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Spaceways, v. 4, issue 2, January 1942

Page 7

SPACEWAYS     7

THE LOG OF THE FOOFOO SPECIAL
by
ART WIDNER JR
Conclusion.

July 7th--We packed and signed out, and then found that plutocrat Bell was again returning east via the stratosphere. Well, that gives us a little more room, thot I, but I reckoned without any personality of Pretty Boy Madle. As soon as he found out there was an empty place, he immediately spoke up for his bosom buddy of the convention, previously unknown Rusty Barron. No one had any objection so we said good-bye and so long and C U N L A to all the fans assembled in the lobby, picked up Rusty, and took off for the Rockies.
But heat-em-up trouble was not yet over. Once again we were in the red on the thermometer, and I thot it was the other water pump gone glooey. After much trouble and much more heat, we got up in the altitudes where it was so cool that we didn't heat up even tho we lost a lot of water.
The awesomeness and grandeur of the Rocky Mountains has yet been described many times and many times better than I could do it. I refer you to travel folders, etc. I only wish to say that I marveled and marveled, and would have deemed the whole trip worth while just for them, even if there were no convention.
Oddly enough, no one had popping ears, bloody noses, or even difficulty in breathing, as described by 4e in his account of a mountain sojourn. Of course violent exertion was out of the question, as we soon learned, and Pretty Boy seemed even dopier than usual. When we glimpsed our first patch of snow, nothing would do but what we must get out and race to it for a snowball fight.
Rusty, Milty, and I were the hardy souls who didn't have enough energy to make a snowball after we got there. We concluded that 100 yards full speed up the side of a mountain at ten thousand feet was a job best left to John Carter. We did a half-hearted snowfight later on Berthoud Pass.
Time and space seemed to pass swiftly, although scarcely noticed. In what seemed like no time at all, we were swooping down a cloudy trail, then thru an impressively deep, winding, narrow gorge, and finally to shoot out onto the plains once more an hour or so before sunset. Good time was made, and the mountains were lost to sight before dark.
We had invitations from Rocklynne and Chauvenet to stop in Ohio and Virginia respectively, so we had to make time to take in Virginia and still get back on time for work. We decided to get a night's sleep in Ft. Morgan, and then really go to town, or thru towns.
July 8th--We did. In spite of 100[[degree symbol]] in the shade an no shade, and filling the radiator every 10 or 15 miles, we made the outskirts of Lincoln by dusk. I was so disgusted I was ready to bite anybody who even so much as said "Boo". In addition to all this, something went wrong with the gas gauge, and we pulled in to fill up again to check on it.
The attendant was a garrulous old geezer, and about three sheets int he wind to boot. He paid no attention when I told him it might need only a couple. The tank gurgled a warning, but he stood with his eyes glued in seeming fascination on the dial of the pump, swaying slightly. The gas started to run over. "Hold it!" I yelled. The dope pointed affably to the dial and said, "Got to make an even two gallons." I blew up.

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SPACEWAYS 7 THE LOG OF THE FOOFOO SPECIAL by ART WIDNER JR Conclusion. July 7th--We packed and signed out, and then found that plutocrat Bell was again returning east via the stratosphere. Well, that gives us a little more room, thot I, but I reckoned without any personality of Pretty Boy Madle. As soon as he found out there was an empty place, he immediately spoke up for his bosom buddy of the convention, previously unknown Rusty Barron. No one had any objection so we said good-bye and so long and C U N L A to all the fans assembled in the lobby, picked up Rusty, and took off for the Rockies. But heat-em-up trouble was not yet over. Once again we were in the red on the thermometer, and I thot it was the other water pump gone glooey. After much trouble and much more heat, we got up in the altitudes where it was so cool that we didn't heat up even tho we lost a lot of water. The awesomeness and grandeur of the Rocky Mountains has yet been described many times and many times better than I could do it. I refer you to travel folders, etc. I only wish to say that I marveled and marveled, and would have deemed the whole trip worth while just for them, even if there were no convention. Oddly enough, no one had popping ears, bloody noses, or even difficulty in breathing, as described by 4e in his account of a mountain sojourn. Of course violent exertion was out of the question, as we soon learned, and Pretty Boy seemed even dopier than usual. When we glimpsed our first patch of snow, nothing would do but what we must get out and race to it for a snowball fight. Rusty, Milty, and I were the hardy souls who didn't have enough energy to make a snowball after we got there. We concluded that 100 yards full speed up the side of a mountain at ten thousand feet was a job best left to John Carter. We did a half-hearted snowfight later on Berthoud Pass. Time and space seemed to pass swiftly, although scarcely noticed. In what seemed like no time at all, we were swooping down a cloudy trail, then thru an impressively deep, winding, narrow gorge, and finally to shoot out onto the plains once more an hour or so before sunset. Good time was made, and the mountains were lost to sight before dark. We had invitations from Rocklynne and Chauvenet to stop in Ohio and Virginia respectively, so we had to make time to take in Virginia and still get back on time for work. We decided to get a night's sleep in Ft. Morgan, and then really go to town, or thru towns. July 8th--We did. In spite of 100[[degree symbol]] in the shade an no shade, and filling the radiator every 10 or 15 miles, we made the outskirts of Lincoln by dusk. I was so disgusted I was ready to bite anybody who even so much as said "Boo". In addition to all this, something went wrong with the gas gauge, and we pulled in to fill up again to check on it. The attendant was a garrulous old geezer, and about three sheets int he wind to boot. He paid no attention when I told him it might need only a couple. The tank gurgled a warning, but he stood with his eyes glued in seeming fascination on the dial of the pump, swaying slightly. The gas started to run over. "Hold it!" I yelled. The dope pointed affably to the dial and said, "Got to make an even two gallons." I blew up.