"THIS WORLD IS OURS!" By Emil Petaja ORION was something new in science fiction magazines; it printed stories about aliens and passed them off as the truth--which they were! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy July 1952 Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] "He must die. It will look like an accident." "Shouldn't we take him back with us?" "We are far from through here. Don't tell me you are developing a sympathy for these miserable creatures?" "Impossible. I merely assumed he might be of some further value in our great crusade." "He must die." Max Field was listening at the door. He moved back so he could breathe again. Those dozens of little wounds in his chest and on his arms and neck stung like fire. His amiable young features were tense but resigned. This was the end, period.... Outside the little cabin an owl hooted. It was a lonely sound. But it was a familiar earth sound, and it brought a lump to his throat. If only there was some way to outwit them. But he had thought of everything; apparently so had they. That window, for instance, was shuttered and bolted from outside. A sudden noise would bring them in here in no time. The back wall was up against a cliff. There was no outside door in this room. He was supposed to be drunk, befuddled. But he hadn't drank any of the champagne. In that, at least, he had outwitted them. He was to die. No question about that. The only question remaining was--how. He sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled out the little notebook he'd been, at odd moments, scribbling the whole story in. Force of habit, perhaps. Max was a science fiction writer. He flipped through the pencilled pages. Worth money, this story. He smiled ironically. Yet who would read it, much less believe it. Somebody might, he decided. He would hide it somewhere in this room. Maybe slip it through a crack in the flooring, a few pages at a time. He pulled out a stub of pencil and added that final shuddery scene. _Alice. Alice...._ Outside, the owl hooted. * * * * * It started, as so many stories do, with my phone ringing. I was eating cigarettes and pounding out a cover novel for _Gizmo_. If there is anything that gripes me where I live it is some joker calling me up when I'm busy producing and-- "Hello. Yeah. This is Max Field, the science fiction writer. And while we're on that subject, I happen to be--" "I am Wallace Starr." It was a funny voice. Funny-strange. It sounded a little like rubbing two pieces of sandpaper together. "Really?" I pushed out my current Camel and sneaked in a few pecks at the old Underwood. So sandpaper-voice was Wallace Starr. Maybe I was supposed to turn handsprings.