I don’t often get spam (thank you, Gmail), but when I do, it’s usually pretty interesting.

Case in point: this bit of dummy text, which comes from a 1931 sci-fi novel by Raymond “Ray” Cummings called Brigands of the Moon. The book itself seems fairly run-of-the-mill (with “brigands” in the title, it could’ve gone either way), but this excerpt had just enough military tension to make me skim a few pages. I know, I know: I’m such a homo.

Mr. Cummings died in 1957, but if his estate is reading this run-of-the-mill blog: your patriarch’s work is still being read. And dumped in the trash.

Subject line:

An pressures at depths of four thousand fathoms.

Body:

“Commander’s orders. No gambling gold-leafers tolerated here.”

“Play the game, Wilks.” Grantline said quietly. “We all know it’s infernal — this doing nothing.”

“He’s been struck by Earth-light,” another man laughed. “Commander, I told you not to let that guy Wilks out at night.”

A rough but good-natured lot of men. Jolly and raucous by nature in their leisure hours. But there was too much leisure here now. Their mirth had a hollow sound. In older times, explorers of the frozen polar zones had to cope with inactivity, loneliness and despair. But at least they were on their native world. The grimness of the Moon was eating into the courage of Grantline’s men.