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diff --git a/41651-0.txt b/41651-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..44c01c8 --- /dev/null +++ b/41651-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,927 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 41651 *** + + futuria fantasia + + Spring 1940 + + vol. 1. no. 4. + + Ray D. Bradbury + editor + + ten cents + + +[Illustration: _CONTENTS_] + + + COVER Hannes Bok + + 3 GOLGONO AND SLITH Ray Bradbury + + 4 HEIL! Lyle Monroe + + 7 THE PHANTOMS J.E. Kelleam + + 8 THOTS ON THE WORLD STATE Hank Kuttner + + 9 WOULD YOU? J.H. Haggard + + 10 THE PIPER Ron Reynolds + + 14 THE ITCHING HOUR Damon Knight + + 15 THE FLIRTENFLOG Hannes V. Bok + + 16 BOKARICATURE Hannes V. Bok + + 17 NINEVAH J.E. Kelleam + + 18 advertisements + + 19 ART: CREATURES FROM LORELEI Hannes V. Bok + + +FUTURIA FANTASIA IS PUBLISHED IRREGULARLY AND GESTATED AT THE DOW-JONES +BUYING LEVEL OF TEN CENTS AN ISSUE. THE FIFTH ISSUE WILL BE SCARING YOU +AROUND ABOUT HALLOWEEN--SEND YOUR DIME TO EDITOR BRADBURY AT #3054 1/2 +W. 12th St. Los Angeles, Calif. CONTRIBUTIONS WILL BE HAPPILY FONDLED +AND SEWED UP IN A GREEN VELVET SACK. ALL STORIES SUBMITTED MUST BE +SHAVED AND IN THE COMPANY OF ADULT MARTIANS. + + + + +[Illustration] + +gorgono _and_ slith-- + + +"Let us, by all means, be lucid," said Gorgono to Slith. Slith fluttered +his reptile tongue and turned his morbid eyes to me. "Yes," he said, +"let us, certainly be lucid, Bradbury. From now on use a contents page +in Futuria Fantasia." And he spanked his tail slickly on my typewriter. + +I don't mind Slith so much, he's only a little anachronistic reptile, a +descendent of happier days in dinosaurial dawndom. I never feared Slith. +But Gorgono! + +Gorgono pierced me with his slanting green, clear eyes, heavy-lidded, +extending one claw and attempting to keep it from shaking while his +pointed ears stood up straight. A moment before he had been hunting +fleas in the fertile hair that clothed his muscular limbs, but now he +was serious; so very serious it frightened me. + +And when the thunder-voiced, evil-eyed, shaggy haired and monstrous +Gorgono reclined on the shelf over my head, saliva drooling with silent +precision from his pendulous lips, and gave orders I hastened to obey +them. Gorgono was the voice of the critics--the ogre of opinion, the +harsh guttural commandment of style and fashion. And now Gorgono had +grumbled, "Number your pages from now on, MISTER Bradbury or else YOUR +number'll be up. Why, Gad, man, the last issue of Futuria Fantasia I +didn't know if I was coming or going, the way you heiroglyphed the +sheets. And I might add, you're going to use even margins from here on +in." + +"Okay, okay, okay," I said, slinking with flushed visage behind my +stencils. "But from now on Futuria Fantasia will be ten cents straight +an issue. Ten cents straight." "Agreed," snapped Gorgono, "if you are +neater. But you must be new, neotiric, different." Then I flashed them +the newly processed cover done by Bok. "Gods!" bellowed Gorgono. "That +is stupendous! A fine beginning, mortal, a very fine beginning!" Slith +agreed by pounding vigorously on the table with his scaly rump. "And +wait until you read Monroe's yarn," I jubilantly exclaimed. "It's not +science-fiction, but it's certainly a fine bit of story." "Yes," said +Gorgono, "this issue looks much better. Glad to see you've added two new +authors, Damon Knight and Joe Kelleam from Astounding. I'll have to +remind the fans to send in their dimes for this issue and perhaps +support you a little more than they have with letters. But we'll see +about that." He got up, stretched, yawned, and vanished in a belching +ball of flame. "Yes," said Slith, "we'll see!" And he too vanished with +a sharp pop. All was quiet. I went back to my stencils and my opium. + + +THE EDITOR. + + + + +HEIL! + +by _LYLE MONROE_ + + +"How dare you make such a suggestion!" + +The state physician doggedly stuck by his position. "I would not make +it, sire, it your life were not at stake. There is no other surgeon in +the Fatherland who can transplant a pituitary gland but Doctor Lans." + +"You will operate!" + +The medico shook