Transcribe
Translate
Sparx, v. 1, issue 5, October 1947
Page 6
More information
digital collection
archival collection guide
transcription tips
SPARX 6 tient races in the galaxy." Suddenly he turned, and ran precipitately to a telephone booth that stood unsteadily by the side of a shack. The other shrugged his shoulders; and lit another cigarette. He puffed for a while, shipting from foot to foot to relieve his fatigue. He would have slept until takeoff, but he knew that he could not have closed his eyes. He leaned against a post and stared out at the ship. The trucks were returning,now. Perishables and last minute baggage probably. The passengers should be abord, except for the pilot and the weather men. He scowled at the phone booth. What the devil could be keeping Fletch? The mist was, if anything, a little thicker. He coughed; he should have learned to smoke before this,he thought grimly. Fletcher tall form, enshrouded in a huge overcoat, came from the booth. His step was more reassured. "Agh!" he bellowed in disgust, as he stepped in a big puddle. "Well, weather central says that if this doesn't clear by five this morning we can have their scalps. I told them that if they weren't right, I'd come around with my tomahawk at five thirty. Karen says that the ship will shoot on schedule anyway, if this doesn't get any worse." "Good." As an expression of contentment he threw away the cigarette, and did not light another. More trucks were speeding to and fro; the big illuminated clock said 4:10. There were two red marks on the face of the clock, where the hands would rest at takeoff time. There was still a huge arc for the small hand to travel. Fletch began to whistle an off-key version of a popular song, accompanying it with one foot tapping time on a metal plate. He broke off suddenly. "There's another box car over there." "Doesn't look occupied, either. Probably has termites." "Or cockroaches." Fletcher resumed the tune, and led the way over a mound of slats. He pauses at a monumental pond of rainwater in one of the main drainage canals. He laughed softly to himself,and shouted into the night, "Sir Walter Raleigh!" His companion chuckled, and they searched for a board to bridge the stream. Finally the reached the car, and lifted themselves to it floor. Fletch laid his weary body down, and mumbled almost incoherently "set the alarm clock, Jeeves," and fell asleep. The other followed his example, but not so easily. They awoke to a sky barely blue; with the warm radiance of the sun reaching up from behind the horizon. The echos of the blast horn which had awakened them were still rattling across the plain. Fletcher consulted his watch. "Four hours," he said. The clouds were sweeping off to the south east, with the driving fury of a cold clear wind behind them. The myriad prefabs were almost beautiful, with the first light of dawn on their once white walls; the long lines of railroad cars traced lacy patterns on the landscape. On the administration building the floods were dead at last, the heat waves sweeping up from them distorting the buildings behind in ever changing fashion. The ship; the ship stood in the center of the field its smooth silver shape glinting as the first direct rays of the sun touched its prow, three hundred feet above the ground. The steering jets on the hull just aft of greatest diameter were now easy to make out, while the main jets at the stern were huge even at this distance. (The rest is on page 8)
Saving...
prev
next
SPARX 6 tient races in the galaxy." Suddenly he turned, and ran precipitately to a telephone booth that stood unsteadily by the side of a shack. The other shrugged his shoulders; and lit another cigarette. He puffed for a while, shipting from foot to foot to relieve his fatigue. He would have slept until takeoff, but he knew that he could not have closed his eyes. He leaned against a post and stared out at the ship. The trucks were returning,now. Perishables and last minute baggage probably. The passengers should be abord, except for the pilot and the weather men. He scowled at the phone booth. What the devil could be keeping Fletch? The mist was, if anything, a little thicker. He coughed; he should have learned to smoke before this,he thought grimly. Fletcher tall form, enshrouded in a huge overcoat, came from the booth. His step was more reassured. "Agh!" he bellowed in disgust, as he stepped in a big puddle. "Well, weather central says that if this doesn't clear by five this morning we can have their scalps. I told them that if they weren't right, I'd come around with my tomahawk at five thirty. Karen says that the ship will shoot on schedule anyway, if this doesn't get any worse." "Good." As an expression of contentment he threw away the cigarette, and did not light another. More trucks were speeding to and fro; the big illuminated clock said 4:10. There were two red marks on the face of the clock, where the hands would rest at takeoff time. There was still a huge arc for the small hand to travel. Fletch began to whistle an off-key version of a popular song, accompanying it with one foot tapping time on a metal plate. He broke off suddenly. "There's another box car over there." "Doesn't look occupied, either. Probably has termites." "Or cockroaches." Fletcher resumed the tune, and led the way over a mound of slats. He pauses at a monumental pond of rainwater in one of the main drainage canals. He laughed softly to himself,and shouted into the night, "Sir Walter Raleigh!" His companion chuckled, and they searched for a board to bridge the stream. Finally the reached the car, and lifted themselves to it floor. Fletch laid his weary body down, and mumbled almost incoherently "set the alarm clock, Jeeves," and fell asleep. The other followed his example, but not so easily. They awoke to a sky barely blue; with the warm radiance of the sun reaching up from behind the horizon. The echos of the blast horn which had awakened them were still rattling across the plain. Fletcher consulted his watch. "Four hours," he said. The clouds were sweeping off to the south east, with the driving fury of a cold clear wind behind them. The myriad prefabs were almost beautiful, with the first light of dawn on their once white walls; the long lines of railroad cars traced lacy patterns on the landscape. On the administration building the floods were dead at last, the heat waves sweeping up from them distorting the buildings behind in ever changing fashion. The ship; the ship stood in the center of the field its smooth silver shape glinting as the first direct rays of the sun touched its prow, three hundred feet above the ground. The steering jets on the hull just aft of greatest diameter were now easy to make out, while the main jets at the stern were huge even at this distance. (The rest is on page 8)
Hevelin Fanzines
sidebar
