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diff --git a/41624.txt b/41624.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 0d6b796..0000000 --- a/41624.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,1526 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Futuria Fantasia, Fall 1939, by Ray Bradbury - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org - - -Title: Futuria Fantasia, Fall 1939 - -Author: Ray Bradbury - -Release Date: December 15, 2012 [EBook #41624] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ASCII - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FUTURIA FANTASIA, FALL 1939 *** - - - - -Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net - - - - - - - - - - FUTURIA FANTASIA - - fall 1939 - - vol. 1 no. 2 - - Ray D. Bradbury - editor - - 10 cents - - - - -[Illustration: WORRY!!!] - - -A newer, plumper Futuria Fantasia greets you, with more articles, more -value and less Technocracy! The reason for the scanty garb of our summer -issue was TIME, that villain who holds his sword over all humanity. I -didn't have time to contact various authors and fans--and there was -little time for mimeographing, since the Angel expedition to New York -was fast approaching, and ye editor was wandering around in a daze -waiting for the day when his bus would sweep him off to Manhattan. The -trip to New York was a happily successful thing. Futuria Fantasia would -like to toss an orchid to the editors who contributed so generously to -the convention, and at the same time blare forth with a juicy razzberry -for a certain trio of fans who made fools of themselves at the Conv. -(and u know who we meen). - -But enuf of this boring fan quarreling ** action should have been taken -at the convention and there's no use bawling over fused rockets. This -issue we bring you another cover by Hans Bok. We sincerely believe his -work is superior to any work done in fan mags for a long time. He has to -be good ** for he is a protegee of no less a person than Maxfield -Parrish, whose paintings have, at one time or another in the past -decades, made more than one home beautiful. If you haven't had a -Maxfield Parrish painting in yur home, it ain't a home. And, we feel -proud of Hans becuz we acted as agent to Weird Tales while -conventioneering in New York. Latest report is that Hans is doing an -Illustration for Weird Tales. Here's luck, Hans, and may you keep up the -good work while staying in Manhattan. - -With this issue we introduce two new fans, and two new authors. They are -Anthony Corvais, who makes his part-time home in Tucson, Arizona, and -Guy Amory of Phoenix. Corvais, twenty-two years old, has done a neat job -with his RETURN FROM THE DEAD. In the winter edition he will let go with -another original SYMPHONIC ABDUCTION. Guy Amory, after sum few hours of -hard labor, finally got an interview out of Hankuttner, which is work in -any man's lingo. Both boys were in L.A. for two weeks about a month -back, and gave their promise to support FuFa from now to TDWACOH (the -day when _astounding_ comes out hourly). - -Ron Reynolds, whose satire on Technocracy received favorable comment, -comes back with his views and news about the Convention ** and Corrinne -Ellsworth, gracious female fan of L.A. presents us with something that -is distasteful to me, THE CASE OF THE VANISHING CAFETERIA. I protest -against her grossly horrid insinuations about my Ghoul's Broths. -Manhattaneers will tell you that it is only at the full moon that I can -concoct one ... tho a cafeteria or Automat atmosphere does work wonders -with my ego--specially if there are enuf people watching to make it -profitable. - -As you will notice there is not a great deal to be sed about Technocracy -in this issue ** mainly becuz I am tired of talking and the response we -get is vury, vury funny, if not childish. If someone cares to challenge -us on Technocracy we shall be only too glad to answer all questions, but -when a bunch of crackpots start dragging in their own theories, -relatives and human nature then we give up the ghost. We take this -occasion to challenge the so-far-silent John W. Campbell to a duel of -words on this subject. How's about it, Campbell? - - - - -The Galapurred Forsendyke - -A tale of the Indies - -By H.V.B. - - -He remembered--but never dreamed its source--the old poem which began, -"A swibosh is an Indian," and as he leaned back in his chair puffing on -a pipe, his lean bronzed face darkly serious against the moonglow, a -little echo hooted from the hills as if an owl'd cried. - -Then Edris called. At the alarmant tingle of the bell, like a tinnient -tang of a rattlesnake's tremor, he ran to the telephone and shouted -eagerly, "Edris! My darling." Then he remembered to take receiver off -the hook. He was answered by dead silence. Then, to his amazement and -utter horror, a long damp tongue swished out of the mouthpiece, lapped -his cheek and disappeared in a puff of acrid steam. "The Martians!" was -his first thot, as he tremblingly buttered his toast. Then he heard -Edris' voice. It floated easily from the ceiling as if it were inverted -steam. He looked up, and discovered overhead that the planet India had -vanished from the map. It had peeled itself loose and inched over the -wallpaper and was now wrapping itself like a second skin around a baked -potato. "But that's impossible!" he breathed, "There aren't any potatoes -in August, and especially in bathtubs." Again Edris' voice reached him. -What was she saying? "Go with the pretty men, dear, they'll feed you an -orange." But that sounded crazy. He was worried, and clung to a red-hot -radiator which melted into a puddle at his touch, burning a round red -hole in the rug. - -Seventeen puffs of black vapor--he counted them--whiffed up winsomely -from the charred circle. "Around and around," he said, dreamily, -remembering the second line of the poem, "When Fifthly is perplexed." -Edris oozed out of the shadows to him, longlike and snaky, with fearthy -fettles adorning her foresome, and a blaze in her eyes like the -hurmwurst of Whidby. Island, island, he repeated to himself, thrusting -an negatory hand thru the farthing of her wrabdy--and her mouth parted -to disclose another mouth, from which issued visible words like ticker -tape of steam in chilly air, so surprising him that he could only stand -rooted, like a tree. It was then that he noticed the snakes in her hair, -as the leaves sprouted from his cheeks end from every simple vascicle of -his tubular perpendages sometimes cursorily applellated, eyebreams. - -Among the amiderie of her fascinating fingers, which she waved before -his face like the shimmer of phosphorescence on a salty sea on hot -midsummer moonlight, took shape an elegant form, something reminiscent -of a redchief. Within his sore heart a black thot grew, spurred by the -excess of his agonized birdtwitters, bidding him to slay and do so -quickly. He reached for a weapon. There was nothing at hand but a slug. -He groaned. A slug against snakes? What