his head. "You would die, Leader. My skill is not +adequate. And unless the operation takes place at once, you will +_certainly_ die." + +The Leader stormed about the apartment. He seemed about to give way to +one of the girlish bursts of anger that even the inner state clique +feared so much. Surprisingly he capitulated. + +"Bring him here!" he ordered. + +DOCTOR LANS FACED THE LEADER with inherent dignity, a dignity and +presence that three years of "protective custody" had been unable to +shake. The pallor and gauntness of the concentration camp lay upon him, +but his race was used to oppression. "I see," he said. "Yes, I see ... I +can perform that operation. What are your terms?" + +"Terms?" The Leader was aghast. "Terms, you filthy swine? You are being +given a chance to redeem in part the sins of your race!" + +The surgeon raised his brows. "Do you not think I _know_ that you would +not have sent for me had there been any other course available to you? +Obviously, my services have become valuable." + +"You'll do as you are told! You and your kind are lucky to be alive." + +"Nevertheless I shall not operate without my fee." + +"I said you were lucky to be alive--" The tone was an open threat. + +Lans spread his hands. "Well--I am an old man...." + +The Leader smiled. "True. But I am informed that you have a--a +family...." + +The surgeon moistened his lips. His Emma--they would hurt his Emma ... +and his little Rose. But he must be brave, as Emma would have him be. He +was playing for high stakes--for all of them. "They cannot be worse off +dead," he answered firmly, "than they are now." + +It was many hours before the Leader was convinced that Lans could not be +budged. He should have known--the surgeon had learned fortitude at his +mother's breast. + +"What is your fee?" + +"A passport for myself and my family." + +"Good riddance." + +"My personal fortune restored to me--" + +"Very well." + +"--to be paid in gold before I operate!" + +The Leader started to object automatically, then checked himself +quickly. Let the presumptuous fool think so! It could be corrected after +the operation. + +"And the operation to take place in a hospital on foreign soil." + +"Preposterous." + +"I must insist." + +"You do not trust me?" + +Lans stared straight back into his eyes without replying. The Leader +struck him, hard, across the mouth. The surgeon made no effort to avoid +the blow, but took it, with no change of expression. + +"YOU ARE WILLING TO GO THROUGH WITH IT, SAMUEL?" The younger man looked +at Doctor Lans without fear as he answered, + +"Certainly, Doctor." + +"I can not guarantee that you will recover. The Leader's pituitary gland +is diseased; when I exchange it for your healthy one your younger one +may not be able to stand up under it--that is the chance you take. +Besides--a complete transplanting has never been done before." + +"I know it--but I'm out of the concentration camp!" + +"Yes. Yes, that is true. And if you do recover, you are free. And I will +attend you myself, until you are well enough to travel." + +Samuel smiled. "It will be a positive joy to be sick in a country where +there are no concentration camps!" + +"Very well, then. Let us commence." + +They returned to the silent, nervous group at the other end of the room. +Grimly the money was counted out, every penny that the famous surgeon +had laid claim to before the Leader had decided that men of his religion +had no need for money. Lans placed half of the gold in a money belt and +strapped it around his waist. His wife concealed the other half +somewhere about her ample person. + +IT WAS AN hour and twenty minutes later that Lans put down the last +instrument, nodded to the surgeons assisting him, and commenced to strip +off operating gloves. He took one last look at his two patients before +he left the room. They were anonymous under the sterile gowns and +dressings. Had he not known, he could not have guessed dictator from +oppressed. Come to think of it, with the exchange of those two tiny +glands there was something of the dictator in his victim and something +of the victim in the dictator. + +DOCTOR LANS RETURNED TO THE hospital later in the day, after seeing his +wife and