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Milty's Mag, June 1941

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Milty's Mag                          page four
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vention ever to be held......."

   "Point of order! Point of order!" Cries arose from all sides. "Quiet!" the chairman ordered, slapping Thompson into his chair long distance, with a pressor ray. "You are somewhat premature."

   Who would be next to propose the convention place? Who would dare. all remembered the last convention, where five had been slain, and many wounded in more or less horrible ways, all because of disagreement on the convention location. Eyes turned expectantly to a corner of the room. "Be brave. Be brave." It was Speer talking to himself. He finally built up enough courage to rise. "Your honor, please, president, Mr. Chairman, sir," he faintly uttered. "I would like to suggest for the next convention the location of Comanche, Oklahoma."

   He sat down abruptly, while the audience cheered. The look on his face was somewhat expectant, somewhat fearful, and somewhat like the thing the cat refused to drag in. Every year it had been like this. Every year tragedy and heartbreak. Always he would try to get the next convention at Comanche, Oklahoma, and always some other place would win.

    But ... what was this? "Are there any other suggestions?" the chairman was saying, and the audience was very loudly silent. So: "It is unanimously accepted that Comenche, Oklahoma, will be the meeting-place of the next convention."

   Oh joy, oh glory, oh foo. At last, the convention will be held in Comanche, Oklahoma. In gratitude, Speer gave his very special, wildest war dance, a procedure which might have gone on indefinitely, had it not been for the request of a dozen or so conventioneers, who induced him to desist by sitting on him for the remainder of the meeting.

   "Business completed," said the chairman, we will now proceed to the entertainment, which, of course, is what you have been waiting for. After all, what is the convention but an exhibition to show your friends, whom you see but once a year at these gatherings, what you can do, and what you have done. We do creative work during the year: in literature, art, and science, and we come together here to share our creations with the other science fiction fans. That is the sole purpose of an organization such as ours." 

   The lights were dimmed, and a single, narrow beam angled down from above to make a small circle on the stage. Lowndes was standing there. He had discarded his robot costume, and was dressed in a dirty torn, spaceman's suit. He stood stooped, and his expression was haggard.

   "There is a sun up there, he said, and his voice was weary. "But that sun is dark, and I didn't see it when I came out here past Procyon, where there shouldn't be any star. It is

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Milty's Mag page four ________________________________________ vention ever to be held......." "Point of order! Point of order!" Cries arose from all sides. "Quiet!" the chairman ordered, slapping Thompson into his chair long distance, with a pressor ray. "You are somewhat premature." Who would be next to propose the convention place? Who would dare. all remembered the last convention, where five had been slain, and many wounded in more or less horrible ways, all because of disagreement on the convention location. Eyes turned expectantly to a corner of the room. "Be brave. Be brave." It was Speer talking to himself. He finally built up enough courage to rise. "Your honor, please, president, Mr. Chairman, sir," he faintly uttered. "I would like to suggest for the next convention the location of Comanche, Oklahoma." He sat down abruptly, while the audience cheered. The look on his face was somewhat expectant, somewhat fearful, and somewhat like the thing the cat refused to drag in. Every year it had been like this. Every year tragedy and heartbreak. Always he would try to get the next convention at Comanche, Oklahoma, and always some other place would win. But ... what was this? "Are there any other suggestions?" the chairman was saying, and the audience was very loudly silent. So: "It is unanimously accepted that Comenche, Oklahoma, will be the meeting-place of the next convention." Oh joy, oh glory, oh foo. At last, the convention will be held in Comanche, Oklahoma. In gratitude, Speer gave his very special, wildest war dance, a procedure which might have gone on indefinitely, had it not been for the request of a dozen or so conventioneers, who induced him to desist by sitting on him for the remainder of the meeting. "Business completed," said the chairman, we will now proceed to the entertainment, which, of course, is what you have been waiting for. After all, what is the convention but an exhibition to show your friends, whom you see but once a year at these gatherings, what you can do, and what you have done. We do creative work during the year: in literature, art, and science, and we come together here to share our creations with the other science fiction fans. That is the sole purpose of an organization such as ours." The lights were dimmed, and a single, narrow beam angled down from above to make a small circle on the stage. Lowndes was standing there. He had discarded his robot costume, and was dressed in a dirty torn, spaceman's suit. He stood stooped, and his expression was haggard. "There is a sun up there, he said, and his voice was weary. "But that sun is dark, and I didn't see it when I came out here past Procyon, where there shouldn't be any star. It is