm

Avenue which led through the foul little border town

toward the bridge over the Ulm by the shortest route

possible. Today he would at last put the Borgravian war-

rens behind him and claim his birthright as a genotypically

pure human and a Helder, with a spotless pedigree that

was traceable back for twelve generatians.

With his heart filled with thoughts of his goal in fact

and in spirit, Peric was almost able to ignore the sordid

spectacle that assailed his eyes, ears, and nostrils as he

loped up the bare earth boulevard toward the river. Ulm

Avenue was little more than a muddy ditch between two

rows of rude shacks constructed for the most part of

crudely dressed timber, wattle, and rusted sheet-steel.

Nevertheless, this singularly unimpressive track was appar-

ently the pride and joy of the denizens of Pormi, for the

fronts of these filthy buildings were festooned with all

manner of garish lettering and rude illustrations advertising

the goods to be had within, mostly local produce, or the

castoff artifacts of the higher civilization across the Ulm.

Moreover, many of the shopkeepers had set up street

stands purveying rotten-looking fruit, grimy vegetables,

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and fly-specked meat; these fetid goods they hawked at

the top of their lungs to the creatures which thronged the

street, who in turn added to the din with shrill and

argumentative cajolery.

The rank odor, raucous jabbering, and generally un-

wholesome atmosphere reminded Feric of the great mar-

ketplace area of Gonnond, the Borgravian capital, where

fate had confined him for so many years. As a child, he

had been shielded from close contact with the environs of

the native quarter; as a young man he had taken great

pains, and at no little expense, to avoid such places as

much as was practicable.

Of course it had never been possible to avoid the sight

of the sorts of mutants who crowded every nook and

cranny of Gormond, and the gene pool here in Pormi

appeared not one whit less debased than that which pre-

vailed in the Borgravian capital. The skins of the street

rabble here, as in Gormond, were a crazy quilt of mon-

grelized mutations. Blueskins, Lizardmen, Harlequins, and

Bloodfaces were the least of it; at least it could be said

that such creatures bred true to their own kind. But all

sorts of mixtures prevailed—the scales of a Lizardman

might be tinted blue or purple instead of green; a Blueskin

might have the mottling of a Harlequin; the warted counte-

nance of a Toadman might be an off-shade of red.

The grosser mutations for the most part bred truer, if

only because two such genetic catastrophes in the same

creature ended more often than not in an unviable fetus.

Many of the shopkeepers here in Pormi were dwarfs of

one kind or another—hunchbacked, covered with wiry

black hair, slightly pmheaded, many with secondary skin

mutations—incapable of more strenuous labor. In a small

town such as this, the more arcane mutants were less in

evidence than in what passed for a Borgravian metropolis.

Still, as Feric elbowed his way through the foul-smelling

crowds, he spotted three Eggheads, their naked chitinous

skulls gleaming redly in the warm sun, and brushed against

a Parrotface. This creature whirled about at Feric's touch,

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clacking its great bony beak at him indignantly for a

moment until it recognized him for what he was.

Then, of course, the Parrotface lowered its rheumy

gaze, instantly gave off flapping its obscenely mutated

teeth, and muttered a properly humble "Your pardon,

Trueman."

For his part, Feric did not acknowledge the creature

one way or the other, and quickly continued on up the

street staring determinedly straight ahead.

However, a few dozen yards up the street, a familiar

floating feeling wafted gently through Feric's mind; this

indeed gave him pause, for long experience had taught

him that this psychic aura was sure indication that a

Dominator was in the area. Sure enough, when Feric

studied the row of shacks to his right, his eyes confirmed

the proximity of a Dom, and the dominance pattern was

hardly the subtlest he had ever encountered either.

Five stalls sat on the street all in a line, presided over

by three dwarfs, a Blueskin-Toadman mongrel with warty

blue skin, and a Lizardman. All of these creatures dis-

played the slackness of expression and deadness of eye

characteristic of mutants captured in a long-standing dom-

inance pattern. The stalls themselves held meat, fruit, and

vegetables in a loathsome state of advanced decay that

should have rendered them totally unsalable, even by

Borgravian standards. Nevertheless, hordes of mongrels and

mutants flocked around these stands, snapping up the

putrid goods at inflated prices without so much as a

moment's haggling.

Only the presence of a Dominator in the vicinity could

account for such behavior. Gormond was richly infested

with the monstrosities, since they naturally preferred large

cities where victims abounded; that such a minor town as

this was infected was clear indication to Feric that Bor-

gravia was even further under the spell of Zind than he

had imagined.

His immediate impulse was to pause, seek out the Dom,

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file:///F|/rah/Norman%20Spinrad/Spinrad,%20Norman%20-%20The%20Iron%20DreamUC.txtLetAdolfHitlertransportyoutoafar-futureEarth,whereonlyFERICJAGGARandhismightyweapon,theSteelCommander,standbe-tweentheremnantsoftruehumanityandannihi-lationatthehandsofthetotallyevilDominatorsandthemindlessmutanthordest...

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Norman Spinrad - The Iron Dream

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