daughter safely settled in a first class hotel. It was an +extravagence, in view of his uncertain prospects as a refugee, but they +had enjoyed no luxuries for years back _there_--he didn't consider it +his home country--and it was justified this once. + +He inquired at the office of the hospital for his second patient. The +clerk looked puzzled. "But he is not here...." + +"Not here?" + +"Why, no. He was moved at the same time as His Excellency--back to your +country." + +Lans did not argue. The trick was obvious; it was too late to do +anything for poor Samuel. He thanked his God that he had had the +foresight to place himself and his family beyond the reach of such +brutal injustice before operating. He thanked the clerk and left. + +THE LEADER RECOVERED CONSCIOUSNESS AT LAST. His brain was confused--then +he recalled the events before he had gone to sleep. The operation!--it +was over! And he was alive! He had never admitted to anyone how terribly +frightened he had been at the prospect. But he had lived--he had lived! +He groped around for the bellcord, and failing to find it, gradually +forced his eyes to focus on the room. What outrageous nonsense was this? +This was no sort of a room for the Leader to convalesce in. He took in +the dirty white-washed ceiling, and the bare wooden floor with distaste. +And the bed! It was no more than a cot! + +He shouted. Someone came in, a man wearing a uniform of a trooper in his +favorite corps. He started to give him the tongue-lashing of his life, +before having him arrested. But he was cut short. + +"Cut out the racket, you unholy pig!" + +At first he was too astounded to answer, then he shrieked, "Stand at +attention when you address the Leader! Salute!" + +The trooper looked dumbfounded at the sick man--so totally different in +appearance from the Leader, then guffawed. He stepped to the cot, struck +a pose with his right arm raised in salute. He carried a rubber +truncheon in it. "Hail to our Leader!" he shouted, and brought his arm +down smartly. The truncheon crashed into the sick man's cheek bone. + +Another trooper came in to see what the noise was while the first was +still laughing at his wittcism. "What's up, Jon? Say, you'd better not +handle that monkey too rough--he's still carried on the hospital list." +He glanced casually at the bloody face. + +"Him? Didn't you know?" Jon pulled him to one side and whispered. + +The second man's eyes widened; he grinned. "So? They don't want him to +get well, eh? Well, I could use a little exercise this morning--" + +"Let's get Fats," the other suggested. "He's always so very amusing with +his ideas." + +"Good idea." He stepped to the door and bellowed, "Hey, Fats!" + +They didn't really start in on him until Fats was there to help. + + +THE END + + + + +the phantoms + +_by_----Joseph E. Kellerman + + + All day they played among the purple flowers + That lay like frozen flames upon the lawn; + Or dreamed within the shadows of the towers + Whose turret tops were painted as the dawn. + Bright was the garden; peace went everywhere + There was no breath of movement nor any sound + Save butterflies that clove the heavy air, + Or when the bright fruit dropped slowly to the ground. + Then the flowers drooped, from sliver thorns that tore; + Too soon the sun had died in amber smoke, + And frightened now but silent as before + The phantoms watched the garden change its cloak. + Great sable moths flew out, and one by one + The towers melted with the fallen sun. + + * * * * * + + This is a plug [Illustration][1] for the Voice of the IMAGI-NATION. + price 10c from Box 6475 Met Sta Los Angeles Cal. + +[Footnote 1: The Art (Widner & otherwise) is a bit better.] + + + + +_THOUGHTS ON THE_ WORLDSTATE + +_by henry kuttner_ + +[Illustration] + +[Sidenote: The hideous Mr. Kuttner returns with an equally hideous tale. +We absolutely guarantee this story will induce nausea and slight +regurgitation. Lead on, McKuttner!] + + +I have, as usual, been brooding over the intricacies of modern +civilization. It seems to me that life is a peculiarly futile business. +This mood of mine may, perhaps, be attributed to my recent tragic +encounter with a horse at the corner of 42nd and