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Diablerie, February 1944
Page 5
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diablerie 5 King of the gay places Our eyes bulged. A man named Bergey came along and took our picture. Said it would everlastingly refute the claims of the STFPBEMOTPSTFP. Obscenity on him. There lay the pretty rocket. Lines and lines. Even an angle or two. On one perfect steel side someone had written "Rosie loves Joe". Up above three beautiful tin stove pipes glinted in the sunshine. You felt an overwhelming pride in this ship. You felt it might even fly. And then the pilots, in their striped suits and shaven heads, walked onto the field. They didn't look worried at all. They were going to the moon All except one. "I'm too young to die," he cried and bolted toward an exit. The disintergrators caught him before he hade made ten steps. Heigh ho. Then the pilots went in the ship and slammed the door. Everyone held their hands over their ears. And all at once the rocket burped twice, rose ten feet in the air, and exploded with a dull pop. "It's gone," yelled Buck. "Obscenity," I said, "I'd like to run one of those things someday. Might even live to tell my little illigitiments about it." - - - - - "You never knew your father, Kimball," said Flo, shoving the drunk out of bed and weaving over to pat me heavily on the head. "Father?" I asked, arising from the floor and staggering over to a chair. "Thought I was a test tube kid. What was the old man like?" "He worked in Alka Trass and never saw the stars," she replied. "Obscenity," I said. - - - - - You don't apply for the Planet Patrol. No. You are required to send in a five pound package of Kinnison Krumble breakfast food box tops - "The breakfast for red-blooded young Slans" - first with a twenty-five word statement on "Why I would like to run a spaceship." I had already sent in my box tops and statement but had received no answer. That is the way it goes with millions. The years go by and every month that passes you collect more box tops and hope that someday a blue patrol glider will plow into your lawn and a brawny engineer will hop out and say, "Rise, lad. You are now a member of the Planet Patrol. The entrance fee in ten credits." Then on the last day of your twentieth year you finally sober up and go on relief. I was lying in the hammock one day trying to warm up something (next page)
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diablerie 5 King of the gay places Our eyes bulged. A man named Bergey came along and took our picture. Said it would everlastingly refute the claims of the STFPBEMOTPSTFP. Obscenity on him. There lay the pretty rocket. Lines and lines. Even an angle or two. On one perfect steel side someone had written "Rosie loves Joe". Up above three beautiful tin stove pipes glinted in the sunshine. You felt an overwhelming pride in this ship. You felt it might even fly. And then the pilots, in their striped suits and shaven heads, walked onto the field. They didn't look worried at all. They were going to the moon All except one. "I'm too young to die," he cried and bolted toward an exit. The disintergrators caught him before he hade made ten steps. Heigh ho. Then the pilots went in the ship and slammed the door. Everyone held their hands over their ears. And all at once the rocket burped twice, rose ten feet in the air, and exploded with a dull pop. "It's gone," yelled Buck. "Obscenity," I said, "I'd like to run one of those things someday. Might even live to tell my little illigitiments about it." - - - - - "You never knew your father, Kimball," said Flo, shoving the drunk out of bed and weaving over to pat me heavily on the head. "Father?" I asked, arising from the floor and staggering over to a chair. "Thought I was a test tube kid. What was the old man like?" "He worked in Alka Trass and never saw the stars," she replied. "Obscenity," I said. - - - - - You don't apply for the Planet Patrol. No. You are required to send in a five pound package of Kinnison Krumble breakfast food box tops - "The breakfast for red-blooded young Slans" - first with a twenty-five word statement on "Why I would like to run a spaceship." I had already sent in my box tops and statement but had received no answer. That is the way it goes with millions. The years go by and every month that passes you collect more box tops and hope that someday a blue patrol glider will plow into your lawn and a brawny engineer will hop out and say, "Rise, lad. You are now a member of the Planet Patrol. The entrance fee in ten credits." Then on the last day of your twentieth year you finally sober up and go on relief. I was lying in the hammock one day trying to warm up something (next page)
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