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Spaceways, v. 4, issue 2, January 1942
Page 12
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12 SPACEWAYS JOE FANN INTO SPACE by BOB TUCKER We wonder if you've heard the story of the fan who, by some lucky fluke or conniving twist of fate, was included among the crew of the very first space ship to blast off for the moon? In the first place, this fan was a miniature superman, physically speaking. He had to be to endure the rigors of space travel, you know. And that in itself is the main reason he was the only fan aboard. The draft of the second world war showed fans up for the hollow wrecks that they were. Our Joe Fann had to pass a hundred and one wracking tests before he was finally allowed to go; even then there were mutterings about the country (particularly in the next of his unlucky fellow fans) that he bribed his way as a last resort. Although if this be true, just what the ship's captain expected to do with four hundred dollars on a dead moon is a minor mystery. The captain himself was later overheard asking himself the same question--on the moon. Joe Fann made himself very unpopular from the outset of the voyage. He griped. About everything. Morning, noon and night (ship's time), he griped about the ship and everyone in it. It didn't measure up to this standard, it fell far below that expectation, its performance was inferior to that of the Skylark, gripe, gripe, gripe, gripe. The captain was honest, honorable, and able. There were no Martians in the crew. No one had the slightest thought of mutiny; they didn't even dream of smuggling thionite! They weren't headed for a mysterious destination; if there were any invaders from a dark star lurking near no one knew of them. Gripe, gripe, gripe. Not even a robot aboard. Joe inspected the hulls and the sand between the inner and outer plates; bemoaned the lack of vacuum there. he proclaimed this outrageous demonstration of un-spacemanship would end in disaster. he bellyached because someone had thought to bring along enough food and no one lived on rations; going over the spacesuits many times he was charined to find them perfect, leak-proof and livable. He once stuck his hand out of an open portlock, as one does a wet finger when testing the wind, and was bitterly disappointed when the hand didn't instantly freeze. Gripe, gripe. Perhaps his most deplorable rage was caused by the not finding of a beauteous female stowaway aboard. This detestable breach of human conduct was well-nigh unbearable. And as time went on the dials and meters showed only too well they were closely on course. If good luck continued to come their way they would be on the moon slightly ahead of schedule. Nothing exciting or dangerous broke the smooth, desired monotony of the voyage. Joe Fann griped the louder. The climax, for Joe Fann, came the day he was down in the tube room inspecting the firing rockets for the hundredth time, searching hopefully for a defect or dangerous cracking in the lining of the tubes. These tubes, with one end inside the vessel and the other outside, of course, were so arranged that one could look down through a sliding window-like contraption into the interior of the tube. Joe Fann slid aside the panel and peered in. It was dark in there, so he wriggled his slim body half-way in. Squirming around, he was able to lock right into the small opening of the firing chamber at the inside of the tube. It reminded him of the time when, as a boy, he had peered into the small hole of an empty milk bottle. there was no sign of fault anywhere in the chamber. The chief engineer, seeing him situated thus, sought revenge for himself and his crew. He reached up over the duplicate control board and momentarily laid a small finger on a firing lever. Nothing happened. For once, something failed to work. The End
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12 SPACEWAYS JOE FANN INTO SPACE by BOB TUCKER We wonder if you've heard the story of the fan who, by some lucky fluke or conniving twist of fate, was included among the crew of the very first space ship to blast off for the moon? In the first place, this fan was a miniature superman, physically speaking. He had to be to endure the rigors of space travel, you know. And that in itself is the main reason he was the only fan aboard. The draft of the second world war showed fans up for the hollow wrecks that they were. Our Joe Fann had to pass a hundred and one wracking tests before he was finally allowed to go; even then there were mutterings about the country (particularly in the next of his unlucky fellow fans) that he bribed his way as a last resort. Although if this be true, just what the ship's captain expected to do with four hundred dollars on a dead moon is a minor mystery. The captain himself was later overheard asking himself the same question--on the moon. Joe Fann made himself very unpopular from the outset of the voyage. He griped. About everything. Morning, noon and night (ship's time), he griped about the ship and everyone in it. It didn't measure up to this standard, it fell far below that expectation, its performance was inferior to that of the Skylark, gripe, gripe, gripe, gripe. The captain was honest, honorable, and able. There were no Martians in the crew. No one had the slightest thought of mutiny; they didn't even dream of smuggling thionite! They weren't headed for a mysterious destination; if there were any invaders from a dark star lurking near no one knew of them. Gripe, gripe, gripe. Not even a robot aboard. Joe inspected the hulls and the sand between the inner and outer plates; bemoaned the lack of vacuum there. he proclaimed this outrageous demonstration of un-spacemanship would end in disaster. he bellyached because someone had thought to bring along enough food and no one lived on rations; going over the spacesuits many times he was charined to find them perfect, leak-proof and livable. He once stuck his hand out of an open portlock, as one does a wet finger when testing the wind, and was bitterly disappointed when the hand didn't instantly freeze. Gripe, gripe. Perhaps his most deplorable rage was caused by the not finding of a beauteous female stowaway aboard. This detestable breach of human conduct was well-nigh unbearable. And as time went on the dials and meters showed only too well they were closely on course. If good luck continued to come their way they would be on the moon slightly ahead of schedule. Nothing exciting or dangerous broke the smooth, desired monotony of the voyage. Joe Fann griped the louder. The climax, for Joe Fann, came the day he was down in the tube room inspecting the firing rockets for the hundredth time, searching hopefully for a defect or dangerous cracking in the lining of the tubes. These tubes, with one end inside the vessel and the other outside, of course, were so arranged that one could look down through a sliding window-like contraption into the interior of the tube. Joe Fann slid aside the panel and peered in. It was dark in there, so he wriggled his slim body half-way in. Squirming around, he was able to lock right into the small opening of the firing chamber at the inside of the tube. It reminded him of the time when, as a boy, he had peered into the small hole of an empty milk bottle. there was no sign of fault anywhere in the chamber. The chief engineer, seeing him situated thus, sought revenge for himself and his crew. He reached up over the duplicate control board and momentarily laid a small finger on a firing lever. Nothing happened. For once, something failed to work. The End
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