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Fantasia, v. 1, issue 3, July 1941
Page 8
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8 FANTASIA THE HYPOTHETICAL PEOPLE By NICK KENEALY "Between him and the battered space-caraval the angry brown mob milled in insane fury. He could have burned his way through, but the thought of turning his heat-gun on the frenzied savages was somehow revolting. Why could they not accept him for what he was -- a messenger of peace? Why did he have to kill or killed?" The earnest young man with the bushy hair looked around with some self-satisfaction. "You see what I mean. The story has everything. That is why I vote for 'Ship of Hope' as the best stfiction story of the year." "Yeah, science-fiction. Every time some hack-writer gets his favorite thud-and-blunder yarn rejected, he sticks in a rocket-ship and a couple of hyper-dimensional ray-guns and calls it stfiction. And always our misunderstood heroic pioneer finds humans!" The red-headed member always managed to get his opinions in loud enough and fast enough to be at least one sentence ahead of the mob. But a vociferous verbal blitzkrieg prevented him from further elaborating. Whether the Desert Stfans, in regular meeting, agreed or disagreed, they did it violently. Only a very sharp-eyed student of mob-psychology could have connected enough coherent statements to ascertain that the consensus was for Red and against Fuzzy. The Director banged on the table with his gavel, without any appreciable result; so he banged some more. Finally, after several minutes of frantic hammering, he did achieve a tangible result. He broke the gavel. Past experience came to his rescue. He sat still and waited for the verbal melee to break down into individual dog-fights. At last order was restored. "Never saw such a mercurial bunch in my life," he growled. "You make more noise agreeing than a crowd of Jovian Goo-Goos on the war-path. Now let's talk one at a time. You seem to be first, Curley." The stout, bald member arose. "My voice isn't loud enough to rise above our own particular brand of public opinion; but, now that I have the floor, I'd like to put in with Fuzzy. I think he has picked a winner. While you guys and gals have been sounding off, I have been doing a bit of quick reading. I even found some first-class literature here." He dug around in his dog-eared magazine and finally stopped on a page more battered than the rest. "The flickering campfire highlighted her tawny skin, making it appear as burnished gold as it caught and reflected the ever-changing moods of the flames. It made a
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8 FANTASIA THE HYPOTHETICAL PEOPLE By NICK KENEALY "Between him and the battered space-caraval the angry brown mob milled in insane fury. He could have burned his way through, but the thought of turning his heat-gun on the frenzied savages was somehow revolting. Why could they not accept him for what he was -- a messenger of peace? Why did he have to kill or killed?" The earnest young man with the bushy hair looked around with some self-satisfaction. "You see what I mean. The story has everything. That is why I vote for 'Ship of Hope' as the best stfiction story of the year." "Yeah, science-fiction. Every time some hack-writer gets his favorite thud-and-blunder yarn rejected, he sticks in a rocket-ship and a couple of hyper-dimensional ray-guns and calls it stfiction. And always our misunderstood heroic pioneer finds humans!" The red-headed member always managed to get his opinions in loud enough and fast enough to be at least one sentence ahead of the mob. But a vociferous verbal blitzkrieg prevented him from further elaborating. Whether the Desert Stfans, in regular meeting, agreed or disagreed, they did it violently. Only a very sharp-eyed student of mob-psychology could have connected enough coherent statements to ascertain that the consensus was for Red and against Fuzzy. The Director banged on the table with his gavel, without any appreciable result; so he banged some more. Finally, after several minutes of frantic hammering, he did achieve a tangible result. He broke the gavel. Past experience came to his rescue. He sat still and waited for the verbal melee to break down into individual dog-fights. At last order was restored. "Never saw such a mercurial bunch in my life," he growled. "You make more noise agreeing than a crowd of Jovian Goo-Goos on the war-path. Now let's talk one at a time. You seem to be first, Curley." The stout, bald member arose. "My voice isn't loud enough to rise above our own particular brand of public opinion; but, now that I have the floor, I'd like to put in with Fuzzy. I think he has picked a winner. While you guys and gals have been sounding off, I have been doing a bit of quick reading. I even found some first-class literature here." He dug around in his dog-eared magazine and finally stopped on a page more battered than the rest. "The flickering campfire highlighted her tawny skin, making it appear as burnished gold as it caught and reflected the ever-changing moods of the flames. It made a
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