Chapter 1: Editor’s Forward
The story you are about to read was given to me by its writer under unusual circumstances. I was sitting, not long ago, upon a darkened mountainside in Arizona, looking up from my camp into the deep of the silent nighttime sky, ablaze with the fabulous starry show of the open desert. I fixed my eye upon a red light and knew it for the planet Mars, a place about which I have earnestly studied and that I have longed, all of my life, to visit. In a fit of yearning I reached out my hand and attempted to take hold of that planetary light, as if by so doing I could pull myself up to where it is, and I fear I may even have called out to it in the frenzy of my desire; all this to no avail, of course. After some time spent staring further I lay myself down upon my sleeping bag and composed my mind to rest, if not to sleep, for the powerful need to see Mars with my own eyes remained with me yet. As I lay still thus contemplating my desires there came to my ears a stealthy sound, as of one creeping toward my camp, which, after a moment, suddenly ceased. I silently grasped the revolver I keep with me when I travel in lonely places and pricked up my ears to detect any further indication of movement, when a heavy object fell hard onto my chest and voice spoke out of the darkness, saying:
‘Take, read; it is yours.’
I jumped up, pistol in hand.
‘Who is there?’ I cried, but no answer came back to me. I heard the sound of movement again, this time as if going away, and then once more there was only silence. At length I stooped and took up that which had dropped, or been thrown rather, upon me, and saw that it was a satchel made of a very heavy, dense, greenish leather. Striking a light, I opened the satchel and found a manuscript with a note appended to it to the effect that I was asked to have this story published, assuming that I thought it worthy of being published, by one who wished to communicate his adventures to the people of the world.
I cannot verify the identity of the author, who calls himself John Carter, nor that his claim to write about life on the world he calls Barsoom, is truthful. That someone of the same name has earlier been presented to our world by one who was considered to be John Carter’s nephew, Mr. E. R. Burroughs, is clear. Why, however, so long after the death of Mr. Burroughs Mr. Carter should seem to have chosen me to be the editor of his further writings is less so, except if it lay in the title by which he addressed me in his note, that is: “Dear Stargazer.”
Having made, therefore, my disclaimers, I offer you here his manuscript, clearly meant for you to read and to understand that, as Shakespeare’s Coriolanus so presciently said: “There is a world elsewhere.”
Incidentally, I have taken the unusual satchel to an expert about leathers of all kinds and he told me, after much careful examination, that the hide that was used to make it came from no known animal on Earth.