Broadway. + +I shall not dwell upon that incident, save to mention briefly that +horses should, at least, be careful of what they eat. One never knows +the result of the most innocent action, and that, by imperceptible +degrees, brings me to the subject of this article, PLAYING FAIR WITH +FANS, or, FANTASTIC DECENCY. + +It has been said (and very loudly, too) that fans fight a lot. Well, I +do not care to refute that; I happen to know that a Californian fan, a +Mr. Ackerman, is in the habit of knocking down visitors and kicking them +in strategic places. The question naturally arises, does fantasy lead to +sadism? + +I am reminded of the remarkable case of Scarlett O'God, an ardent fan +whose tininess led to her being occasionally called by the diminutive, +or fanny. This may seem somewhat confusing at first glance. Let us, +therefore, go hastily on to the next paragraph. + +I should, perhaps, mention a mysterious white-bearded gentleman called +Tarboth the damned, or Toby, since he played a significant role in the +incident. It was he who listened, toying at his beard idly, while +Scarlett feverishly upheld her position against the onslaughts of her +foes. Just what caused the argument I cannot recall at the moment. Nor +does it matter especially. I believe it had something to do with +Scarlett's being locked out of the Sanctuary, or Washroom, by previous +arrivals. + +Mocked, scorned, and jeered at, Scarlett at first said nothing. +Ultimately, however, she lost her temper and cursed her enemies roundly. +"I would," she observed with feeling, "sell my soul to the devil in +order to obtain vengeance!" + +At this moment the white-bearded gentleman smiled unpleasently and +vanished. Simultaneously lightning struck the Sanctuary and demolished +it, to the natural discomfiture of the occupants. Laughing in a +triumphant manner, Scarlett departed. + +But the seeds of doom were already sown within her soul. Not until she +was soaked to the skin did she realize the ghastly and hideous truth. +Then, looking up, she saw that above her hovered a small black cloud, +from which rain was steadily descending. As she realized the terror of +her position, black horror flooded the girl. SHE HAD BECOME ALLERGIC TO +WEATHER! + +Well, after that, of course, matters got steadily worse. She was driven +from home, after blasting the bathtub and spoiling a valuable Angora +kitten. (It was later made into a muff, but moths got into it. That, +however, is another story, and not an especially good one.) + +Poor Scarlett was excluded from all fan gatherings. Sun stroke and +eclipse were her constant companions. She came with the deluge and was +gone with the wind. + +The girl was utterly friendless. She roamed wildly here and there, +haggard, careworn and miserable, in a tattered gown made from the covers +of AMAZING STORIES. At night people could hear her moaning under their +windows, and they huddled closer to the fire, whispering, "Fetch aft the +rum, Darby! Evil walks abroad tonight and I feel my soul shudder in me. +No soda, thanks!" + +Hopeless and forlorn, Scarlett stowed away on a schooner out for Hong +Kong. But she was discovered, cursed for a Jonah, and set ashore on a +cannibal isle in the South Seas. + +It was a blessing in disguise. The natives mistook her for a goddess. +They were used to bad weather, and did not attribute the altered climate +to Scarlett. + +So they garlanded her with leis and made her their queen. + +And she rained happily ever after. + + + + +[Illustration] + + + Would you stroll with me, my loved one + 'Neath the pale Venusian Moon, + Where its misty orb goes drifting, + Waning, darling, all too soon? + Would you gaze into the rainbow + Where the lunar moonbeams play, + Could it be you'd softly answer + "Yes, for all those things I pray?" + If it's so, my darling, kick me, + For I'd surely be a ninny, + Making love by Venus moonlight-- + When--you see--there isn't any! + +by J. HARVEY HAGGARD + + + + +_THE PIPER_ + +_ron reynolds_ + +[Illustration] + + +"LORD! HE'S THERE AGAIN! HE'S THERE! LOOK!" the old man croaked, jabbing +a calloused finger at the burial hill. "Old Piper again! As crazy as a +loon! Every year that way!" + +The Martian boy at the