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Wavelength, issue 1
Page 10
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10 WAVELENGTH ////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// BEWARE THE CYNIC 1 :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: by George Wetzel -----:------:----- Hastily donning by way of disguise, a red tie, a yellow flannel shi-rt, blue checkered pants, a furrowed hat, and yes, my plus-fours,I cre-pt down the street at a run to keep the curious from getting a too-clo-se look at me, as I don't intends letting me identity becoming public property. After raying an officious individual in a blue uniform, that was held together by bright brass buttons, when he attempted to collar me for what he called indecet exposure, I approached the Dwelling. It was with no little trepidation that I arrived at the front entrance of the "dump" as I had overheard some one call the place. For a moment, I trembled at the thought of encountering the mighty, the great, the dis-tinguished Iconoclast's visage. Through fear-weary optics I observed 2 bells, 1 marked "Science Fiction Fans", and the other "Screwballs", with a line through it and the correction "Nicer People?" There was also a knocker with the legend, "Knock and Wait". I knocked... and waited for twenty-six minutes... without result. This display of Fabian tactics made me feel sufficiently small, so i ventured to press the second of the two bells. The door was opened by a clinking metal thing known as "Robot". I soon found myself ushered into the Presence. I thought it b-etter to enter on all fours, and thus, with downcast looks, I could on-ly hastily notice that the Master was down on the carpet searching for cigar butts. When I entered, his massive, intellectual forehead moved from behind the desk, and I saw that he was supplied with a flamboyaant head of hair, and a snuff-coloured suit of dittoes. "Good morning," I said, as I gained my self-possession. "I have cal-led on behalf of the Society for the Protection of Pet Theories as well as protection of the SFTPOBEMOSFC, to inquire if it is true that you sabotaged the Newarkon, and have put 4E, along with Tucker, where they belong which is in the h---- (Whoa, there! Censored! Editor). Alsoto learn why you have let Damon Knight still remain at large. Plus the fac that your tong-men have finally caught up with that phoney, that redhot from 'Frisco (or is it L.A.?). Pong." "Pong!" he roared, wiping the remains of yesterday's meal from his vest. "Is that pipsqueek still in the woodwork? I'll slaughter him, I'll mu-uuu-rrder him, the rascal!" Here the Demolisher began to bite his nails until he reached his wrist; then he began to doodle in a most inspired fashion. "Please compose, sir, yourself," I pleaded, as he started to strike a wooden statue that cowered upon his pitted desk. Catching sight of the bottle that I pulled from my pocket, he quiet-ed long enough in his ravings to indulge both in drink and obnoxiousin- nuendo. While he alternated to gurgle the foo-water and burpppppp, I bought the interview onto more safer grounds. "What's your opinion of E. E. Smith, Binder, and Hamilton?" I asked. "E. E. Smith," he answered in a somewhat restrained manner, is pain-fully suburban. Binder, so far as I have patience to read him, know no-thing at all about bimetallism and his views on Wagner are crude in the extreme. Hamilton should be spanked. I would not give the bones of a chocolate soldier for the whole gang of 'em."
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10 WAVELENGTH ////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// BEWARE THE CYNIC 1 :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: by George Wetzel -----:------:----- Hastily donning by way of disguise, a red tie, a yellow flannel shi-rt, blue checkered pants, a furrowed hat, and yes, my plus-fours,I cre-pt down the street at a run to keep the curious from getting a too-clo-se look at me, as I don't intends letting me identity becoming public property. After raying an officious individual in a blue uniform, that was held together by bright brass buttons, when he attempted to collar me for what he called indecet exposure, I approached the Dwelling. It was with no little trepidation that I arrived at the front entrance of the "dump" as I had overheard some one call the place. For a moment, I trembled at the thought of encountering the mighty, the great, the dis-tinguished Iconoclast's visage. Through fear-weary optics I observed 2 bells, 1 marked "Science Fiction Fans", and the other "Screwballs", with a line through it and the correction "Nicer People?" There was also a knocker with the legend, "Knock and Wait". I knocked... and waited for twenty-six minutes... without result. This display of Fabian tactics made me feel sufficiently small, so i ventured to press the second of the two bells. The door was opened by a clinking metal thing known as "Robot". I soon found myself ushered into the Presence. I thought it b-etter to enter on all fours, and thus, with downcast looks, I could on-ly hastily notice that the Master was down on the carpet searching for cigar butts. When I entered, his massive, intellectual forehead moved from behind the desk, and I saw that he was supplied with a flamboyaant head of hair, and a snuff-coloured suit of dittoes. "Good morning," I said, as I gained my self-possession. "I have cal-led on behalf of the Society for the Protection of Pet Theories as well as protection of the SFTPOBEMOSFC, to inquire if it is true that you sabotaged the Newarkon, and have put 4E, along with Tucker, where they belong which is in the h---- (Whoa, there! Censored! Editor). Alsoto learn why you have let Damon Knight still remain at large. Plus the fac that your tong-men have finally caught up with that phoney, that redhot from 'Frisco (or is it L.A.?). Pong." "Pong!" he roared, wiping the remains of yesterday's meal from his vest. "Is that pipsqueek still in the woodwork? I'll slaughter him, I'll mu-uuu-rrder him, the rascal!" Here the Demolisher began to bite his nails until he reached his wrist; then he began to doodle in a most inspired fashion. "Please compose, sir, yourself," I pleaded, as he started to strike a wooden statue that cowered upon his pitted desk. Catching sight of the bottle that I pulled from my pocket, he quiet-ed long enough in his ravings to indulge both in drink and obnoxiousin- nuendo. While he alternated to gurgle the foo-water and burpppppp, I bought the interview onto more safer grounds. "What's your opinion of E. E. Smith, Binder, and Hamilton?" I asked. "E. E. Smith," he answered in a somewhat restrained manner, is pain-fully suburban. Binder, so far as I have patience to read him, know no-thing at all about bimetallism and his views on Wagner are crude in the extreme. Hamilton should be spanked. I would not give the bones of a chocolate soldier for the whole gang of 'em."
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