"But there is a grave to be made on the summit of Mount Lawson," he added quietly. "I think he would have preferred to lie there--at the end of his journey--and I must return to the service where I have not yet been mustered out." "But you said--you were going home," faltered Althora. "Will that always be home to you, Tommy?" "Home, my dear," he whispered in words that reached her only, "is just where you are." His arm went about her to draw her toward the waiting ship. "There or here--what matter? We will be content." Her eyes were misty as they smiled an answer. Within the ship that was lifting them, they turned to watch a city of opal light grow faintly luminous in the distance ... an L-shaped continent shrunk to tiny size ... and the nebulous vapors of the cloudland that enclosed this world folded softly about. "We will lead," the voice of Blake was saying to an aide: "same formation that we used coming over. Give the necessary orders. But," he added slowly to himself, "the line will be shorter; there are fewer of us now." An astronomical officer laid a chart before the commander. "We are on the course, sir," he reported. "Full speed," Blake gave the order, and the thundering generator answered from the stern. The Space Fleet of America was going home. (_The End_) _A meeting Place for Readers of_ Astounding Stories [Illustration: _The Readers' Corner_] _"Absurd" to "Superb"_ Dear Editor: Unfortunately, I missed the January number of your very excellent magazine, which I consider superior to any of its type. I brought seven copies--February to August--with me on my vacation, and have so far read the first three from cover to cover. The February and March numbers were almost above reproach, but the April number contained two stories so surprisingly poor that I can only conjecture the Editor was ill at that time. They were "The Man who was Dead," by Thomas H. Knight and "Monsters of Moyen," by Arthur J. Burks. For Mr. Knight there is no hope. To him I can only say "Stop trying to write and get a job." I am a rapid and omnivorous reader, but never have I read a story so utterly bad as his. He gets the booby prize. Arthur J. Burks, although a master artist in comparison to Knight, is pretty poor--terrible, in fact. His style is dull, repetitious, and stilted. His melodrama is exaggerated to the point of nauseating absurdity. His characters are lifeless and unnatural puppets. So much for the faults. Among the best Science Fiction stories I have read is "The Planet of Dread," by R. F. Starzl in the August number. I also very much enjoyed the "Dr. Bird" stories by Capt. Meek, and indeed all the others, barring the two I criticized in such a helpful, friendly spirit. Leinster and Cummings are old favorites of mine.