chance of victory? As tho she'd -read his thot, she moved nearer, her laffter lifting and lowering like a -fragile boat on waves of honey. One by one her eyes--390 of them--popped -out with hollow slaps like corks from bottles, while within the dull -draperies of scarlet which adorned the farthest lamp-post stirred an -unnameable bloody something which sent forth a thrill of foreboding into -his anguished heart, and he remembered the 4th and last lines of the -poem "He who dines alone is hexed." He uttered a gurgling scream as she -leaped upon him, and her snales torn and the steam of her bare -eye-sockets scalded him--then the ensanguined thing crawled limply over -the face of the blinding desert and the vacant sun stared sitelessly at -nothing. - - - - -I'M THROUGH! - -BY _Foo E Onya_ - - -The editor of this magazine, under the impression that I am still one of -that queer tribe known as science-fiction fans, has asked me to write an -article. I am no longer a science-fiction fan. I'M THROUGH! However, I -have decided to do the article and explain with my chin leading just why -I am through. Here goes. - -As to science-fiction; the trouble with me, I think, is that I have -outgrown the stuff mentally--and that's not a boast, seeing the type of -minds modern science-fiction is dished up for. I'll admit there are a -few exceptions, but on the whole, s.f. fans are as arrogant, -self-satisfied, conspicuously blind, and critically moronic a group as -the good Lord has allowed to people the Earth. I don't blush that I was -once a s.f. fan, starting back in '26--I merely thank my personal gods -that somewhere along the route I woke up and began to see s.f. as it -really is. The superiority complex found in group known as science -fiction fans is probably unequalled anywhere. Their certitude in their -superiority, as readers of s.f., over all other fiction, is -representative of an absolutely incredibly stupid complacence. Facing -the business squarely, we can see why s.f. lays CLAIM to such -superiority: for no other obvious reason than that such fiction is the -bastard child of science and the romantic temperament. But NOT, good -lord, because it is INSTRUCTIVE! This has too long been preached, until -s.f. readers actually believe it! The amazing _naivette_ of these -readers who think their literature is superior merely because they think -it teaches--this simple moves me to despair. The fact is, any literature -whose function it is to teach, ceases to be literature _as such_; it -becomes didactic literature, which is the color of another horse. When -literature becomes obsessed by _ideas as such_, it is no longer -literature. Just how the delusion could have arisen that writing, -because invested with scientific symbols, automatically became possessed -of new and more precious values, is beyond me to explain. Ideas are out -of place in literature unless they are subordinate to the spirit of the -story--but s.f. readers have never perceived this. "Give us SCIENCE!" -they shriek, running with clenched fists uprisen to the stars. "We want -SCIENCE! Give us the Great God!" Well, they are given _science_, and -what does it turn out to be? For the most part the off-scourings of the -lunatic fringe. Talk about scientists being inspired by s.f. -stories--WHEW! Why, not one s.f. writer in fifty has the remotest idea -of what he is talking about--he just picks up some elementary idea and -kicks hell out of it. I'll wager that no scientist is going to produce -very spectacularly on the basis of any ideas provided by s.f. It's -possible, but wholly improbable. Scientists don't tick that way. - -Another amusing fallacy: this well-known business of Wells and Verne -doing some _predicting_. It's one of the biggest laffs of all. They made -a _flock_ of predictions, a few of which were realized, and some only in -ways most vaguely related to the original conception. How many ideas did -they have that _never_ have been realized and never will? Give them -credit for being good and often logical guessers, perhaps--but don't -claim that as a merit for their WRITING! And how many other good -guessers must there have been who never got around to setting down their -predictions in print? - -There is but one affectation about Wells' "scientific" stories which he -published before he discovered his capability at characterization, and -this is the affectation of imagination. There is no genuine imagination -in beating out cleverness of the s.f. type; the point of view, the -inventive quality necessary for their construction, is the same as with -the widely circulated tales of Nick Carter. Science-fiction stories are -not struck forth with a creative hand, they are manufactured products -put together piece-meal--none of them being written in any but the -calmest and most conscious mood. They are lacking in that important -element of all really GREAT works of the imagination: inspiration. And -what is inspiration? It is essentially the soaring of one's soul without -the knowledge of the mind. In the gleaming moment the mind becomes the -slave of the spirit. Read Wells' EXPERIMENT IN AUTOBIOGRAPHY and see why -and what he thinks of his early writings of s.f. He admits that they -were only a means to an end, a preparation for his more serious writing -that was to come later--Plato's REPUBLIC and More's UTOPIA also serving -largely to hasten Wells' Utopian proclivities. When he really began to -take his predictions seriously, he began to turn out the important stuff -which now bores the average s.f. enthusiast silly--or should I say -sillier! - -As for Verne, his stuff has never been literature except for boys. It is -innocuous adventure--stuff that will not pervert morals. It is not too -badly written, and the language is so simple that Verne is readily to be -read in the original French, in fact some of his stuff serves as -textbooks in French classes in American schools. - -But in the main, what I am speaking about now is s.f. as it is -constituted today. All of this modern s.f. is worthless except in -perhaps _one minor respect_, and I'm not even sure of that. It CAN open -the minds of boys and girls reaching puberty, giving them a more -catholic attitude toward startling new ideas. However, it is so very -often fatal at the same time, in that these boys and girls become -obsessed with it--it enmeshes them until, as I said, they become -incredibly blind to all else, so certain are they of the superiority of -their hobby over all other fiction. There are exceptions, but my -experience has proven that the exceptions are by far a minority. - -Also I will admit that s.f. can on occasion provide escapist flights of -imagination--in fact, it can be admirable for this; but this type of -s.f. has become exceedingly rare because this crazy superstructure of -SCIENCE, and even more so ADVENTURE, has become such a fetish that sound -writing concerning people is rarely to be found. In pulp -science-fiction, never. - -And the frightful smugness fostered by the modern s.f. magazines