DIY History | Transcribe | Hevelin Fanzines | Fantasite, v. 2, issue 4, November-December 1942

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Fantasite, v. 2, issue 4, November-December 1942

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6.............................THE FANTASITE

Knight, had the bomb missed the church on 8th Street--the night John would have died with her had not the blackout detained him.
And then whirrrr whirrrr into hell and horror for thirty years. First the Japanese, with superior planes and science and incredible fanaticism, got Australia and India and some of Siberia. Then the Allies desperately pushed the reconquest of Europe, only to lose more men and supplies against the stubbornly retreating Nazis than the latter had in Russia, and to find that the long-promised massacres and destruction wreaked by the Germans made the reconquered territories a barren waste.
And whirrr whirrr into the grim reality of defeat after defeat, with you and your friends all gone into the army and millions fighting and dying in burning oil-covered waters or smoking tanks, and your life, your hopes, your little plans, all swept into the huge maelstrom.
And the White Man, proud and smug, was gutted and beaten and shamed by the Japanese. And three decades of twelve-hour-a-day labor, with all lost out of life, and everything half-halting in an unsure stalemate while Western science finally caught up, with only the America's relatively inviolate.
And this crashing, spinning kaleidoscope all funneled down into the silence and calmness of a cloudy California night with a languid wind playing through the observatory slit, and soft crowned breakers dashing onto a humid shore.
For a moment Old Foster thought of bygone days of Ford V-8s, and silly things like jitter-bugging and Jack Benny, and a song he recalled, "Who Wouldn't Love You," and kids singing songs along the Coast Highway, and a certain night with a hazy moon over the palasides, and an old wreck of a Nash and a drive-in and college songs.
And then a bell started to clang ding clang ding clang ding ding, and all he could see was that cold white panel and the red dot and the hard, grim tenseness of a world behind blood-soaked barricades.
"What--" General Renault grated.
Old Foster pushed another button.
"I'm checking, Sir." said the man above them in the girders.
The breeze came up a bit and carried the salt tang into the Dome. 
Clang ding clang ding clang ding ding--
Old Foster grew nervous and tense and almost lay on the panel, so close did he bend, as he pressed more buttons and stepped on some pedal levers. The red dot crossed over a green-eddy mark, and the dinging ceased.
For an hour it continued toward the etched square. 
Silently a staff car slipped up to the Dome, and several more officers entered through the slit and stood around at a respectful distance. Then the dot crossed the square, and a blue light at the top of the mechanism went on. 
General Paul Renault put a heavy hand on Old Foster's back. He looked out of the slit at the monochrome and the tense, silent world beyond. His misting eyes saw his men, his boys, whom he had directed around the world and seen killed and maimed, and his life, his race, with its best and its loved lying at its feet fighting grimly with a dark future.
"The beam is checking properly, sir," said the control man at the top of the Dome.
"Watch the intensity dials," Old Foster chanted.
Beep, beep, beep! quaint and out of place from somewhere in the girders.
The red dot slowly sat on the hairlines within the etched square, and then it was at the center.
Old Foster's hand tightened on a white button. The instrument panel was suddenly dark.
General Paul Renault lifted his eyes to the ragged clouds that streaked across the California sky.
"Gentlemen," he said with difficulty, "the war is over."
For several seconds the Dome was utterly silent, save fore the soft whisper of the wind in the observatory aperture and the was of the eternal ocean across the sands.

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6.............................THE FANTASITE Knight, had the bomb missed the church on 8th Street--the night John would have died with her had not the blackout detained him. And then whirrrr whirrrr into hell and horror for thirty years. First the Japanese, with superior planes and science and incredible fanaticism, got Australia and India and some of Siberia. Then the Allies desperately pushed the reconquest of Europe, only to lose more men and supplies against the stubbornly retreating Nazis than the latter had in Russia, and to find that the long-promised massacres and destruction wreaked by the Germans made the reconquered territories a barren waste. And whirrr whirrr into the grim reality of defeat after defeat, with you and your friends all gone into the army and millions fighting and dying in burning oil-covered waters or smoking tanks, and your life, your hopes, your little plans, all swept into the huge maelstrom. And the White Man, proud and smug, was gutted and beaten and shamed by the Japanese. And three decades of twelve-hour-a-day labor, with all lost out of life, and everything half-halting in an unsure stalemate while Western science finally caught up, with only the America's relatively inviolate. And this crashing, spinning kaleidoscope all funneled down into the silence and calmness of a cloudy California night with a languid wind playing through the observatory slit, and soft crowned breakers dashing onto a humid shore. For a moment Old Foster thought of bygone days of Ford V-8s, and silly things like jitter-bugging and Jack Benny, and a song he recalled, "Who Wouldn't Love You," and kids singing songs along the Coast Highway, and a certain night with a hazy moon over the palasides, and an old wreck of a Nash and a drive-in and college songs. And then a bell started to clang ding clang ding clang ding ding, and all he could see was that cold white panel and the red dot and the hard, grim tenseness of a world behind blood-soaked barricades. "What--" General Renault grated. Old Foster pushed another button. "I'm checking, Sir." said the man above them in the girders. The breeze came up a bit and carried the salt tang into the Dome. Clang ding clang ding clang ding ding-- Old Foster grew nervous and tense and almost lay on the panel, so close did he bend, as he pressed more buttons and stepped on some pedal levers. The red dot crossed over a green-eddy mark, and the dinging ceased. For an hour it continued toward the etched square. Silently a staff car slipped up to the Dome, and several more officers entered through the slit and stood around at a respectful distance. Then the dot crossed the square, and a blue light at the top of the mechanism went on. General Paul Renault put a heavy hand on Old Foster's back. He looked out of the slit at the monochrome and the tense, silent world beyond. His misting eyes saw his men, his boys, whom he had directed around the world and seen killed and maimed, and his life, his race, with its best and its loved lying at its feet fighting grimly with a dark future. "The beam is checking properly, sir," said the control man at the top of the Dome. "Watch the intensity dials," Old Foster chanted. Beep, beep, beep! quaint and out of place from somewhere in the girders. The red dot slowly sat on the hairlines within the etched square, and then it was at the center. Old Foster's hand tightened on a white button. The instrument panel was suddenly dark. General Paul Renault lifted his eyes to the ragged clouds that streaked across the California sky. "Gentlemen," he said with difficulty, "the war is over." For several seconds the Dome was utterly silent, save fore the soft whisper of the wind in the observatory aperture and the was of the eternal ocean across the sands.