Slave To Six Worlds

Title Page

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EDITOR’S NOTE

The artistically fertile period of the 1930s and 1940s stand as the Golden Age of science fiction, when phallus-like rocket ships thrust hungrily into the beckoning depths of space, toward orbs that gleamed high and yet so tantalizingly close in the vault of the blue-black night sky. In the inky pages of story after story, shapely and yet almost impossibly innocent young heroines clothed in flouncy skirts and torn blouses were menaced by lustful space pirates, single-minded mad scientists with a lightly veiled bent for bondage and s****l experimentation, and dying extraterrestrial species which needed fresh breeding stock to survive.

Spirited away to garish alien landscapes, the flower of Earth’s femininity always writhed most prettily in the grip of the grunting, blunt-fingered buccaneers of the space ways, rubber-gloved experimenters whose immaculate double-breasted white lab coats concealed the deviant desires beneath, or tentacled monsters that slavered after human girl-flesh. And yet— Despite the poor victims’ unspeakable predicaments, as the almost-bare things breathlessly awaited the rescue of their jackboot- and jodhpur-wearing heroes, still those unwelcome caresses seemed somehow to arouse the helpless good-girls almost as much as they terrified. Even as bright red lips opened for the obligatory scream, after all, erect n*****s pushed up unmistakably through sheer cotton…

In those years anything was possible. Though the great technological progress of the period spurred pulp-fiction writers to speculate that space travel was less than a lifetime away, the level of knowledge about the planets of the Solar System was limited enough to let the imagination run wild. The pioneering liquid-fueled rockets of Robert Goddard, Willy Ley, and Wernher Von Braun combined with the new atomic theories of Niels Bohr and Albert Einstein to suggest that one day soon, ray-gun-wielding spacemen—and shapely spacewomen, always attired as dancing-girls, it seemed—might face bug-eyed monsters on alien worlds.

The sandy ochre deserts of the slowly dying planet Mars, so the famous astronomer Percival Lowell had been saying for a generation, appeared to be crisscrossed with great canals which must have been the work of intelligence. Sun-soaked Venus, solidly pearl-clouded in even the most powerful telescopes, promised the steamy mystery of primitive jungles. The Asteroid Belt, at the time thought perhaps to have been the remnants of some broken planet, would allow a new frontier to forty-niners of the space ways. Swollen Jupiter possessed four moons the size of small worlds, and gaudy Saturn’s great moon Titan was discovered to have an atmosphere. Thirty years before our exploration of the planets began in earnest, writers could see the Solar System as brimming with exotic life and ancient civilizations, with excitement and challenges.

It was during such hopeful, naive times that Slave to Six Worlds was written. Yet despite countless glossy full-color magazine covers that depicted in leering detail the scantily clad maidens whose lives—and, apparently, virginities—were threatened by slavering monsters and by fiends of all varieties, this book could not have been published then. No, in science fiction’s Golden Age those ripe young breasts never were to be fondled free of their brass brassieres, hardening n*****s rolled and thumbed and twisted and sucked. Nor could those chorus-girl skirts be flounced up over sleek thighs to reveal blonde-furred labia whose musky pout called appreciative eyes, reverent fingers, worshipful tongue… Lurid illustrations tantalized, but the lusts they inflamed could not be satisfied.

Only now has this once-hidden manuscript come to light. Only now can it be presented as it was meant to be. Despite the temptation to meddle in matters of plot, style, and even ethnography, I have edited only for the occasional stray typographical error. The science of Slave to Six Worlds may be quaintly dated… yet its eroticism is not.

—O.M.R.