is -simply appalling. It seems that not only the readers, but the editors -and writers as well, cannot or will not see anything beyond their own -perverted models. Just as one example which I remember very well, look -how BRAVE NEW WORLD, the admirable and really important novel by -Huxley, was received a few years ago. It was Clark Ashton Smith, I -believe, who mentioned it as embodying some of Huxley's "habitual -pornography"--simply, stunning P. Schyler Miller; whom, I might mention, -I consider as one of the most intellectual authors and fans. And, -reviewing the book, C.A. Brandt also decried its preoccupation with sex, -but said complacently that it might, at least, bring to the attention -of people that there was such a thing as the science-fictionists and -their so-called literature. Of all the damned nonsense! BRAVE NEW WORLD -was, as a matter of fact, a satire on sex, and of FAR MORE IMPORTANCE -than to "bring to the attention of people that there is such a thing as -sci-fiction." Huxley conceived a future world in which Ford's -mechanistic contributions had become so emphatic as to deprive the -people of all but an animal interest in sex; he projects a more normal -man into such a civilization for no other reason than to characterize -present-day tendencies with searing satire. But Brandt--he evidently -would demolish this to set up in its stead a "Space-wrecked On Mars" -atrocity. - -To get back to the subject, it is my honest opinion that no person of -very conspicuous intelligence can subsist very considerably on s.f. -after he begins to mature intellectually. There is simply not enuf _to_ -it to provide intellectual or spiritual nourishment. He may string along -with it for a few years out of habit or some mental quirk--but stuff -aimed at juvenile minds cannot very long sustain a person of mature -years, unless that person is himself a mental adolescent. The way the -fans flocked to the S.F. League, indulged in "tests" to prove their -"superiority" over other readers, the silly letters in the mags, the -petty internal strife, and many other things, have served to widen the -gulf between me and s.f. - -The most important thing, however, is that I have discovered that -there's been too much else of importance, REAL importance, that has been -said and written in this world (and is being and will be), for me to -desire to give much attention to such a petty thing as s.f. any more. I -shall read on the fringe of it, but increasingly less frequently I'm -afraid. - -I might have summed this entire thing up by saying, "I'm satiated," but -that wouldn't be the entire truth. The entire truth would be: "I am -satiated and much wiser." In conclusion let me point out that this is -only one man's opinion. I have intentionally been harsh in my estimates, -maybe some points are in need of qualification or elucidation, but by -and large, I stand back of what I have written here. AMEN. - - * * * * * - -THE ABOVE ARTICLE IS SUBJECT TO CRITICISM--THEREFORE ANY AND ALL FANS -AND AUTHORS WHO DISAGREE WILL FIND THEIR ARTICLES AGAINST THIS ONE BY A -FAMOUS AUTHOR WELCOMED AND PRINTED IN THE WINTER EDITION OF FUFA!. THE -WINTER EDITION WILL BE OUT DURING THE MONTH OF DECEMBER--SO -CONTRIBUTIONS SHOULD BE MAILED IMMEDIATELY TO FUTURIA FANTASIA--3054-1/2 -West 12th Street, Los Angeles. (EDITOR) - - * * * * * - -[Illustration] - - FUTURIA VOLUME ONE NO. THREE - FANTASIA! OUT IN DECEMBER TEN CENTS - -Contributions welcomed. Short stories preferred. No personal stuff or -caustic feuding. Humor wanted. Material bought but never paid for--so -what can you lose? We suggest you send a quarter for the next 3 issues -of Futuria Fantasia and save yourselves a nickel. - - Contributing Authors/ Willy Ley, Rocklynne, Hasse, - Kuttner, Ackerman, Corvais - - - - -Satan's Mistress - -by Doug Rogers - - - Where flames of purgatory twist, and Earth's transgressors dwell, - She dances swathed in heated mist, before the gates of Hell. - Her gleaming naked body flees before the Demon fires, - Along the shores of molten seas--ridged high by fuming pyres. - Her hair, a liquid cape of flame, whips hot about her breasts, - A strumpet in the Devil's name, which he alone invests, - Gives power to a woman born of brimstone, steam and smoke, - Her soul, a spark in early morn, flares up to share the yoke - Of evil Mephistopheles upon his throne of death, - Unheeding shrieks and doleful pleas choked out by dying breath. - The Devil's Mistress dances down thru dungeons carved from bone, - Upon her head the sinner's crown, each jewel a sigh, a moan. - Before the wailing souls in caves, tossed down from earthly things, - To charred and cindered minds of slaves her dancing passion brings. - Then, tired of her evil joke, and laughing at her games, - She draws about her fiery cloak to vanish in the flames. - - - - -Lost Soul - -by Henry Hasse - - - From far across the desolate moor I heard - The echo of a wild and anguished cry-- - A tortured voice that shrieked aloud a word, - A name, that shivered 'cross the leaden sky. - I stopped--stared 'round--I knew that voice did sound - A faint, familiar note within my brain. - I fled across that dark and desolate ground - Seeking out the direction whence it came. - Forebodingly, that voice kept echoing - Within a brain that did not seem my own ... - A vague remembrance of a recent thing - I could not grasp ... I was a lost and lone - Forsaken soul that sped I knew not where, - Wondering frightenedly what I did seek.... - At last I found it, there beside a bare - And lonely road, when trembling and weak, - I gazed upon a gallows-tree where hung - A corpse, the very site of which did freeze - The blood within my veins; a corpse that swung - Grotesquely to and fro upon the breeze. - And then, through rising panic, closer still - I peered--then saw!--and knew! Again that cry - That shrieked a name--the cry that issued shrill - From my own throat, and shivered to the sky! - - * * * * * - - The name I shriek beneath the gallows-tree - Was mine. The dead thing swinging there was me! - - - - -The truth about goldfish - -KUTTNER - - -For some time I have been wondering what the world is coming to. More -than once I have got up in the middle of the nite, padded toward the -bureau, and, peering into the mirror, exclaimed, "Stinky, what is the -world coming to?" The responses I have thus obtained I am not at liberty -to reveal; but I am coming to believe that either I have a most -mysterious mirror or something is wrong somewhere. I am intrigued by my -mirror. - -It came into my possession under extraordinary and eerie circumstances, -being borne into my bedroom one Midsummer's Eve by a procession of cats -dressed oddly in bright-colored sunsuits and carrying parasols. I was -asleep at the time, but awoke just as the last tail whisked out the -door, and immediately I sprang out of bed and cut my left big toe rather -badly on the edge of the mirror. I remember that as I first looked into -the fathomless, glassy depths, a curious thot came into my