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Futuria Fantasia, vol. 1, issue 1, Summer 1939

Page 7b

DON'T GET TECHNATAL by ron reynolds

For several moments Stern had eyed his typewriter ominously, conemplating whether he should utter the unutterable. Finally: 
"Damn!" he roared. "I can't write any more! Look, look at that!" He tore the sheet out of the rollers and crumpled it in his fist. "If I'd known it would be this way," he said, "I wouldn't have voted for it! Technocracy is ruining everything!"
Bella Stern, preoccupied with her knitting, glanced up in horror. "What a temper," she exclaimed. "Can't you keep your voice down?" She fussed with her work. "There now," she cried, "you made me drop a stitch!"
"I want to be a writer!" Samuel Stern lamented, turning with grim eyes to his wife. "And the Technate has spoiled my fun."
"The way you talk, Samuel," said his wife, "I actually believe you want to go back to that barbarism prevalent in the DARK THIRTIES."
"It sounds like one damned good idea!" he said. "At least I'd have something decent, or indecent, to write about!"
"What can you mean?" she asked, tilting her head back and blinking. "Why can't you write? There are just oodles of things I can think of that are readable."
Something like a tear rolled down Samuel's cheek. "No more gangsters, no more bank robberies, no more holdups, no more good, old-fashioned burglaries, no more vice gangs!" He voice grew lachrymose as he proceeded down an infinite line of 'no mores'. "No more sadness," he almost sobbed. "Everybody's happy, contented. No more strife and hard work. Oh, for the days when a gangland massacre was headline scoop for me!"
"Tush!" sniffed Bella. "Have you been drinking again, Samuel?"
He hiccoughed gently. 
"I thought so," she said.
"I had to do something," he declared, "I'm going nuts for want of a plot."
Bella Stern laid her knitting aside and walked to the balcony, looked meditatively down into the yawning canyon of the New York street fifty stories below. She turned back to Sam with a reminiscent smile. 
"Why not write a love story?"
"WHAT!" Stern shot out of his chair like a hooked eel.
"Why, yes," she concluded. "A nice love story would be very enjoyable."
"LOVE!" Stern's voice was thick with soreness. "Why we don't even have decent love these days. A man can't marry a woman for her money, and vica-versa. EVeryone under Technocracy gets the same amount of credit. No more Reno, no more alimony, no more breach of promise, or law suits! Everything is cut and dried. The days of society weddings and coming out parties are gone--cause everyone is equal. I can't write political criticisms about graft in the government, about slums and terrible living conditions, about poor starving mothers and their babies. Everything is okay--okay--okay--" his voice sobbed off into silence.
Which should make you very happy," countered his wife.
"Which makes me very sick," growled Samuel Stern. "Look, Bell, all lmy life I wanted to be a writer. Okay. I'm writing for the pulp magazines for a couple years. Right? Okay,. Then I'm writing sea stories, gangsters, political views, first class bump-offs. I'm happy..

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DON'T GET TECHNATAL by ron reynolds For several moments Stern had eyed his typewriter ominously, conemplating whether he should utter the unutterable. Finally: "Damn!" he roared. "I can't write any more! Look, look at that!" He tore the sheet out of the rollers and crumpled it in his fist. "If I'd known it would be this way," he said, "I wouldn't have voted for it! Technocracy is ruining everything!" Bella Stern, preoccupied with her knitting, glanced up in horror. "What a temper," she exclaimed. "Can't you keep your voice down?" She fussed with her work. "There now," she cried, "you made me drop a stitch!" "I want to be a writer!" Samuel Stern lamented, turning with grim eyes to his wife. "And the Technate has spoiled my fun." "The way you talk, Samuel," said his wife, "I actually believe you want to go back to that barbarism prevalent in the DARK THIRTIES." "It sounds like one damned good idea!" he said. "At least I'd have something decent, or indecent, to write about!" "What can you mean?" she asked, tilting her head back and blinking. "Why can't you write? There are just oodles of things I can think of that are readable." Something like a tear rolled down Samuel's cheek. "No more gangsters, no more bank robberies, no more holdups, no more good, old-fashioned burglaries, no more vice gangs!" He voice grew lachrymose as he proceeded down an infinite line of 'no mores'. "No more sadness," he almost sobbed. "Everybody's happy, contented. No more strife and hard work. Oh, for the days when a gangland massacre was headline scoop for me!" "Tush!" sniffed Bella. "Have you been drinking again, Samuel?" He hiccoughed gently. "I thought so," she said. "I had to do something," he declared, "I'm going nuts for want of a plot." Bella Stern laid her knitting aside and walked to the balcony, looked meditatively down into the yawning canyon of the New York street fifty stories below. She turned back to Sam with a reminiscent smile. "Why not write a love story?" "WHAT!" Stern shot out of his chair like a hooked eel. "Why, yes," she concluded. "A nice love story would be very enjoyable." "LOVE!" Stern's voice was thick with soreness. "Why we don't even have decent love these days. A man can't marry a woman for her money, and vica-versa. EVeryone under Technocracy gets the same amount of credit. No more Reno, no more alimony, no more breach of promise, or law suits! Everything is cut and dried. The days of society weddings and coming out parties are gone--cause everyone is equal. I can't write political criticisms about graft in the government, about slums and terrible living conditions, about poor starving mothers and their babies. Everything is okay--okay--okay--" his voice sobbed off into silence. Which should make you very happy," countered his wife. "Which makes me very sick," growled Samuel Stern. "Look, Bell, all lmy life I wanted to be a writer. Okay. I'm writing for the pulp magazines for a couple years. Right? Okay,. Then I'm writing sea stories, gangsters, political views, first class bump-offs. I'm happy..