Twelve years had passed since his body had been found upon
the bluff before his cottage overlooking the Hudson, and ofttimes
during these long years I had wondered if John Carter
were really dead, or if he again roamed the dead sea bottoms
of that dying planet; if he had returned to Barsoom to find that
he had opened the frowning portals of the mighty atmosphere
plant in time to save the countless millions who were dying of
asphyxiation on that far-gone day that had seen him hurtled
ruthlessly through forty-eight million miles of space back to
Earth once more. I had wondered if he had found his blackhaired
Princess and the slender son he had dreamed was with
her in the royal gardens of Tardos Mors, awaiting his return.
Or, had he found that he had been too late, and thus gone
back to a living death upon a dead world? Or was he really
dead after all, never to return either to his mother Earth or his
beloved Mars?