mind. "What," -I said to myself, "is the world coming to? And what is science-fiction -coming to?" - -It is quite evident that a logical and critical analysis of -science-fictional trends is a desideratum today. The whole trouble, I -feel, can be laid to velleity. (I have wanted to use that word for -years. Unfortunately I have now forgotten exactly what it means, but one -can safely attribute trouble to it. Where was I?) - -Today science-fiction is split by schisms and impaled on the trylon of -bad thots. The fans, I mean, not the writers. The writers have been -split and impaled for years, but nothing can be done about that. In a -way, it's a good thing. Look at Jules Verne, Victor Hugo, and, for that -matter, the late unfortunate Tobias J. Koot. - -I put flowers on his grave only yesterday. He lies at rest, tho his -ghastly fate pursued him even to the grave. And I attribute Mr. Koot's -fate to nothing less than the schisms of fandom. For Koot was a hard -working young man, serious, earnest, with promise of becoming a -first-class writer. He took life very solemnly--almost grimly. "My job," -he told me once, "is to give people what they want." - -"I want a drink," I said to him. "Give me one." - -But Koot couldn't be turned from his rash course. He began to write -science-fiction. That was where the trouble started. "Is it science?" he -pondered. "Or is it fiction?" Already the cleavage--the split--had -begun. - -It was a matter of logical progression toward ultimate division. Koot -got in the habit of typing the science into his stories with his left -hand, and the fiction with his right. He began to twitch and worry. He -got up nites. He was troubled, uneasy. "I have one thing left to cling -to," he muttered desperately, "Fandom! I can point to that and say: It -is real. It exists. It is dependable." - -When fandom had its schism, Koot immediately developed a split -personality. It was rather horrible. His left side--the scientific -side--grew cold and hard and keen. He grew a Van Dyke on the left side -of his face and his left hand was stained with acids and chemicals. But -the right side of his face became dissipated and disreputable, with a -leer in the eye end a scornful, sneering curve to the lip. He grew a -tiny moustache on the right side, waxed it, and twirled it continually. -It was rather horrid, but worse was yet to come. - -One day the inevitable happened. Tobias J. Koot split in half, with a -faint ripping sound and a despairing wail. He was, of course, buried in -two coffins and in two graves, the wretched man's fate pursuing him even -beyond death. - -Well, you can understand how I feel, what with the mirror, the cats in -sunsuits and the weasel. Or haven't I mentioned the weasel? I mean the -brown one, of course, and he is, perhaps, worst of all. It isn't what he -says so much as his sneering, ironic tone. The other weasels, who live -in the spare bedroom with the colt, were happy enuf till HE arrived, but -now THEY are arranging a schism. As you will readily see, something must -be done about it before science-fiction collapses and the standard falls -trailing into the dust. - -I suggest that we mobilize, and, to avoid dissension, give everybody the -rank of general. Then, first of all, we can march to my house and get -rid of that weasel. - -The Brown One, of course. The others are welcome to stay as long as they -like. I feel that they are weak rather than wicked, and need only a good -excuse, or should I say example, in order to brace themselves up. - -Contributions to the fund for the mobilization of science-fiction and -the extermination of brown weasels may be sent to me in care of this -magazine. Do not delay. Each moment you wait brings us closer to doom, -and, besides, I need a new piano. - -H.K. - - * * * * * - -[Illustration] - - READ - freehafer's - POLARIS! - - 404 S. Lake Ave. - Pasadena, Calif. - - 10c - - * * * * * - - - - -GOD BUSTERS - -ERICK FREYOR - - -Mark Twain, in his _mysterious stranger_, makes no bones about his -sentiments towards Christianity and the God illusion. Speaking of -Christian progress he says, "It is a remarkable progress. In five or six -thousand years five or six high civilizations have risen, flourished, -commanded the wonder of the world, then faded out and disappeared; and -not one of them except the latest ever invented any sweeping and -adequate way to kill people. They all did their best--to kill being the -chiefest ambition of the human race and the earliest incident in its -history--but only the Christian civilization has scored a triumph to be -proud of. Two or three centuries from now it will be recognized that all -the competent killers are Christians; then the pagan world will go to -school to the Christian, not to acquire his religion, but his guns. The -_turk_ and the _chinaman_ will buy these to kill missionaries and -converts with." - -Again, in speaking of God, comparing the God conception to an impossible -dream, he continues, "Strange, because they are so frankly and -hysterically insane--like all dreams: a God who could have made good -children as easily as bad, yet preferred to make bad ones; who could -have made every one of them happy, yet never made a single happy one; -who made them prize their bitter life, yet stingily cut it short; who -gave his angels eternal happiness unearned, yet required his other -children to earn it; who gave his angels painless lives, yet cursed his -other children with biting miseries and maladies of mind and body; who -mouths justice and invented hell--mouths mercy and invented hell; mouths -Golden Rules and forgiveness multiplied by seventy times seven, and -invented hell; who mouths morals to other people and has none himself; -who frowns upon crimes, yet commits them all; who created man without -invitation, then tries to shuffle the responsibility for man's acts upon -man, instead of honorably placing it where it belongs, upon himself; and -finally, with altogether divine obtuseness, invites this poor, abused -slave to worship him!" - -One wonders what the Christian Ethiopians thot when the Christian -Italians playfully, and undoubtedly with the sanction of the Holy Mother -Church, began to spray them with liquid fire, blast their cities, and -mutilate their children with the newest Christian improvements on the -Christian weapons of war. They probably couldn't quite understand the -logic or the fairness of it, but we must not blame the Ethiopians for -failing to comprehend, as they haven't had the benefits of Christian -civilization for as long a time as the Italians. - -Let's put a stop to this shilly-shallying. Let's put these destructive -Atheists in their place. The Christians KNOW that God DOES exist. That -God _is_ all powerfull. So it would be only a simple matter to arrange -an appointment with God, (we don't exactly know what his office hours -are,) and prevail upon him to write a message in fire saying, "YOU BET, -GOD IS THE REAL MCCOY" or something similar, and spread it all over the -sky. That'll convince even