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Fantascience Digest, v. 1, issue 5, July-August 1938
Page 7
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Page 7 FANTASCIENCE DIGEST WHITHER WOLLHEIM? Wilson Wrote It Here was the store I was looking for. A large banner strung across the front proclaimed: "the House of a Million Items. We sell everything." I went in and banged on a counter until a clerk appeared. "Yessir?" he said. "I want a space ship", I told him. "Right you are. That color?" "Any color. Preferably pink." "Will you step this way, please? We keep them in the rear of the store." "Do you have much call for this sort of thing?" I queried. "We used to. People would pop in around Christmas time and confide in me. They tell me all about their little bra---ah, children---and how they are simply daffy about Buck Rogers. Then they demand a space ship. Such people annoy me beyond measure. I know they mean a toy ship, but I always show them the real ones. If they ask for a demonstration, so much the better. Otherwise I sneak up behind them and drop andirons[[?]] on their heads." "Doesn't it hurt them?" "I suppose so, sir," he shrugged. "You wouldn't do anything like that to me, would you?" "Why, how could you think of such a thing? You do me a great wrong." But he smiled oddly. "When these---do you mind if I call them pest, sir? I like to speak freely. Thank you---when these pests are inside the ship, we roll back the roof and shoot them off into space." "Just good, clean fun, eh?" "You're jolly well right. Well, here we are. All colors, shapes and sizes they are, sir. We call this one the Skylark." "After Smith?" I asked. "Not particularly. Anytime at all. Morning, afternoon, after lunch---anytime." "You don't understand. E. E. Smith wrote some stories in which several very super space ships were called The Skylark. I thought perhaps you knew." "Wasn't he the one? E. E. Smith, I mean. Didn't he chop off Pocahontas' head?" "No, no. You're thinking of John." "John? Oh, no. John is here with us." He called, and a sawed-off fellow with pants appeared. They, the pants, stretched from his shoes to his chest, doing away with the necessity for a vest. John carried a pail, full of metallic objects. The clerk inspected them and selected one. He polished it up a bit on his sleeve, then squinted at[[?]] long the barrel. He waved it at me. "Stand away from those [[?]],
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Page 7 FANTASCIENCE DIGEST WHITHER WOLLHEIM? Wilson Wrote It Here was the store I was looking for. A large banner strung across the front proclaimed: "the House of a Million Items. We sell everything." I went in and banged on a counter until a clerk appeared. "Yessir?" he said. "I want a space ship", I told him. "Right you are. That color?" "Any color. Preferably pink." "Will you step this way, please? We keep them in the rear of the store." "Do you have much call for this sort of thing?" I queried. "We used to. People would pop in around Christmas time and confide in me. They tell me all about their little bra---ah, children---and how they are simply daffy about Buck Rogers. Then they demand a space ship. Such people annoy me beyond measure. I know they mean a toy ship, but I always show them the real ones. If they ask for a demonstration, so much the better. Otherwise I sneak up behind them and drop andirons[[?]] on their heads." "Doesn't it hurt them?" "I suppose so, sir," he shrugged. "You wouldn't do anything like that to me, would you?" "Why, how could you think of such a thing? You do me a great wrong." But he smiled oddly. "When these---do you mind if I call them pest, sir? I like to speak freely. Thank you---when these pests are inside the ship, we roll back the roof and shoot them off into space." "Just good, clean fun, eh?" "You're jolly well right. Well, here we are. All colors, shapes and sizes they are, sir. We call this one the Skylark." "After Smith?" I asked. "Not particularly. Anytime at all. Morning, afternoon, after lunch---anytime." "You don't understand. E. E. Smith wrote some stories in which several very super space ships were called The Skylark. I thought perhaps you knew." "Wasn't he the one? E. E. Smith, I mean. Didn't he chop off Pocahontas' head?" "No, no. You're thinking of John." "John? Oh, no. John is here with us." He called, and a sawed-off fellow with pants appeared. They, the pants, stretched from his shoes to his chest, doing away with the necessity for a vest. John carried a pail, full of metallic objects. The clerk inspected them and selected one. He polished it up a bit on his sleeve, then squinted at[[?]] long the barrel. He waved it at me. "Stand away from those [[?]],
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