feet of the old man stirred his thin reddish feet +in the soil and affixed his large green eyes upon the burial hill where +the Piper stood. "Why does he do that?" asked the boy. + +"Ah?" The old man's leathery face rumpled into a maze of wrinkles. "He's +crazy, that's what. Stands up there piping on his music from sunset +until dawn." + +The thin piping sounds squealed in the dusk, echoed back from the low +hills, were lost in melancholy silence, fading. Then louder, higher, +insanely, crying with shrill voice. + +The Piper was a tall, gaunt man, face as pale and wan as Martian moons, +eyes electrical purple, standing against the soft of the dusking heaven, +holding his pipe to his lips, playing. The Piper--a silhouette--a +symbol--a melody. + +"Where did the Piper come from?" asked the Martian boy. + +"From Venus." The old man took out his pipe and filled it. "Oh, some +twenty years ago or more, on the projectile with the Terrestrians. I +arrived on the same ship, coming from Earth, we shared a double seat +together." + +"What is his name?" Again the boyish, eager voice. + +"I can't remember. I don't think I ever knew, really." + +A vague rustling sound came into existence. The Piper continued playing, +paying no heed to it. From the darkness, across the star-jewelled +horizon, came mysterious shapes, creeping, creeping. + +"Mars is a dying world," the old man said. "Nothing ever happens of much +gravity. The Piper, I believe, is an exile." + +The stars trembled like reflections in water, dancing with the music. + +"An exile." The old man continued. "Something like a leper. They called +him THE BRILLIANT. He was the epitome of all Venerian culture until the +Earthmen came with their greedy incorporations and licentious harlots. +The Earthlings outlawed him, sent him here to Mars to live out his +days." + +"Mars is a dying world," repeated the boy. "A dying world. How many +Martians are there, sir?" + +The old man chuckled. "I guess maybe you are the last pure Martian +alive, boy. But there are millions of others." + +"Where do they live? I have never seen them." + +"You are young. You have much to see, much to learn." + +"Where do they live?" + +"Out there, beyond the mountains, beyond the dead sea bottoms, over the +horizon and to the north, in the caves, far back in the subterrane." + +"Why?" + +"Why? Now that's hard to say. They were a brilliant race once upon a +time. But something happened to them, hybrided them. They are +unintelligent creatures now, cruel beasts." + +"Does Earth own Mars?" The little boy's eyes were riveted upon the +glowing planet overhead, the green planet. + +"Yes, all of Mars. Earth has three cities here, each containing one +thousand people. The closest city is a mile from here, down the road, a +group of small metal bubble-like buildings. The men from Earth move +about among the buildings like ants enclosed in their space suits. They +are miners. With their huge machines they rip open the bowels of our +planet and dig out our precious life-blood from the mineral arteries." + +"Is that all?" + +"That is all." The old man shook his head sadly. "No culture, no art, no +purpose. Greedy, hopeless Earthlings." + +"And the other two cities----where are they?" + +"One is up the same cobbled road five miles, the third is further still +by some five hundred miles." + +"I am glad I live here with you, alone." The boy's head nodded sleepily. +"I do not like the men from Terra. They are despoilers." + +"They have always been. But someday," said the old man, "they will meet +their doom. They have blasphemed enough, have they. They cannot _own_ +planets as they have and expect nothing but greedy luxury for their +sluggishly squat bodies. Someday----!" His voice rose high, in tempo and +pitch with the Piper's wild music. + +Wild music, insane music, stirring music. Music to stir the savage into +life. Music to effect man's destiny! + + "Wild-eyed Piper on the hill, + Crying out your rigadoons, + Bring the savages to kill + 'Neath the waning Martian moons!" + +"What is that?" asked the boy. + +"A poem," said the old man. "A poem I have written in the last few days. +I feel something is going to happen very soon. The Piper's song is +growing