the most reluctant Atheists, and it should be -a rather simple trick for a God who once stopped the sun (sic!), created -a universe in 6 days, and engineered an immaculate conception. - -Clarence Darrow, world famous criminal lawyer, the man who made the -Silver-Tongued and Godly Bryant appear the verbose addlepate he was, -beneath his platitudinous phrases, during the Scopes trial, said, to an -interviewer, "All my life I've been an Agnostic. But I am no longer an -Agnostic, I am now an Atheist." - - - - -THE PENDULUM - - -Up and down, back and forth, up and down. First the quick flite skyward, -gradually slowing, reaching the pinnacle of the curve, poising a moment, -then flashing earthward again, faster and faster at a nauseating speed, -reaching the bottom and hurtling aloft on the opposite side. Up and -down. Back and forth. Up and down. - -How long it had continued this way Layeville didn't know. It might have -been millions of years he'd spent sitting here in the massive glass -pendulum watching the world tip one way and another, up and down, -dizzily before his eyes until they ached. Since first they had locked -him in the pendulum's round glass head and set if swinging it had never -stopped or changed. Continuous, monotonous movements over and above the -ground. So huge was this pendulum that it shadowed one hundred feet or -more with every majestic sweep of its gleaming shape, dangling from the -metal intestines of the shining machine overhead. It took three or four -seconds for it to traverse the one hundred feet one way, three or four -seconds to come back. - -THE PRISONER OF TIME! That's what they called him now! Now, -fettered to the very machine he had planned and constructed. A -pri--son--er--of--time! A--pris--on--er--of--Time! With every swing of -the pendulum it echoed in his thoughts. For ever like this until he went -insane. He tried to focus his eyes on the arching hotness of the earth -as it swept past beneath him. - -They had laughed at him a few days before. Or was it a week? A month? A -year? He didn't know. This ceaseless pitching had filled him with an -aching confusion. They had laughed at him when he said, some time before -all this, he could bridge time gaps and travel into futurity. He had -designed a huge machine to warp space, invited thirty of the worlds most -gifted scientists to help him finish his colossal attempt to scratch the -future wall of time. - -The hour of the accident spun back to him now thru misted memory. The -display of the time machine to the public. The exact moment when he -stood on the platform with the thirty scientists and pulled the main -switch! The scientists, all of them, blasted into ashes from wild -electrical flames! Before the eyes of two million witnesses who had come -to the laboratory or were tuned in by television at home! He had slain -the world's greatest scientists! - -He recalled the moment of shocked horror that followed. Something -radically wrong had happened to the machine. He, Layeville, the inventor -of the machine, had staggered backward, his clothes flaming and eating -up about him. No time for explanations. Then he had collapsed in the -blackness of pain and numbing defeat. - -Swept to a hasty trial, Layeville faced jeering throngs calling out for -his death. "Destroy the Time Machine!" they cried. "And destroy this -MURDERER with it!" - -Murderer! And he had tried to help humanity. This was his reward. - -One man had leaped onto the tribunal platform at the trial, crying, "No! -Don't destroy the machine! I have a better plan! A revenge for -this--this man!" His finger pointed at Layeville where the inventor sat -unshaven and haggard, his eyes failure glazed. "We shall rebuild his -machine, take his precious metals, and put up a monument to his -slaughtering! We'll put him on exhibition for life within his -executioning device!" The crowd roared approval like thunder shaking the -tribunal hall. - -Then, pushing hands, days in prison, months. Finally, led forth into the -hot sunshine, he was carried in a small rocket car to the center of the -city. The shock of what he saw brought him back to reality. THEY had -rebuilt his machine into a towering timepiece with a pendulum. He -stumbled forward, urged on by thrusting hands, listening to the roar of -thousands of voices damning him. Into the transparent pendulum head they -pushed him and clamped it tight with weldings. - -Then they set the pendulum swinging and stood back. Slowly, very slowly, -it rocked back and forth, increasing in speed. Layeville had pounded -futilely at the glass, screaming. The faces became blurred, were only -tearing pink blobs before him. - -On and on like this--for how long? - -He hadn't minded it so much at first, that first nite. He couldn't -sleep, but it was not uncomfortable. The lites of the city were comets -with tails that pelted from rite to left like foaming fireworks. But as -the nite wore on he felt a gnawing in his stomach, that grew worse. He -got very sick and vomited. The next day he couldn't eat anything. - -They never stopped the pendulum, not once. Instead of letting him eat -quietly, they slid the food down the stem of the pendulum in a special -tube, in little round parcels that plunked at his feet. The first time -he attempted eating he was unsuccessful, it wouldn't stay down. In -desperation he hammered against the cold glass with his fists until they -bled, crying hoarsely, but he heard nothing but his own weak, -fear-wracked words muffled in his ears. - -After some time had elapsed he got so that he could eat, even sleep -while travelling back and forth this way. They allowed him small glass -loops on the floor and leather thongs with which he tied himself down at -nite and slept a soundless slumber without sliding. - -People came to look at him. He accustomed his eyes to the swift flite -and followed their curiosity-etched faces, first close by in the middle, -then far away to the right, middle again, and to the left. - -He saw the faces gaping, speaking soundless words, laughing and pointing -at the prisoner of time traveling forever nowhere. But after awhile the -town people vanished and it was only tourists who came and read the sign -that said: THIS IS THE PRISONER OF TIME--JOHN LAYEVILLE--WHO KILLED -THIRTY OF THE WORLDS FINEST SCIENTISTS! The school children, on the -electrical moving sidewalk stopped to stare in childish awe. THE -PRISONER OF TIME! - -Often he thot of that title. God, but it was ironic, that he should -invent a time machine and have it converted into a clock, and that he, -in its pendulum, should mete out the years--traveling _with_ Time. - -He couldn't remember how long it had been. The days and nites ran -together in his memory. His unshaven checks had developed a short beard -and then ceased growing. How long a time? How long? - -Once a day they sent down a tube after he ate and vacuumed up the cell, -disposing of any wastes. Once in a great while they sent him a book, but -that was all. - -[Illustration] - -The robots took care