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Roger Phillips Graham
Roger Phillips Graham was an American science fiction writer, best known for his work under the pen names Rog Phillips and Melva Rogers. Active during the 1940s and 1950s, he contributed to various pulp magazines, with his stories often exploring speculative and futuristic themes. His work is particularly noted for its imaginative plots and engaging narratives, which earned him a following among science fiction enthusiasts. Graham also served as an influential columnist, offering insights and commentary on the science fiction genre of his time.
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If Nature suddenly began to behave differently, what we consider obvious and elementary today might become—unthinkable. In the story THE DESPOILERS in the October 1947 Amazing Stories I raised the question, "Is there anything absolutely beyond human comprehension?" In that story I gave humanity a thousand years to give birth to one man who could comprehend the incomprehensible. The...
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I was in the midst of the fourth draft of my doctorate thesis when Aunt Matilda's telegram came. It could not have come at a worse time. The deadline for my thesis was four days away and there was a minimum of five days of hard work to do on it yet. I was working around the clock. If it had been a telegram informing me of her death I could not have taken time out to attend the funeral. If it had...
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The man with the pith helmet had his back toward me. Hunched forward, he was screaming at the girl in the lens of his camera. "Don't just stand there, Dotty! Move! Do something! Back up toward that column with inscriptions on it...." The girl was tall and longlegged with ideal body proportions, her features and skin coloring a perfect norm-blend with no throwback elements. Right now she...
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"There you are!" Judson Taylor, the eccentric physics prof, pulled a metallic object out of his pocket and laid it on the table between us. The object was a solid chunk of some kind of metal, judging from its bright silver color, about the size and shape of a pocket knife. I looked at it stupidly and said, "Where are we?" I am Bill Halley. Some of the adolescent undergraduate brats at...
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Jan ran tirelessly, his long clean limbs carrying him at express train speed across the uneven terrain. The small deer was beginning to show evidences of tiring. Its foam-flecked mouth was open, the swollen tongue protruding over the teeth. The ten or more miles of the chase had proven Jan's superior strength. The deer rounded a dense patch of blackberry bushes and bounded out of sight over the...
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