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Fantasia, v. 1, issue 3, July 1941

Page 6

6
FANTASIA

Negan's interview. I took it out of my desk and stated upstairs to the publisher's offices. He was a new publisher. We were just another independent paper bought out for what must have been a fabulous price by a nation-wide syndicate. The syndicate supplied the big bosses, though the editorial staffs remained unchanged.

Well, the managing editor was there ahead of me, and he was talking it over with our new boss. It was some kind of new scheme for advertising the paper.

As I came through the door, the managing editor said to the publisher: "How'd you like to see circulation jump thirty percent?"

The publisher, a little squatty fellow behind a big desk, looked enthusiastic, but his reply was: "It wouldn't make the slightest bit of difference to me."

The managing editor looked dumbfounded. "Don't you care whether we make money or not?" he stammered.

"No," said the publisher.

The managing editor retreated hesitantly toward the door. "Then you don't want me to go ahead on this deal?"


"By all means go ahead." The published nodded vehemently.

"But you said you didn't care --"

"I don't! But go ahead with your idea." The publisher nodded to me, and indicated that the managing editor was dismissed.

I had to think quick. I mumbled something about makeup changes, and got out of that office in record time. Outside, I mopped my face and wrung out the handkerchief in the corridor spittoon. Thank God I found out in time. The new publisher was one of them! Of course he didn't care whether the paper made money or not! His job was just to keep it in line; he was a cog in the gigantic plan of conquest. He was an invader and the syndicate, like practically everything else, was controlled by the invaders.

He couldn't tell a lie when asked a direct question! I almost laughed. If I had shown him Finnegan's story -- if he had found that I, too, knew of the invaders and of their weakness -- then I would have been like Finnegan, a fugitive rat, hunted by night and by day, until death ended my flight. So it was true; all of it.

All this time Finnegan had been whispering in restaurants and pool-rooms. All his money went into the printing of handbills proclaiming the facts. But he was hunted continuously and relentlessly. I think that toward the last he gave up the fight and concentrated on saving his miserable little life.

The plan advanced, grinding the Earth underfoot so gently, so subtly, that no one suspected -- unless there were a few more hunted animals like Finnegan. The cultural life of the planet was taken over completely. The final stage of the conquest began with the Eugenics Program, sponsored by the new World State. It is a success; in the first year of its operation, the normal birthrate for such a period fell off by twenty two percent. The final result is obvious.

All in all, it is a good world we have here. Peace and plenty and time for living. We are more cultured, more civilized than ever. We can enjoy our allotted span of life. It's a good world, but it's not our world any more.

I lit up a cigarette of my own. "No chance of my getting what you're getting." I said to Finnegan. "And believe me, if you'd come out of hiding and try to live like a human being again, you'd be perfectly safe."

"Hah," barked Finnegan.

"Use your brains," I told him. "I know what you know, and I'm in no danger."

"God's sake, use your own brains," he snarled back. "If they suspected that you knew all about them, they'd have you rubbed out -- like that."

I was about out of talk. I got up and put on my hat. "Come on out with me," I said. "You can get protection from the authorities. And you can trust me."

Finnegan turned his back on me and went to the window where he stood toying with the shade. "I can't trust anybody," he said.

I'm glad he turned his back. The pistols they give us are noiseless, and leave no mark. After that I went down the dingy stairs and out into the dark street.

Saving...

6 FANTASIA Negan's interview. I took it out of my desk and stated upstairs to the publisher's offices. He was a new publisher. We were just another independent paper bought out for what must have been a fabulous price by a nation-wide syndicate. The syndicate supplied the big bosses, though the editorial staffs remained unchanged. Well, the managing editor was there ahead of me, and he was talking it over with our new boss. It was some kind of new scheme for advertising the paper. As I came through the door, the managing editor said to the publisher: "How'd you like to see circulation jump thirty percent?" The publisher, a little squatty fellow behind a big desk, looked enthusiastic, but his reply was: "It wouldn't make the slightest bit of difference to me." The managing editor looked dumbfounded. "Don't you care whether we make money or not?" he stammered. "No," said the publisher. The managing editor retreated hesitantly toward the door. "Then you don't want me to go ahead on this deal?" "By all means go ahead." The published nodded vehemently. "But you said you didn't care --" "I don't! But go ahead with your idea." The publisher nodded to me, and indicated that the managing editor was dismissed. I had to think quick. I mumbled something about makeup changes, and got out of that office in record time. Outside, I mopped my face and wrung out the handkerchief in the corridor spittoon. Thank God I found out in time. The new publisher was one of them! Of course he didn't care whether the paper made money or not! His job was just to keep it in line; he was a cog in the gigantic plan of conquest. He was an invader and the syndicate, like practically everything else, was controlled by the invaders. He couldn't tell a lie when asked a direct question! I almost laughed. If I had shown him Finnegan's story -- if he had found that I, too, knew of the invaders and of their weakness -- then I would have been like Finnegan, a fugitive rat, hunted by night and by day, until death ended my flight. So it was true; all of it. All this time Finnegan had been whispering in restaurants and pool-rooms. All his money went into the printing of handbills proclaiming the facts. But he was hunted continuously and relentlessly. I think that toward the last he gave up the fight and concentrated on saving his miserable little life. The plan advanced, grinding the Earth underfoot so gently, so subtly, that no one suspected -- unless there were a few more hunted animals like Finnegan. The cultural life of the planet was taken over completely. The final stage of the conquest began with the Eugenics Program, sponsored by the new World State. It is a success; in the first year of its operation, the normal birthrate for such a period fell off by twenty two percent. The final result is obvious. All in all, it is a good world we have here. Peace and plenty and time for living. We are more cultured, more civilized than ever. We can enjoy our allotted span of life. It's a good world, but it's not our world any more. I lit up a cigarette of my own. "No chance of my getting what you're getting." I said to Finnegan. "And believe me, if you'd come out of hiding and try to live like a human being again, you'd be perfectly safe." "Hah," barked Finnegan. "Use your brains," I told him. "I know what you know, and I'm in no danger." "God's sake, use your own brains," he snarled back. "If they suspected that you knew all about them, they'd have you rubbed out -- like that." I was about out of talk. I got up and put on my hat. "Come on out with me," I said. "You can get protection from the authorities. And you can trust me." Finnegan turned his back on me and went to the window where he stood toying with the shade. "I can't trust anybody," he said. I'm glad he turned his back. The pistols they give us are noiseless, and leave no mark. After that I went down the dingy stairs and out into the dark street.