of him now. Evidently the humans thot it a waste of -time to bother over their prisoner. The robots brot the food, cleaned -the pendulum cell, oiled the machinery, worked tirelessly from dawn -until the sun crimsoned westward. At this rate it could keep on for -centuries. - -But one day as Layeville stared at the city and its people in the blur -of ascent and descent, he perceived a swarming darkness that extended in -the heavens. The city rocket ships that crossed the sky on pillars of -scarlet flame darted helplessly, frightenedly for shelter. The people -ran like water splashed on tiles, screaming soundlessly. Alien creatures -fluttered down, great gelatinous masses of black that sucked out the -life of all. They clustered thickly over everything, glistened -momentarily upon the pendulum and its body above, over the whirling -wheels and roaring bowels of the metal creature once a Time Machine. An -hour later they dwindled away over the horizon and never came back. The -city was dead. - -Up and down, Layeville went on his journey to nowhere, in his prison, a -strange smile etched on his lips. In a week or more, he knew, he would -be the only man alive on earth. - -Elation flamed within him. This was _his_ victory! Where the other men -had planned the pendulum as a prison it had been an asylum against -annihilation now! - -Day after day the robots still came, worked, unabated by the visitation -of the black horde. They came every week, brot food, tinkered, checked, -oiled, cleaned. Up and down, back and forth--THE PENDULUM! - -... a thousand years must have passed before the sky again showed life -over the dead Earth. A silvery bullet of space dropped from the clouds, -steaming, and hovered over the dead city where now only a few solitary -robots performed their tasks. In the gathering dusk the lites of the -metropolis glimmered on. Other automatons appeared on the rampways like -spiders on twisting webs, scurrying about, checking, oiling, working in -their crisp mechanical manner. - -And the creatures in the alien projectile found the time mechanism, the -pendulum swinging up and down, back and forth, up and down. The robots -still cared for it, oiled it, tinkering. - -A thousand years this pendulum had swung. Made of glass the round disk -at the bottom was, but now when food was lowered by the robots through -the tube it lay untouched. Later, when the vacuum tube came down and -cleaned out the cell it took that very food with it. - -Back and forth--up and down. - -The visitors saw something inside the pendulum. Pressed closely to the -glass side of the cell was the face of a whitened skull--a skeleton -visage that stared out over the city with empty sockets and an -enigmatical smile wreathing its lipless teeth. - -Back and forth--up and down. - -The strangers from the void stopped the pendulum in its course, ceased -its swinging and cracked open the glass cell, exposing the skeleton to -view. And in the gleaming light of the stars the skull face continued -its weird grinning as if it knew that it had conquered something. Had -conquered time. - -The Prisoner Of Time, Layeville, had indeed travelled along the -centuries. - -And the journey was at an end. - - - - -IS IT TRUE WHAT THEY SAY ABOUT KUTTNER? - -OR - -the man with the Weird Tale - -by GUY AMORY - -[Illustration] - - -The extremely interesting specimen to your right is not a head from a -formaldehyde jar, though at times we have seen it, or him, pickled. It -is I, Henry Kuttner, the laziest man who ever punched a typewriter and -got paid for it. Like several other L.A. natives he is too busy living -to do much worrying--and besides--what does it get him? (a check from -Weird Tales) Henry has just sold them a 20,000 word yarn about Elak of -Atlantis. At present he has finished a story headed for STARTLING, fifty -thousand words or more, and been working with C. L. Moore on a new -chiller. - -Hank's first story for Astounding was a disappointment, but he fully -made up for that by turning in a sockerooo to Unknown called _the -misguided halo_, written after the fashion of his most highly cherished -author THORNE SMITH. What the fans don't know is that this little tale -had a different ending than the one used by Campbell. Kuttner's finis to -the halo was hysterically funny, but John W. thought otherwise and -tagged a new finish on it--spoiling it as far as this author is -concerned. - -Kuttner is 24 years old. He's been writing most of his life--learned how -to type at the age of eight and hasn't left it alone since. Was born -with a type-bar in his mouth. Lives in a quiet catacomb called Beverly -Hills, the first cemetery I've ever seen with street lamps. At present, -though I have broached the subject on numerous occasions, Hank -steadfastly refuses to write for slick magazines. His best excuse being -his laziness. - -Hanks is quiet-speaking, sincere. But he has a sense of humor, the kind -that hits you amidriff abruptly. He is the perfect dead-pan jokester. -His digs many times being too subtle for your correspondent to catch -until several moments have passed, Kuttner is always ready to rush in -mildly and put the immature fans to route. It is only when you see the -ghastly pictures that he takes out at his charnal cave that you realize -his true sense of comedy. He and Hodgkins and Shroyer, the fiends, get -together in outre garb, in horrifying pose, and bring forth films that -would shake the mind of even such a horror as Robert Bloch. - -Kuttner likes the way C. L. Moore writes (and who doesn't). He wishes he -could write like her--but claims that when he tries imitating it comes -out so much trash. If you've read any of his stories you realize that -Hank is a master of the bingety-boom type of fiction--but with feeling! -He puts more Incident in ten pages of Elak than any other author in -WEIRD, and makes you feel it. He paints his picture with masterfully -abrupt dabs, while Moore lays on her horror with the touch of a mosaic -master, building up. Kuttner knocks you down and keeps you bouncing. -Moore swirls you in cobwebs and totes you away into infinity. Combining -their efforts in '37 for QUEST OF THE STARSTONE they turned out -something to remember ... with Hank's flair for lightning pace and -Moore's for description they went to town. - -That's about all we can say about Hank, He doesn't like New York because -it's too dirty, noisy and big. He dotes on Thorne Smith. Rite now he's -trying to crash Argosy with a story--and in the future you can expect -some big things from this quiet author. - -Oh, yes, and is it true what they say about Kuttner? - -No, he doesn't use dope to get the effect in his stories. He has a -massive painting of Art Barnes on his desk and when he prepares to write -he squints once and once only at that painting to get gruesome -atmosphere. Then he starts typing! - -Take a bow, Mr. Kuttner. - -(Jus bend over a little more, Hank! A' K' BARNES) - -WHUMP! - -Ouch! (KUTTNER) - -The End (of Kuttner) - - - - -ANALYSIS - -[Illustration] - - -FROM J