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Spacewarp, v. 3, issue 4, July 1948
Page 11
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"But they are just fiction," protested the dissenter. The room got deathly silent. The new fan looked nervously at the ring of horrified faces around him. "J-j-just fiction. I s-s-s-said," trembled the unbeliever, uttering the terrible blasphemy once again. "No hope for him, follows. We'll have to rid of him." "Where to? The Moon, Mars, Pluto?" "He might still be saved. Just put him in the Sahara and maybe he will forget all of this nonsense about fiction." The next instant, Joe Glumph, stf unbeliever, found himself teleported to the geometric center of the Sahara Desert by a beam of mental force. Back in Toronot, all was well once again. "Which method will we use?" asked Luna as if nothing had interrupted. Upperberth got up from his seat. "Having had experience with the financial side of the science-fiction as editor of FITS, I suggest that we devise a method never before presented to avoid any authors claiming royalties on the process used." Although many of the fans did not care much for Upperberth, they had to respect his ideas about financial matters. Who else had the ability to pay authors at rates of a cent per fifty words with checks that bounced and get away with it? "Un I der method got," announced von Heine brokenly. "Mit a few changes, der transmitter a sbace drife pee. Und der power from der sun if giffs." "Say, that would be all right," agreed the fen who had managed to figure out what the professor had said. "Let's get to work on it at once." With that, the Torcon came to an end and the first spaceship came to a beginning. Several weeks passed before the sixty-foot craft was finished and the talented transmitter was installed. The city of Toronto was still suffering from the after-effects of the Torcon; the warrior-women had refused to leave and continued to block traffic. The fan in the Sahara had not been heard from yet and Upperberth belatedly remembered they had left a number of fans and authors back in the prehistoric past. Except [comic of a man sitting in a chair reading the fanzine "Sickening Stories" ; he is sweating with a scared expression, and a lamp is shining brightly on his face. Several monsters are in the background. The comic is signed "Ray Nelson"] 11
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"But they are just fiction," protested the dissenter. The room got deathly silent. The new fan looked nervously at the ring of horrified faces around him. "J-j-just fiction. I s-s-s-said," trembled the unbeliever, uttering the terrible blasphemy once again. "No hope for him, follows. We'll have to rid of him." "Where to? The Moon, Mars, Pluto?" "He might still be saved. Just put him in the Sahara and maybe he will forget all of this nonsense about fiction." The next instant, Joe Glumph, stf unbeliever, found himself teleported to the geometric center of the Sahara Desert by a beam of mental force. Back in Toronot, all was well once again. "Which method will we use?" asked Luna as if nothing had interrupted. Upperberth got up from his seat. "Having had experience with the financial side of the science-fiction as editor of FITS, I suggest that we devise a method never before presented to avoid any authors claiming royalties on the process used." Although many of the fans did not care much for Upperberth, they had to respect his ideas about financial matters. Who else had the ability to pay authors at rates of a cent per fifty words with checks that bounced and get away with it? "Un I der method got," announced von Heine brokenly. "Mit a few changes, der transmitter a sbace drife pee. Und der power from der sun if giffs." "Say, that would be all right," agreed the fen who had managed to figure out what the professor had said. "Let's get to work on it at once." With that, the Torcon came to an end and the first spaceship came to a beginning. Several weeks passed before the sixty-foot craft was finished and the talented transmitter was installed. The city of Toronto was still suffering from the after-effects of the Torcon; the warrior-women had refused to leave and continued to block traffic. The fan in the Sahara had not been heard from yet and Upperberth belatedly remembered they had left a number of fans and authors back in the prehistoric past. Except [comic of a man sitting in a chair reading the fanzine "Sickening Stories" ; he is sweating with a scared expression, and a lamp is shining brightly on his face. Several monsters are in the background. The comic is signed "Ray Nelson"] 11
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