more insistent every night. At first, twenty years ago, he +played on only a few nights of every year, but now, for the last three +years he has played until dawn every night of every autumn when the +planet is dying." + +"Bring the savages?" the boy sat up. "What savages?" + +"There!" + +Along the star-glimmered mountain tops a vast clustering herd of black, +murmuring, advancing. The music screamed higher and higher. + + "Piper, pipe that song again! + So he piped, I wept to hear." + +"More of the poem?" asked the boy. + +"Not my poem--but a poem from Earth some seventy years ago. I learned it +in school." + +"Music is strange." The little boy's eyes were scintillant with thought. +"It warms me inside. This music makes me angry. Why?" + +"Because it is music with a purpose." + +"What purpose?" + +"We shall know by dawn. + +"Music is the language of all things--intelligent or not, savage or +educated civilian. This Piper knows his music as a god knows his heaven. +For twenty years he has composed his hymn of action and hate and +finally, tonight perhaps, the finale will be reached. At first, many +years ago, when he played, he received no answer from the subterrane, +but the murmur of gibbering voices. Five years ago he lured the voices +and the creatures from their caves to the mountain tops. Tonight, for +the first time, the herd of black will spill over the trails toward our +hovel, toward the road, toward the cities of man!" + +Music screaming, higher, faster, insanely, sending shock after macabre +shock thru night air, loosening the stars from their riveted stations. +The Piper stretched high, six feet or more, upon his hillock, swaying +back and forth, his thin shape attired in brown-cloth. The black mass on +the mountain came down like amoebic tentacles, met and coalesced, +muttering and mumbling. "Go inside and hide," said the old man. "You are +young, you must live to propagate the new Mars. Tonight is the end of +the old, tomorrow begins the new! It is death for the men of Earth!" +Higher still and higher. "Death! They come to overrun the Earthlings, +destroy their cities, take their projectiles. Then--in the ships of +man--to Earth! Turnabout! Revolution and Revenge! A new civilization! +When monsters usurp men and men's greediness crumbles at his demise!" +Shriller, faster, higher, insanely tempoed. "The Piper--The Brilliant +One--He who has waited for years for this night. Back to Venus to +reinstall the glory of his civilization! The return of Art to humanity!" + +"But they are savages, these unpure Martians," the boy cried. + +"Men are savages. I am ashamed of being a man," the old man said, +tremblingly. "Yes, these creatures are savages, but they will +learn--these brutes--with music. Music in many forms----music for peace, +music for love--music for hate and music for death. The Piper and his +brood will set up a new cosmos. He is immortal!" Now, hurrying, +muttering up the road, the first cluster of black things reminiscent of +men. A strange sharp odor in the air. The Piper, from his hillock, +walking down the road, over the cobbles, to the city. "Piper, pipe that +song again!" cried the old man. "Go and kill and live again! Bring us +love and art again! Piper, pipe the song! I weep!" Then: "Hide, child, +hide quickly! Before they come! Hurry!" And the child, crying, hurried +to the small house and hid himself thru the night. + +Swirling, jumping, running, leaping, gamboling, crying--the new humanity +surged to man's cities, his rockets, his mines. The Piper's song! Stars +shuddered. Winds stilled. Nightbirds sang no songs. Echoes murmured only +the voices of the ones who advanced, bringing new understanding. The old +man, caught in the whirlpool of ebon, was swept down, screaming. Then up +the road, by the awful thousands, vomiting out of hills, sprawling from +caves, curling, huge fingers of beasts, around and about and down to the +Man Cities. Sighing, leaping up, voices and destruction! + +Rockets across the sky! + +Guns. Death. + +And finally, in the pale advancement of dawn, the memory, the echoing of +the old man's voice. And the little boy arose to start afresh a new +world with a new mate. + +Echoing, the old man's voice: + +"Piper, pipe that song again! So he piped, I wept to hear!" + +A new day dawned. + + +The End + + + + +_THE ITCHING HOUR_ + +by Damon Knight + + +Mind you, I don't believe the story, myself. It was obvious, from the +start, that the old man was mad. Besides, I was stinko at the time, and +I may not have got some of the details right. But in its essentials, the +story still sticks in my mind.... I can see the old man now, with a pair +of my best socks around his neck, moaning and wheezing and spitting on +the floor, and in between times telling his strange, strange story. Of +course, the whole thing was fantastic; the old loon had probably escaped +from some nut factory.... and yet.... No, no, the old man was booby. And +yet.... And yet.... + +The night it happened I was sitting in my study in my white silk Russian +lounging robe, smoking a narghile or Indian water-pipe and throwing +darts at a signed photograph of Sally Rand. I'd just pinked her neatly +in the gluteus maximus, when I was startled by a crash of glass, and +turned around to see an aged man tottering carefully thru the remains of +my French windows. + +At once the chill of horror griped me. Oops, I mean _gripped_!! Unable +to move, I stared speechlessly as the old man went directly to my chest +of drawers and fumbled within, the overhead light throwing his face into +sombre shadow. + +Blowing his nose on one of my dress shirts he grumbled to himself about +the starch and selected a pair of lamb's wool socks and tied them around +his neck. This done, he hobbled over to a chair facing mine, sat down, +pulled his tattered undershirt, which for some reason he was wearing as +a shawl, more closely around his thin shoulders, stared reproachfully at +me, shivering at the icy blast that came in thru the shattered windows. +"There's a draft in here, and you know what you can do about it," he +complained. + +"Yes, there is," I managed to get out. + +He nodded, satisfied. "I thought there was," he said. Then, dragging his +chair closer, he leaned over and, grasping me firmly by the lapels, said +pleasently, "Ipswitch on the amscray, don't you think?" + +Half stifled with terror, I gasped, "Uh, yes." At once his manner was +transformed. Drawing himself up indignantly he sneered "That's a lie! +That's what they all say, the sniveling hypocrites! They know it's a +lie!" + +Then he drew nearer once again. "But," he said, "I'm going to tell you +my story anyway. You have a kind face. And I--I just don't have any at +all." He raised the rim of his hat and I saw it was true! He had no +face! Gibbering, I tried to get away, to flee or scram, but it was too +late. Taking a firmer grip on my lapels, and standing heavily on my +foot, the old man began his story. + +"You may not believe it (he began) but I, too, was once a carefree young +fan like yourself. From morning til night I thot of nothing but eating, +sleeping, sex, and my fan-mag, PUKE. In the evening I would stay up til +morning, splashing happily in my hecto inks, and turning out pages and +pages of material like mad. And at last I'd go to bed, tired but happy, +knowing I had done my duty as an honest fan. + +"And then, one day, it happened. By some unfortunate chance, I got a +little double-strength purple hectograph ink on my face. Noticing it in +the mirror the next morning, as I was trying to decide whether to shave +this week or not, I took a washcloth and tried to rub off the stain. +Alas, poor fool that I was, I recked not of the consequences! + +"With hard rubbing, I managed to get some of the ink off, but when I +went on rubbing, to remove the rest, the ink I had rubbed off was +transferred back to my face. And so it went, the adament ink going from +washrag to face and from face back to washrag. + +"The ink, as I have said, was double-strength purple undiluted, and +suffered nothing in the process. But something had to give way. The +washrag, by an unhappy coincidence, was a brand-new one, and my face was +some years old. Only one thing could have happened. It did." + +Thus, shedding a tear on the carpet, the old stranger ended his weird +tale. Getting slowly to his feet, he drew his hat down over his eyes +once more, tied his socks around his neck more tightly, and shuffled off +toward the shattered windows. At the sill, he turned, faced the room, +and made one last parting shot, ere he vanished in the gloom. "_Dogs +have fleas!