CHAPMAN MISKE: Pretty snappy cover on the 1st issue of fufa. At -least I like it. Simple stuff looks best on mimeod covers. By the way, -what, I'd like to know, is the sex of that Bokian creature? WHY MR. -MISKE! WE THOT U ABHORED SEX! TSK! TSK! I'm for Technocracy. Personally -I suspect Reynolds of being Kuttner NOPE.... TRY AGAIN, JACK. Your -poetry not so hot. U wandered a bit and were melodramatic. - -DALE HART POSTS: Bok cover good. Yerke and Reynolds interesting. -Forrie's story unique. Yur poem full of thot but it didn't scan very -well. MAYBE IT'S BECUZ I'M MORE BRITISH THAN I AM _SCAN_-DIN-AVIAN. -(BRAD) How about an increase in pages--this issue much too small. HOPE -YU LIKE THIS BIGGER SIZE, DALE. - -GERTRUDE HEMKIN MUMBLES: Cover startling, technocracy article sounds -sensible, ron reynolds satire amusing and contains a few kernels of -logic, at that. And where hav I red 4SJ's RECORD bee4? - -(WE _Wonder_) HENRY HASSE TYPES: "Hans Bok steals 1st honors 4 his -cover. Hope yu can get Hans to do all yur illustrations each month." -YES; HENRY, WE'LL HAVE BOK ON THE COVER EVERY ISSUE FROM NOW ON EVEN THO -HE'S BUSY IN NEW YORK WITH HIS PANTING--SINCE THE EDITORIAL FOR FUFA WAS -STENCILED THE DECEMBER ISSUE OF WEIRD TALES HAS APPEARED ON THE STANDS -ALL OVER AMERICA WITH ITS COVER DONE BY BOK. IT WAS FUTURIA FANTASIA'S -PLEASENT DUTY, THIS SUMMER; TO BRING ABOUT THAT DEAL BETWEEN BOK AND -WEIRD AND WE ARE JUSTLY PROUD OF HANS AND HIS SUCCESS. HERE'S HOPING HE -HITS ASTOUNDING NEXT. HASSE CONTINUES: "Best written feature was yur -poem, Brad. Next is Reynolds piece and the one by Ackerman." DUE TO LACK -OF SPACE IN THIS ISSUE WE ARE CONDENSING THE ABOVE LETTERS. IN THE -WINTER EDITION THERE WILL BE A BIGGER LETTER DEPARTMENT--THAT IS, IF YU -WRITE IN. WE'RE ANXIOUS TO KNOW HOW YOU LIKED OUR SPECIAL _the -pendulum_. UNTIL THEN, FU, FAREWELL! - - - - -RETURN FROM DEATH - -_by ANTONY CORVAIS_ - - -They were seated in his parked, car, miles from the city, when Robert -told Ellen; "I'll always love you, darling, forever and ever. I just -can't help myself, and I don't want to." - -The girl nestled closer without reply. - -"And if something should happen to one of us, the other would -wait--because love like ours will never know death--it must go on--for -eternity," he continued. "I know that I'll love you even when I'm dead, -and if there are such things as spirits, I'll come back to you--somehow. -Or would it frighten you?" - -Ellen pouted: "Don't be so funereal! It makes me feel strangely inside. -Of course nothing can separate us. It's a beautiful nite and we're -wasting it on--oh, dear!" Her eyes had glanced at the small clock on the -paneling. "It's late, Robert. You must hurry me home now or mother will -be furious!" - -Sighing, Robert started the car. As they roared toward town over the -twisting roadway, suddenly the car swerved. - -"Lookout, Bob! A man!" It was Ellen's high voice screaming. - -The car skidded sickeningly on loose gravel, crashed thunderously -through the railing bordering the highway, and richocheted, turning over -and over, halting as wreckage. Robert was crushed under the metal bulk, -losing consciousness. - -Thrown clear, Ellen scrambled to the man, bent over him. Something more -than pain filmed his eyes; he heard himself muttering: "I'll come -back?--you wait--" in a failing whisper as illimitable darkness swept -over him, accompanied by dreadful nausea. A point of light appeared in -the void, expanding into a dazzling rectangle which split into thousands -of lesser planes; these shaped a geometric pattern which whirled -dizzily, humming, the drone rising in pitch with every sickening -revolution, becoming incessant mechanical scream---- - -"And this is death. This is past human endurance." With sudden -omniscience he knew that he WAS dead and the meaning of the spinning -pattern. The knowledge ebbed and carried with it all of his memories -except for Ellen's face and her name. - -The wheeling design parted like a curtain, and Robert observed beyond it -a branching path spreading before him like a flattened tree. At the end -of every fork was Ellen's face, wavering and blurred. He fixed his -attention upon the nearest furcation, aspiring toward it desperately, -and sensed himself hovering in space. - -Shock, as of lightning coursing his veins, knotted him with agony. -Involuntarily his eyes squeezed shut. Icy air tortured his lungs. As he -raised his voice in weak protest, the pain ceased and he relaxed, spent. -His eyes continued shut, as though the lids were gummed down. Failing in -many attempts to open them, he quested food, found it, and consoled -himself with it. - -Occasionally plaintive voices babbled unintelligibly, arousing him. -Always, if he listened, he heard a gentle murmur reply to the voices. -And then everything was quiet. He felt very sleepy. Finally he dropped -off into slumber, deep and restful. - -Between periods of sleep, Robert struggled with his heavy eyelids. -Memories might have associated his sightlessness with blindness--but he -had none. There were only Ellen's face and her name which, when -expecially desperate, he called again and again. - -Gradually his vision became clear, and he stared in awe at a world of -immensity which was peopled with Titans. The picture of Ellen in this -gigantic place troubled him, for the colossal beings looked upon him as -an animated toy. Often he was elevated to their reeking mouths, kissed, -and dropped aside; if he were insistent upon attention, inquiring for -Ellen, the giants beat him and thrust him from their presence. - -Inert bare-surfaced looming things inclosed him, from some of which, -when he approached them, he was kicked away. Incredibly huge portals -barred egress to an outer world, from which seeped strange sharp odors. -By calling his one word to the world beyond the doors, Robert endeavored -to explain to the Titans that Ellen might possibly be outside. But they -hushed him with amusement, sometimes with abuse. - -There had been others prisoned here like himself while he had not seen, -but they had vanished now, but this bothered him not in the least--his -thoughts were of Ellen, and finally the giants lifted him and put him -into a windowless room and clamped a fretted ceiling over it. The -chamber rocked gently; he realized that it was being moved from one -place to another. Leaping frantically he touched the ceiling's lattice, -clung to it, struggling to force himself through its interstices. -Unsuccessful, tiring, he fell back, crouched in a corner, weeping. - -Motion of transit ended--the confining ceiling vanished. Robert -scrambled over a wall, dropped to the ground of the outer world, whose -heavy conflicting odors, dazzling lights and moving shadows alarmed him. -Dim with distance was the withdrawing form of a giant, which he pursued, -crying out his one word, "ELLEN!" - -The giant vanished among weird wavering plants. Alone, Robert skulked -nervously through tall rustling things, was terrified at times by an -unexpected