Snatching a tricycle from a gawping kid, I push his face in the mud and pedal furiously the remaining distance to the store. Leaping off, I rush in and batter my way through the screaming throng, shouting imprecations at all who stand in my way.
Panting with exhaustion, I at last reach my goal and clutch it to my breast. The crowd surges forward and frantic hands grab at the prize.
"It's mine! All mine!" I shout in their faces. "No one can take it from me!"
Galloping madly from the store I race swiftly across yards and up alleys, quickly losing the howling mob in the distance. Squatting under a street-lamp, I sneak a triumphant look at the treasure. What is it? Yep, you guessed it—Galactic Adventures!
But—shades of Major Mars!—what is that horrible monstrosity on the cover? A BEM, no less ... an abominable, wretched BEM. Why, oh why, can't we have at least one different cover painting? Wesley is no good. Get Marlini or Sidney to do the covers. I don't mind a BEM now and then, but a steady diet of them soon palls on the palate. (Heh heh.) All joking aside, your covers are terrific.
Now we come to the task of rating the stories. Only one stands out in my mind as being of excellent quality. I refer to Arthur M. Ron's super-epic, The Infinite Finite. The other stories paled into insignificance in comparison to this classic. More power to Ron! Percival's Puissant Pulveriser and Nothing Is Something follow Ron's story in that order. The rest are not worth mentioning.
The interior illustrations are somewhat better than the cover, although, for the most part, they are inaccurate and do not follow the themes of the stories. Ye gods! Can't your artists read? So much for the art, which wasn't so much.
Say! What does that jerk, The Amphibious Android, mean by calling me a "mere child"? His assertion that I'm but a youth of fifteen is a good way off the beam. I've been reading Galactic Adventures for the past eight years and I was nine years old when I picked up my first copy, so figure it out for yourself. A jug of sour zeni to him. May fire burst out in his s.f. collection and utterly destroy it. No! I retract that. That's too horrible a fate, even to visit upon The Amphibious Android. Let him wallow in his ignorance. I, The Super Intellect, will smile down on him and forgive him his sins.
That's an interesting letter from Charlie Lane. The Miserable Mutant has propounded an amazing theory that has set me to wondering. Perhaps G. A. can induce one of its authors to work this theory into a story. I'm reserving my four wooden nickels right now for the tale, if it is written. I'll even suggest a title—Those Who Are Froze In The Cosmos. How's that? Well, I didn't like it either.