_" he screamed. + +But sometimes I wonder. + + + + +I'VE NEVER SEEN + +by Hannes Bok + + +[Illustration] + + I've never seen a Flirtenflog. + I've heard that it's a Martian dog. + But science-fiction has romanced + That the Martian race is much advanced; + So thus my reasoning should be, + Has a Flirtenflog ever seen ME?????? + + * * * * * + + _HAVE YOU TRIED READING_ + + freehafer's POLARIS? + + + + + HANNES V: BOK + ARTIST + + AS SEEN BY + HANNES V: BOK + CRITIC. + + +[Illustration] + +Hannes Bok, born in Seattle. Age; 23. Arrived in New York in August, +1939. Is doing interiors and covers for Weird Tales and several other +wellknown fantasy magazines. + + + + +ninevah + +_by_ J. E. K_elleam_ + + + They say the bittern and the cormorant + Have nested in the upper lintels there. + The wind builds flowers of dust upon the air, + Lifting and falling, slow and hesitant. + Within the crumbling temples beasts have laired; + Eyeless the windows, broken the terraces; + No laughter breaks the silence. The palaces + Are weathered and the cedar work is bared. + + If this be glory's wage, then let me trust + The fragile things that are not built of might, + The lovely things that leave no trace when gone: + The rose that swiftly turns into the dust, + Beauty that blazed a moment----Or a night + Of golden stars forgotten with the dawn. + +[Illustration] + + + + + + Do U Want + Fans + to + + Point At U + & Say + +[Illustration] + + +"HE'S BEHIND THE TIMES--HE WRITES WITH AN OLD BLACK & RED RIBBON"? +Or--"Well, he uses one of those swell _fan_tastic green-&-brown ribbons +like Erle Korshak & Tom Wright & Russ Hodgkins & Ackerman & 'Alchemist' +& Yerke & Freehater &"--look at the record: _3 dozen sold to date!_ $1 +ppd from MOROJO, Bx 6475 Met Sta, Los Angeles Cal. + + Daugherty's _2_ Sensations + + Walt Daugherty: 1039 W 39 + Los Angeles Cal + + (Both for 15c!) + + +[Illustration: SHANGRI-LA 10c] + +_The Rocket_ 10c + + * * * * * + +[Illustration] + +LE ZOMBIE--the Nickel Nifty, the Flower of Fandom. From Bob Tucker, PO +Box 260, Bloomington Illinois + + * * * * * + +[Illustration] + +Get the Lead out of your Shoe, son, & send for that copy of _Snide_, the +"Thud & Blunder" mag, 10c from Damon Knight, 803 Columbia, Hood River +Ore. + + * * * * * + +[Illustration] + +_THE MERCURY_ is rising! Send for this temperature-raising news-mag of +Pacificoast Palaver, only 5c a copy from Tom Wright, 1140 Bush St, +Martinez, Calif. Companion, _The Comet_, costs but 10c from same +publisher, & will be sure to please U! + + + + +[Illustration: + + _BOK'S_ + creatures of + _Lorelei_ +] + + + + +LOCAL LEAGUE LIFE + +--GUY AMORY + + +THE ROADS MUST ROLL! And the road rolls right into Campbell's office and +rolling right back comes a check to Mr. Robert A. Heinlein, member of +the L.A. S.F.L., whose _noval_ is currently in ASTOUNDING now. +Heinlein's yarn about roads deals with a culture where roads are the +most important things to mankind and he just sold it to John W., for +which, BRAVO, BOB! + +Story will appear with above title or as ROADTOWN, all dpendin' on which +side of the bed Campbell gets up from. + + * * * * * + + How's about a letter of criticism, Mr. Swisher. We would like to + know what you think of F.F. Thanx. + + THE EDITORS + + * * * * * + + SCIENTIFAN 15 c + + Jan-Feb + + Terrificover! The only magazine of its size for fans--slick covers! + Material by Tucker, Hart, Sullivan & others! "Horrors Cellar", + feature-length fiction by Harry Warner Jr. Long fan-interest + article by Lowndes. 10 interesting depts. Publication profusely + illustrated. + + SPECIAL SUPPLEMENT: _Mercury_--controversial matters. + + A SMASHING PUBLICATION, 1836 - 39th Ave, Oakland, Calif. + + * * * * * + + FUTURIA FANTASIA + + An LA SFL Publication + Ray Bradbury, Editor + 3054 1-2 W. 12th St. Los Angeles, Calif. + + RETURN POSTAGE GUARANTEED + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Futuria Fantasia, Spring 1940, by Various + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 41651 *** |