sound or motion. But the swaying things appeared unaware of -him and he became self-confidant. Discovering a stretch of damp earth -gemmed with puddles, he drank. His head cocked at a sound reminiscent of -Ellen: her soothing voice. - -A giantess had appeared over him. She was--ELLEN! At sight of her, -Robert's pent memories burst free, overwhelming his consciousness with -turbulent pageantry. He thrust up his arms; gently indulgent, the girl -bent and drew him to her breast. She cuddled him, cooing to him. At the -moment her monstrous size did not concern him. - -"I've found you! I've found you!" he cried. "Oh, Ellen, if only you knew -how lonely it has been--" He opened his glad heart to her in a -stammering urgency, bliss in his eyes, tears in his voice. Breathless, -he raised his face to the girl's; she hesitated. Then she kissed him and -set him down at her feet. She strode away. Crying with hurt amazement, -he followed. She shook her head. She kept walking swiftly. He could not -keep up with her and he stopped forlornly as she disappeared behind an -obstruction. He stared after her with unbelieving eyes. Tho mysteriously -stunted, he had returned to her from death, and she had not accepted -him. He stepped close to one of her prodigious footprints in the mud and -surveyed it grimly. His eyes sought an impression of his own foot. And -suddenly he cried in mingled grief and horror--for there in the mud was -his footprint--small--strange--the footprint of a half-grown cat! - - - - -CONVENTIONAL NOTES or the report on THE S.F.L. BALL GAME - -by the editor - -score: 27 sprained ankles to 3 cracked knees. - - -Ross Rocklynne: Tall, freckled, red haired, pleasent looking, -good-natured and humorous--that is Rocklynne--and, by the way, in real -life he spells it Rock_lin_. Makes the ideal traveling companion. -Continually clicking away with his candid camera. Is versed in many -subjects--likes plots about gigantic ideas, such as THE MOTH, giant men, -and THE MEN AND THE MIRROR with an amorphous reflector, while JUPITER -TRAP gave us a giant siphon. Rocklynne, 26, looks 22 or younger. -Favorite expression, when agreeing with anyone is, "That's right." -Spending most of my time after the convention with Ross, painting the -town a delicate pink, I found that he is now trying a bit of Weird -writing which has been unsuccessful, and some Western concocting--ditto. -Ross is quite different than his characters Deveral and Colbie. Somehow -I had imagined a Rocklynne with a sharp gaunted face and bulging -muscles--I found, instead, a good example of what mite be called typical -college species number #569Z, a cross between science and wit, well -mixed and jelled in an Empire State tall body. Lives in Cincinnatti. His -characters, Colbie and Deveral, are two of the most consistent and -popular guys in s.f. today, according to Campbell. - -Charlie Hornig: The dark horse who says neigh to every manuscript I -write for him. Dark-haired, dark-eyed, dark-skinned fiend who deals from -the bottom of the manuscript pile over at _Science-fiction_. He has just -learned to speak English during the past week and now he finds it much -more fun picking out the manuscripts instead of leaping into a pile of -them and bobbing up with one between his teeth. Makes lousy speeches. Is -a human dynamo and expert guide to anyone in Manhattan. Makes money on -the side selling shoestrings on the I.R.T. between the Bronx and Coney -Island. Father was a toupee manufacturer which makes Charlie hair to a -big-wig's fortune. Thanx, Charlie, for your presence in New York to -guide me around. And I just LOVE Science Fiction! (paid adv.) - -Impressions cawt short: John W. (werewolf) Campbell, a scientific theory -in a potato sack suit with high rubber boots to match. - -Julius Schwartz and Groucho Marx look-alikes. - -Mort Weisinger, a plump smile. - -A. Merritt, the man on the billboards with a mug of Milwaukee beer in -his hand. Jovial, glasses, chubby. Not a bit mysterious. - -Forrest J. Ackerman, dressed in future garb at convention, looking like -a fugitive from a costume shop. - -Willy Ley, a pair of thick-lensed glasses with an accent. -Lowndes--moustache and gold tooth--double feature. Leslie Perry--Madame -Butterfly with bangs. - -Henry Kuttner, a voice from a pile of cigarettes. Morojo, short and -sweet, commonly referred to as the VOICE OF MIDGE. Sykora, nervous -breakdown with hair. Moskowitz, human fog-horn: following his opening -speech New York gripped by earth tremors. Wollheim, Communist, born in a -revolving door, believes in revolutions, get it? Or do you? Sykora, -Moskowitz, Taurasi--three little pigs. Manly Wade Wellman--the human -JELL-O! Kornbluth, a well-padded belch. Swisher, massive literary Babe -Ruth, king of so-what! Robert J. Thompson, the leaning tower of Pisa -wired for sound. - - - - -LOCAL LEAGUE LIFE - - -Nite of Halloween the Paramount theatre found itself besieged with -members of the S.F.L. when 4Sj, Morojo, Pogo, Bradbury, Corvais, Rogers, -Amory, Eldred and others met there to enjoy special preview of Bob Hope -film CAT AND CANARY. Bradbury took along weird mask fashioned by -Harryhausen and, in spookiest part of film, scared hell out of innocent -blonde sitting alongside. Her scream was heard over in Pomona. -Chandeliers rocked. Bradbury then took off mask and laffed and the girl -tainted. - - * * * * * - -One month ago Bradbury stenciled and printed the editorial to this -second issue of FuFa, only to be delayed by various troubles, mostly -typewriter and stencil scourges, until now. In the meantime the December -Weird had come out and FuFa's artist Bok had a cover on it. We'd like to -take this opportunity to congratulate Bok on his splendid work and wish -him luck. - - * * * * * - -Yerke, in one of his britest moments, growled, "The little man who -wasn't there, certainly didn't take up lots of air, but just think of -the air he wouldn't take up if he were twins!" - - * * * * * - -Henry Hasse, now a regular writer for Weird again, according to late -reports, has one coming up in a short while. Hopes to have it -illustrated by Bok. - - * * * * * - -Last moment arrival of material from various authors thrust the -Technocracy article out of this issue. We suggest that all those -interested in Technocracy go to your nearest Section in your city and -save us the trouble of converting you. We will, tho, in the Winter -Edition, give you a few facts and predictions made by Technocracy. - - * * * * * - -ADDRESS COMMUNICATIONS: - - FUTURIA FANTASIA - AN L.A. SFL PUB. - 30 54 1/2 W. 12th St. - Los Angeles, Cal. - - Ray Bradbury, Editor - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's Futuria Fantasia, Fall 1939, by Ray Bradbury - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FUTURIA FANTASIA, FALL 1939 *** - -***** This file should be named 41624.txt or 41624.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/1/6/2/41624/ - -Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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