DIY History | Transcribe | Hevelin Fanzines | Fantascience Digest, v. 3, issue 1, whole no. 12, January-February 1940

Transcribe
Translate

Fantascience Digest, v. 3, issue 1, whole no. 12, January-February 1940

Page 7

FANTASCIENCE DIGEST                  Page 7

machine. The starter was snapped, and the motot ground. It was dry after so many years, so he supplied oil. 

   Then the music started, and everything else stopped.

   That was some music. It snapped him to attention with four sharp chords, twice repeated, and then it flowed up and down, and it roared and it whispered, and it held all the power of the universe within its form.

   That was good music. How he knew it was good music, he couldn't tell, for he had never heard good music before. Good music had never been written in his world, when the sum total of his civilization was destruction. But he, somehow, had known he would recognize it when he heard it. Now he was hearing it, and it couldn't be anything else. It was the meat and wine -- it roared through him and filled up the empty space. 

   Who wrote the music? Who cared? What did it matter that a deaf madman named Beethoven had conceived it and called it the Symphony number Five? Names meant nothing, and it told no story.

   There were other spools. There was slow, massive music of harmonies that shook the walls. There was quiet music that held a peace that transcended understanding. There was exciting music that brought the emotions to a boil and set the breath quickening. 

   He sat and listened, and the world was forgotten, and all the problems were solved, and all sorrows were nothing. Then he began to feel that something start to happen, and he knew that this time if he sat at his organ that thing would happen, and the music that he would make would be what he had wanted all that time.
                 (next column)

   The tape stopped, and he stood up. He must go to his organ. He had to play. He had to make that marvelous music himself. He couldn't wait any longer, for all the time that was the thing that kept almost happening, and never did. Now it would, and he hungered for it.

   The General came back. "What was all that noise?"

   It wrenched Lieutenant J back from the other world. It wrenched him back so abruptly and cruelly that he could not believe it. The soaring wave crashed upon the rock, and its dissolution was too much to bear. 

   "Come on," the General turned to go. "It's time to start the test."

   Lieutenant J left the wreck and moved off with the General. He didn't want to go. He didn't want to go with the General; he wanted to stay and play his organ and make for himself that marvelous music that he had just heard, but he had to go, and that was all there was to it.

   He entered the mole and the vibration started as it went forward, and he felt the monstroud power of the machine in the wheel he held and saw it in the lines of the metal. Forces blasted and gears churned, and the mole beat for itself a tunnel through the rock of Venus. Ahead he was to go for ten miles, with a gradual slope to the east, and when he got there he would rise up in the midst of the enemy post, and he would wipe it out. At least, that is what it said on thr orders.

   The roars and the grinding and the pounding filled the mole, but in his j head, an in all the emptiness of his body that it had filled, the music still went on and on.

Saving...

FANTASCIENCE DIGEST Page 7 machine. The starter was snapped, and the motot ground. It was dry after so many years, so he supplied oil. Then the music started, and everything else stopped. That was some music. It snapped him to attention with four sharp chords, twice repeated, and then it flowed up and down, and it roared and it whispered, and it held all the power of the universe within its form. That was good music. How he knew it was good music, he couldn't tell, for he had never heard good music before. Good music had never been written in his world, when the sum total of his civilization was destruction. But he, somehow, had known he would recognize it when he heard it. Now he was hearing it, and it couldn't be anything else. It was the meat and wine -- it roared through him and filled up the empty space. Who wrote the music? Who cared? What did it matter that a deaf madman named Beethoven had conceived it and called it the Symphony number Five? Names meant nothing, and it told no story. There were other spools. There was slow, massive music of harmonies that shook the walls. There was quiet music that held a peace that transcended understanding. There was exciting music that brought the emotions to a boil and set the breath quickening. He sat and listened, and the world was forgotten, and all the problems were solved, and all sorrows were nothing. Then he began to feel that something start to happen, and he knew that this time if he sat at his organ that thing would happen, and the music that he would make would be what he had wanted all that time. (next column) The tape stopped, and he stood up. He must go to his organ. He had to play. He had to make that marvelous music himself. He couldn't wait any longer, for all the time that was the thing that kept almost happening, and never did. Now it would, and he hungered for it. The General came back. "What was all that noise?" It wrenched Lieutenant J back from the other world. It wrenched him back so abruptly and cruelly that he could not believe it. The soaring wave crashed upon the rock, and its dissolution was too much to bear. "Come on," the General turned to go. "It's time to start the test." Lieutenant J left the wreck and moved off with the General. He didn't want to go. He didn't want to go with the General; he wanted to stay and play his organ and make for himself that marvelous music that he had just heard, but he had to go, and that was all there was to it. He entered the mole and the vibration started as it went forward, and he felt the monstroud power of the machine in the wheel he held and saw it in the lines of the metal. Forces blasted and gears churned, and the mole beat for itself a tunnel through the rock of Venus. Ahead he was to go for ten miles, with a gradual slope to the east, and when he got there he would rise up in the midst of the enemy post, and he would wipe it out. At least, that is what it said on thr orders. The roars and the grinding and the pounding filled the mole, but in his j head, an in all the emptiness of his body that it had filled, the music still went on and on.