Edgar Rice Burroughs' 1915 Pellucidar, second in the Pellucidar series, begins with another classic Burroughs factual-seeming narrative frame for an impossible tale: After "[s]everal years" without "an opportunity for big-game hunting," the narrator is just about to "return to [his] old stamping-grounds in northern Africa" when he receives a letter from one of his readers that brings him to "a state of excitement bordering upon frenzy" (Early 1960s Ace paperback, page 5). You see, an independently wealthy "wanderer upon the face of the earth" named Cogdon Nestor had chanced upon At the Earth's Core "in [his] club in Algiers" (page 8)--seated in a wingback chair with a whiskey-soda or G&T, presumably-- and was filled with "a great and abiding wonder" that...well, "that people should be paid real money for writing such impossible trash" (page 6).
The skeptical Nestor, however--this well-educated fellow so superior, that is, to those unwashed plebeians who read pulp fiction, and yet who somehow himself read a pulp-fiction tale from beginning to end--is the perfect correspondent to inform the fictionalized Burroughs that he has just discovered, beneath "the arid, shifting sands of the Sahara" (page 6), the telegraph which the quote from the end of the previous book reminds us that David Innes had "hidden beneath a lost cairn" (page 8). Well! Time for Burroughs and Nestor and a telegraph expert named Downes, accompanied of course by their "native servants" (page 10), to head over and receive another "practically in his own words" tale (page 9), eh, what?
As the narrative frame wonders for the benefit of anyone who missed the first book,
"[W]hat adventures had befallen [Innes] since his return?
Had he found Dian the Beautiful, his half-savage mate, safe among friends, or had Hooja the Sly One succeeded in his nefarious schemes to abduct her?
Did Abner Perry, the lovable old inventor and paleontologist, still live?
Had the federated tribes of Pellucidar succeeded in overthrowing the mighty Mahars, the dominant race of reptilian monsters, and their fierce, gorilla-like soldiery, the savage Sagoths?" (page 10)
Well, it would hardly be a Burroughs pulp if a scantily clad female was not in the clutches of a leering abductor; Innes, even with his "long-barreled six-shooter" and his "heavy express rifle" (page 15), still really could use the help of inventor Perry; and if the creepy and humanivorous Mahars were overthrown already, it'd probably be a pretty short book...
There are dangers and crazy coincidences, cliffhangers and hairbreadth escapes, friendship and honor. Somehow it struck me as being slightly inferior to At the Earth's Core, so I'll call it a 4-star read, still decently entertaining for the hundred-year-old pulp fiction that it is. The rah-rah of pouring more cannons and rifles into the hollow world until everything is "civilized" cannot help grating a bit, though finally Innes does explain to Perry that these two men from the surface twentieth century must "give them something better than scientific methods of killing one another" (page 147). Of course, when there are "sewing-machines instead of battleships, harvesters of crops instead of harvesters of men, plow-shares and telephones, schools and colleges, printing-presses and paper," then their "merchant marine shall ply the great Pellucidarian seas, and cargoes of silks and typewriters and books shall forge the their ways where only hideous saurians have held sway since time began!" (pages 147-48).
Sigh... I won't ask why people in this mild climate beneath the motionless central sun of Pellucidar would want sewing machines and silks rather than just the current light animal skins, and although I am flummoxed by a trade-only economy in which "[a] man may exchange that which he produces for something which he desires that another has produced" but may not trade this acquisition again (page 158), I won't quibble or even ask why black markets don't naturally spring up, because fortunately the topic is raised only a couple page from the end. As Cogdon Nestor comments at the beginning, this Pellucidar hoo-ha isn't necessarily "literature" (page 9); it is straight-up adventure, and sometimes rather boyish stuff at that. Still, for what it is and from whence it comes, Edgar Rice Burroughs' Pellucidar remains a decently entertaining piece of early-twentieth-century pulp fiction.