_--came in.

So my first stories were straight science-fiction, and I'm not trying to
put down that kind of story. It has its place. By and large, the kind of
science-fiction which makes tomorrow's headlines as near as this
morning's coffee, has enlarged popular awareness of the modern,
miraculous world of science we live in. It has helped generations of
young people feel at ease with a rapidly changing world.

But fashions change, old loves return, and now that Sputniks clutter up
the sky with new and unfamiliar moons, the readers of science-fiction
are willing to wait for tomorrow to read tomorrow's headlines. Once
again, I think, there is a place, a wish, a need and hunger for the
wonder and color of the world way out. The world beyond the stars. The
world we _won't_ live to see. That is why I wrote THE DOOR THROUGH
SPACE.

--MARION ZIMMER BRADLEY

* * * * *

CHAPTER ONE

Beyond the spaceport gates, the men of the Kharsa were hunting down a
thief. I heard the shrill cries, the pad-padding of feet in strides just
a little too long and loping to be human, raising echoes all down the
dark and dusty streets leading up to the main square.

But the square itself lay empty in the crimson noon of Wolf. Overhead
the dim red ember of Phi Coronis, Wolf's old and dying sun, gave out a
pale and heatless light. The pair of Spaceforce guards at the gates,
wearing the black leathers of the Terran Empire, shockers holstered at
their belts, were drowsing under the arched gateway where the
star-and-rocket emblem proclaimed the domain of Terra. One of them, a
snub-nosed youngster only a few weeks out from Earth, cocked an
inquisitive ear at the cries and scuffling feet, then jerked his head at
me.

"Hey, Cargill, you can talk their lingo. What's going on out there?"

I stepped out past the gateway to listen. There was still no one to be
seen in the square. It lay white and windswept, a barricade of
emptiness; to one side the spaceport and the white skyscraper of the
Terran Headquarters, and at the other side, the clutter of low
buildings, the street-shrine, the little spaceport cafe smelling of
coffee and _jaco_, and the dark opening mouths of streets that rambled
down into the Kharsa--the old town, the native quarter. But I was alone
in the square with the shrill cries--closer now, raising echoes from the
enclosing walls--and the loping of many feet down one of the dirty
streets.

Th