Title: Futuria Fantasia, Spring 1940
Author: Various
Language: English
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*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Futuria Fantasia, Spring 1940" ***


                        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 this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Futuria Fantasia, Spring 1940" ***

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