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  A Yank at Valhalla

  Edmond Hamilton

  THE SCIENCE FANTASY CLASSIC! Out of print for more than a quarter of a century! An American pilot unleashes Ragnarok. He flew over the rainbow — but not to Oz! "Memorable!" The Encyclopedia of Science Fiction. The author of The Star Kings returns! 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.

  Edmond Hamilton

  A Yank at Valhalla

  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 Capta
in 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

  3/15/2003

  Chapter 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.