ords
another of his thrilling interplanetary assignments.]

But it was a mistake for me to mention that I had recorded, for the
archives of the Council, the history of a certain activity of the
Special Patrol--a bit of secret history[1] which may not be mentioned
here. Now they insist--by "they" I refer to the Chiefs of the Special
Patrol Service--that I write of other achievements of the Service, other
adventures worthy of note.

[Footnote 1: Editors Note: "The Forgotten Planet" July 1930 issue of
Astounding Stories]

Perhaps that is the penalty of becoming old. From commander of the
_Budi_, one of the greatest of the Special Patrol ships, to the duties
of recording ancient history, for younger men to read and dream about.
That is a shrewd blow to one's pride.

But if I can, in some small way, add luster to the record of my service,
it will be a fitting task for a man grown old and gray in that service;
work for hands too weak and palsied for sterner duties.

But I shall tell my stories in my own way; after all, they are my
stories. And I shall tell the stories that appeal to me most. The
universe has had enough and too much of dry history; these shall be
adventurous tales to make the blood of a young man who reads them run a
trifle faster--and perhaps the blood of the old man who writes them.

This, the first, shall be the story of the star L-472. You know it
to-day as Ibit, port-o'-call for interplanetary ships, and source of
ocrite for the universe, but to me it will always be L-472, the world of
terrible tentacles.

* * * * *

My story begins nearly a hundred years ago--reckoned in terms of Earth
time, which is proper, since I am a native of Earth--when I was a young
man. I was sub-commander, at the time, of the _Kalid_, one of the early
ships of the Special Patrol.

We had been called to Zenia on special orders, and Commander Jamison,
after an absence of some two hours, returned to the _Kalid_ with his
face shining, one of his rare smiles telling me in advance that he had
news--and good news.

He hurried me up to the deserted navigating room and waved me to a seat.

"Hanson," he said. "I'm glad to be the first to congratulate you. You
are now Commander John Hanson, of the Special Patrol Ship _Kalid_!"

"Sir." I gasped, "do you mean--"

His smile broadened. From the breast pocket of the trim blue and silver
uniform of our Service he drew a long, crackling paper.

"Yo