DIY History | Transcribe | Hevelin Fanzines | Dream Quest, v. 1, issue 1, July 1947

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Dream Quest, v. 1, issue 1, July 1947

Page 49

AT PALMER'S DESK:
or, THE WISH FULFILLMENT DREAM OF A FAN
by H. Elliott Miller

The long corridors of the Ziff-Davis editorial offices are empty. The scrubwoman, her tasks completed, has left long ago. Only the black expanse of darkened and deserted offices meets the eyes as a far-away clock slowly chimes three times. It is three o'clock in the morning.

As the muted chimes die away, there is a fumbling at the main door. A figure enters, relocks the door, and walks into the largest of the offices. It sits down in a desk chair and snaps on the lights. It's a....a...no, despite the face, it's not a dero obsessed with the idea of seducing the linotypers away from their allegiance to Amazing. It's only Palmer.

But what can Palmer want at this time of night? We see his fingers travel over the side of the editorial desk, find what they are looking for, and press it. A framed cover painting suddenly moves to one side, exposing a wall safe. With feverish fingers Palmer opens it and stacks the bags it contains on the desk. With bated breath he sits down and slowly, oh how slowly and carefully, starts to open one. The bag is emptied on the desk and placed aside as with mounting haste Palmer opens bag after bag, till their contents make a huge pile in front of him. It is money, heap upon heap of it, and behind this colossal mound of Mammon Palmer sits. His eyes gleam with miserly job as he runs his fingers again and again through the heap of bills, stroking them with a tenderness most men reserve for the more beautiful members of the feminine sex. Misplaced or not, however, Palmer's main affection in life is clearly shown on his face.

Palmer's gleeful cackles break the silence as he starts to divide the money into piles of different denominations. "What a racket! What a racket! Crackpot appeal is really the thing. Look at the money, loads of it and more pouring in. Haw!Haw! How even crackpots can believe the Shaver mystery is beyond me. Ah, there's nothing like running a magazine -- that is, if you know how and have the brains like I got." With this Palmer sticks his thumbs under his lapels and leans back, choleric chinless face set in an expression of supreme self-satisfaction.

Glancing at the money, Palmer grows apprehensive, but with a look at the gun in an opened desk drawer, his last caution vanishes. He gives himself up completely to a joyous revel of feeling and snapping his money. Thenext hour sees him counting and counting till he is fairly cuddling the money.

Perhaps if Palmer had not been so preoccupied over the counting of his hundred dollar bills he would have heard the slight sounds that bring him shock upright in his chair, staring with bulging eyes at what he sees before him. "No! No! You don't exist! You're not true

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AT PALMER'S DESK: or, THE WISH FULFILLMENT DREAM OF A FAN by H. Elliott Miller The long corridors of the Ziff-Davis editorial offices are empty. The scrubwoman, her tasks completed, has left long ago. Only the black expanse of darkened and deserted offices meets the eyes as a far-away clock slowly chimes three times. It is three o'clock in the morning. As the muted chimes die away, there is a fumbling at the main door. A figure enters, relocks the door, and walks into the largest of the offices. It sits down in a desk chair and snaps on the lights. It's a....a...no, despite the face, it's not a dero obsessed with the idea of seducing the linotypers away from their allegiance to Amazing. It's only Palmer. But what can Palmer want at this time of night? We see his fingers travel over the side of the editorial desk, find what they are looking for, and press it. A framed cover painting suddenly moves to one side, exposing a wall safe. With feverish fingers Palmer opens it and stacks the bags it contains on the desk. With bated breath he sits down and slowly, oh how slowly and carefully, starts to open one. The bag is emptied on the desk and placed aside as with mounting haste Palmer opens bag after bag, till their contents make a huge pile in front of him. It is money, heap upon heap of it, and behind this colossal mound of Mammon Palmer sits. His eyes gleam with miserly job as he runs his fingers again and again through the heap of bills, stroking them with a tenderness most men reserve for the more beautiful members of the feminine sex. Misplaced or not, however, Palmer's main affection in life is clearly shown on his face. Palmer's gleeful cackles break the silence as he starts to divide the money into piles of different denominations. "What a racket! What a racket! Crackpot appeal is really the thing. Look at the money, loads of it and more pouring in. Haw!Haw! How even crackpots can believe the Shaver mystery is beyond me. Ah, there's nothing like running a magazine -- that is, if you know how and have the brains like I got." With this Palmer sticks his thumbs under his lapels and leans back, choleric chinless face set in an expression of supreme self-satisfaction. Glancing at the money, Palmer grows apprehensive, but with a look at the gun in an opened desk drawer, his last caution vanishes. He gives himself up completely to a joyous revel of feeling and snapping his money. Thenext hour sees him counting and counting till he is fairly cuddling the money. Perhaps if Palmer had not been so preoccupied over the counting of his hundred dollar bills he would have heard the slight sounds that bring him shock upright in his chair, staring with bulging eyes at what he sees before him. "No! No! You don't exist! You're not true