Edgar Rice Burroughs' 1927 The Master Mind of Mars, sixth of the eleven-book Barsoom series, begins with the narrative frame of a letter the fictionalized Burroughs received from Helium on Mars, dated June 8th, 1925, and written by Ulysses S. Paxton, "Late Captain, --th Inf., U.S. Army" (1981 Del Rey paperback, page 9), who in France during the First World War "regain[s] consciousness after dark" in a crater to find that a nearby shell hit had "blown away [his legs] midway between the hips and knees" (page 8). Somehow he is not dead from loss of blood, perhaps because he is, after all, a clean-limbed fighting man of the Burroughs tradition. That is, although of course life in the trenches with "the rats, the vermin, the mud" was "hideous," to be ordered "over the top" in a charge was a "glorious break in the monotony": "I loved it then and I loved the bursting shells, [and] the mad, wild chaos of the thundering guns" (pages 7-8). And the friends cut in half by German machinegun fire, or caught sliced and bleeding on the razor wire of no-man's land, or, as contemporaneous poet Wilfred Own puts it, "stumbling as in fire, or in lime" during a gas attack-- Well, these things would be for realistic literature, not for pulp fiction.
Yes, for Paxton praises the popular pulp novel A Princess of Mars, and he reports to Burroughs that "while [his] better judgment assured [him] that it was but a highly imaginative piece of fiction," still he "found [him]self dreaming of Mars and John Carter, of Dejah Thoris, of Tars Tarkas and of Woola as if they had been entities of [his] own experience rather than figments of [Burroughs'] imagination" (page 7). This fits Burroughs' schtick, since of course Barsoom is real, right? I mean, the original trilogy came from a "found manuscript" narrative frame of the No-one-will-believe-this-yet-but-one-day-they-will variety, and the author seems to love building this mythos of a real Barsoom. In any event, Paxton when sleeping literally dreamed of Mars, and when awake he purposefully sought out the alluring red gleam in the night sky, and now, "tortured with pain" and near death, he "stretche[s] out [his] arms toward Mars," and then there is that familiar "sharp click as of the snapping of a steel wire" and the "instant of extreme cold and utter darkness, then--" (page 9).
Then Paxton is on Barsoom. Later, John Carter, apparently through astral projection, will help him "transmit" the letter and manuscript to Burroughs (page 9), but right now, at the beginning of the tale, Paxton is flat on his back, naked, with a weird, shrunken, ancient little geezer gazing down at him through "enormous many lensed spectacles" (page 10)...and suddenly a nut flourishing a club runs up, and Paxton, grabbing the dropped sword of the "elderly victim" now "groveling, mole-like, for its lost spectacles" (page 10), charges into the fray and wins himself an ally. Sort of.
The peculiar old fellow with the "cranium...large and well developed" in such contrast to the rest of his body "wrinkled and withered beyond description" and "his ribs show[ing] distinctly beneath his shrunken hide" (page 10) is, apparently, the "master mind of Mars": Ras Thavas, the master experimental surgeon who can preserve the dead in a form of chemical suspended animation and then later graft from them a healthy organ into, or healthy limb onto, the infirm. So masterful is he that he even can transplant a brain from a tired ol' body into a nice new'un. Of course... Well, he also dabbles in weird stuff like switching brains between genders, moving "human brains...to the craniums of beasts, and vice versa," and performing a half-and-half brain switcheroo between a human and a white ape (page 30). And the bodies he gets aren't always necessarily dead before he gets 'em either. No matter, though--his rich clients sure do pay!
Thus Ras Thavas is not, as he sneers about many others, "a sentimentalist." When he takes Ulysses Paxton, whom he now calls by the more Barsoomian name of Vad Varo, under his creepy wing to become first his bodyguard--the only armed person besides himself in the isolated compound in the middle of a swamp--and then his assistant, it is not, he explains, from mere sentiment. "[S]entimentalists have words: love, loyalty, friendship, enmity, jealousy, hate, a thousand words; a waste of words--one word defines them all: self-interest" (page 23). Ras Thavas knows that the Earthling without him "would find [him]self in a world of enemies, for all are suspicious of a stranger. [He] would not survive a dozen dawns...," whereas now he enjoys "every luxury that the mind of man can devise or the hand of man can create, and [he is] occupied with work of such engrossing interest that [his] every hour must be fruitful of unparalleled satisfaction" (page 22). Perhaps he overrates not only his logic but also allure of his vocation, but Paxton merely "smile[s]" and "[holds his] peace" (page 24). Certainly buckling on that sword is a good feeling.
And, besides, Vad Varo is talented in this mad scientist racket, and eventually his skill equals that of the old master (page 42). The one thing that starts to stick in his craw, however, is case #4296-E-2631-H, or Valla Dia, "the beautiful girl whose perfect body had been stolen to furnish a gorgeous setting for the cruel brain of a [female] tyrant" (page 28). Burroughs seems to have a thing for the "perfect" female form, especially when draped only in jeweled harness that veritably call the eye rather than guard against it, and while many a man can understand this, in the grand pulp tradition he also carefully turns this never-quite-named lust into the holiest sort of love. It's predictable, and it's rather unbelievable, and the ogling of the bare form upon the table can be more than a tad creepy, but...well, it gives us a grand plot.
Valla Dia, when revived in "the hideous carcass" of the tyrannical old queen of Phundahl, actually is very game about her predicament. Unlike many a shallower pulp character, she knows that "[t]his old body cannot change [her], or make [her] different from what [she has] always been. The good in [her] remains and whatever of sweetness and kindness..." (page 33). Like I say, though, somewhere out there, animated by a nasty, hateful old brain is that body, that "sweet and lovely," smooth, bare, dare we even say desirable young body, of which Vad Vero reports that he cannot "even consider for a moment the frightful ravishing...for even the holiest of purposes, much less...for filthy pelf" (page 28).
So--and completely regardless of the fact, by the way, that one who eventually might become a loving husband perhaps one day could be forced, just for the sake of politeness, of course, to perform some form of hallowed ravishment upon that supple flesh--the devoted Vad Varo is committed to returning the stolen body to its rightful owner. It will require another few resurrections, including a famed and yet very honorable and hence revered assassin, another young man whose body was switched with that of a vain and grasping old clod, and half of a human brain controlling a huge and savage white ape, but the disaffected protege of the "master mind of Mars," and his sworn compatriots, have villains to overcome, a false religion to tweak, and a queendom to overthrow before they are satisfied.
Edgar Rice Burroughs' The Master Mind of Mars is no Shakespeare, but it is pleasantly rousing pulp fiction from the beginning days of science fiction, replete with adventure and friendship and occasional humor, and is a very decent 4-star read.