There is a tale the old wives spin, saying: One of the adventurous villagers, Castor by name, took undue interest in the tower and was frequently seen slipping furtively to and from it in the dusk. Of all the people of the town he had the least savoury ancestry, his father being a satyr, his mother a witch-woman. True, others mated with the people of the glen, yet it is not considered a thing to be proud of. The very Burgomaster had a gnome none too far back in his lineage, which was expressed in the coarse features of his evil countenance. But a satyr! The righteous citizens avoided Castor scrupulously, and the dislike was mutual. So it was he continued on his silent trips unheeded. What he did there so often not known but the seasons came and went and the winter merged into spring and in time it was Walburgas Eve. That night the town gates were tightly closed and bolted and all cowered behind locked doors. Strange shapes flew screeching through the air and sniffed most horribly at the doorsteps. That night Castor went to the tower as had become his habit, though his better sense warned him to stay home abed. His satyr ancestry openly rebelled, but the witch proved stronger. As he stole timorously through the wood he heard sounds of high revelry from within the castle. Therefore, he was quiet as he hesitated before the foot of the long unopened door. Queer things were abroad though he dared not return home alone through the forest, still more did he fear to remain within reach of the Things of the tower. As he deliberated on the course to take the great door swung silently open and a crab like claw lovingly encircled his waist and drew him in. And he was seen no more by the villagers. SCIENCE FICTION IN ENGLISH MAGAZINES (Series 2) by Bob Tucker What England needs is a good science fiction mag. The present ones are thrilling, but small and cheap. They have swell titles, but often the story falls short. On the other hand, that's an old American custom. Believe it or not, but just 653210987600 stories have been written under the title "The End of the World"! (Editor's note: Mr. Tucker, I think you exaggerate. I haven't seen half that many.). And if you scientifictionists want some darned good arguments over anything scientific, just give this fellow a line: Dennis Gilbert Smith, 521 Bearwood Road, Smeethwick, Staffs., England. He is a student of theology. Talk about a swell picture!--Wesso or Paul should look at the illustration of the moon-men attacking a giant army tank way back in the April 1st issue of "The Skipper," an English mag that makes a specialty of science-fiction.