DIY History | Transcribe | Hevelin Fanzines | Le Zombie, v. 4, issue 8, whole no. 43, October 1941

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Le Zombie, v. 4, issue 8, whole no. 43, October 1941

Page 5

[page] 5
INTERVIEW WITH DR. TUCKER, AUTHOR OF CLASSIC(S) (!?) by PonG

(Foreword: in the days of yore when the flowers of fandom were but green buds, and fan magazines could be counted on the fingers of one hand-- omitting the thumb and little finger-- interviews with big shot authors were the order of the day. Nearly every issue of every fanzine devoted hundreds of words to some professional of the moment. Interviews were sacred things. The reporters approached the great-god-author with awesome respect, maintained a hardly-breathing attitude thru-out, and faithfully reported every pearl of wisdom that fell from his one-cent-a-word lips.

Dr Tucker, having "turned pro" to quote a popular news weekly early in the year with one published short story, waited ever so patiently for many many moons (and a couple of suns) for that knock at the door. None came. In desperation (wanting to lay the fantastic story of his career before the collective, bloodshot eye of fandom), he turned to Pong.

Transport yourself please, back to the past; back to the fandom of some years ago. You have just received the latest issue of Science Fiction Digest. (Be sure to save it. T'will be worth money up in 1941.) You know in advance you will meet, in print, some great science fiction personage. Here we go:)

Verily trembling with ill-concealed eagerness and yet with a soft, respectful tread, your humble reporter crossed the magic threshold and walked into the room. The Great Man's writing room. As I stood there drinking in the eerie beauty of that place, I felt as tho I were intruding upon the privacy of some macabre Power! The uppermost thought in my mind was this: here, in this very room, was penned that great epic, "Interstellar Way-Station"! What memories these hallowed walls held!

The Great Man glanced up from his busy, paper-strewn desk. I was reassured and comforted by the merry twinkle in his eye (the glass one), and the kindly, welcoming smile on his care-worn face. Nevertheless it may be confessed I was embarrassed. He didn't seem to be aware tobacco juice was trickling down his chin onto his tie.

"Spflrsk?" he said.

In that one second, with that one word, he made me completely at home! I visibly relaxed, nodded happily at my good fortune, and at his kind invitation sat down beside him. The chair was rather small but he generously shared half of it. Somehow I didn't trust myself to speak for fear of profaning this shrine of classic literature, this... glorious fountain-room of science fiction masterpieces. Before me on the paper-strewn desk rested the very typewriter from which had sprung those compelling, one-cent words! How I feasted my eyes on the machine!

And then, I suddenly remembered my reason for being here, my mission. "Dr Tucker," I said timidly, "... can I bum a cigaret from you?" The choicest buttsy in a desk drawer was offered me. I thought of you, dear readers, and wondered how much you'd give to exchange places with me at that moment as I lit the cigaret butt and it exploded.

"Dr Tucker," I began anew, "tell me something of your work, how you came to write that story." There was no need of me to mention *which* story. It was the only one he had been able to sell.

"Wait'll put m'teef in," he mumbled, and plucking his teeth from a nearby water glass, slipped them into his mouth.
(over)

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[page] 5 INTERVIEW WITH DR. TUCKER, AUTHOR OF CLASSIC(S) (!?) by PonG (Foreword: in the days of yore when the flowers of fandom were but green buds, and fan magazines could be counted on the fingers of one hand-- omitting the thumb and little finger-- interviews with big shot authors were the order of the day. Nearly every issue of every fanzine devoted hundreds of words to some professional of the moment. Interviews were sacred things. The reporters approached the great-god-author with awesome respect, maintained a hardly-breathing attitude thru-out, and faithfully reported every pearl of wisdom that fell from his one-cent-a-word lips. Dr Tucker, having "turned pro" to quote a popular news weekly early in the year with one published short story, waited ever so patiently for many many moons (and a couple of suns) for that knock at the door. None came. In desperation (wanting to lay the fantastic story of his career before the collective, bloodshot eye of fandom), he turned to Pong. Transport yourself please, back to the past; back to the fandom of some years ago. You have just received the latest issue of Science Fiction Digest. (Be sure to save it. T'will be worth money up in 1941.) You know in advance you will meet, in print, some great science fiction personage. Here we go:) Verily trembling with ill-concealed eagerness and yet with a soft, respectful tread, your humble reporter crossed the magic threshold and walked into the room. The Great Man's writing room. As I stood there drinking in the eerie beauty of that place, I felt as tho I were intruding upon the privacy of some macabre Power! The uppermost thought in my mind was this: here, in this very room, was penned that great epic, "Interstellar Way-Station"! What memories these hallowed walls held! The Great Man glanced up from his busy, paper-strewn desk. I was reassured and comforted by the merry twinkle in his eye (the glass one), and the kindly, welcoming smile on his care-worn face. Nevertheless it may be confessed I was embarrassed. He didn't seem to be aware tobacco juice was trickling down his chin onto his tie. "Spflrsk?" he said. In that one second, with that one word, he made me completely at home! I visibly relaxed, nodded happily at my good fortune, and at his kind invitation sat down beside him. The chair was rather small but he generously shared half of it. Somehow I didn't trust myself to speak for fear of profaning this shrine of classic literature, this... glorious fountain-room of science fiction masterpieces. Before me on the paper-strewn desk rested the very typewriter from which had sprung those compelling, one-cent words! How I feasted my eyes on the machine! And then, I suddenly remembered my reason for being here, my mission. "Dr Tucker," I said timidly, "... can I bum a cigaret from you?" The choicest buttsy in a desk drawer was offered me. I thought of you, dear readers, and wondered how much you'd give to exchange places with me at that moment as I lit the cigaret butt and it exploded. "Dr Tucker," I began anew, "tell me something of your work, how you came to write that story." There was no need of me to mention *which* story. It was the only one he had been able to sell. "Wait'll put m'teef in," he mumbled, and plucking his teeth from a nearby water glass, slipped them into his mouth. (over)