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Fantasia, v. 1, issue 3, July 1941

Page 12

12
FANTASIA

plasm and animated engine-rooms for what dire purposes we'll never know. Although a few bits of uninhibited cheesecake still pop up -- you know the type: formidable females, generally imprisoned in large test-tubes, with spouts of steam or mechanical doo-jiggers intercepting the mélange in just the right spots for satisfaction of the U.S. Postal Laws and Regulations -- on the whole, this sort of unsportsmanlike exploitation of sex seems about played out.

But we reformists have one very promising sphere of evangelical activity left. It lies in in the ruthless debunking of the big, black, unsavory absurdities invariably connected with the sex-element as presented in our magazines. Here are plenty of windmills for us to buck, so let's have at them briefly.

Science-fiction villains are a source of never-ending wonder to my admittedly unenterprising mind. They are terribly brilliant and largely insane. They either covet absolute rule of the Earth, or are quite seriously determined to blow the whole damn planet to hell and gone. I submit that the latter obsession, while perhaps not entirely laudable, can at least be viewed with a certain degree of sympathetic understanding if one is objective about it.

Now while huge masses of brilliant villains lay their catastrophic plans with diabolic cunning, and totter to the very brink of success, they generally discard that magnificent gray-matter of theirs at the critical moment -- and go chasing around after the heroine! Unsatisfactory, highly unsatisfactory. A villain bent on destruction of Earth would undoubtedly intend to obliterate womankind in the bargain, hence it would be singularly uninterested in the physical assets of the heroine -- who, after all, is just another wench playing hooky from washing dishes and darning the hero's socks. On the other hand, the villain who merely wants to dominate this world not, if he is smart as he's cracked up to be, jeopardize his colossal project by pursuing the heroine lustfully. Once the Earth is under his heel, he could have fifteen harems, if his inclinations ran along those lines.

But the villain always harasses the heroine, thus goading the perspiring hero on to prodigious feats for the salvation of his beloved (he's a dope, too). Result: the villain and his fiendish plottings come crashing down in ruins. Let's have a logical villains in the future.

We have not yet reached the nadir of nausea. The science-fiction heroine -- a cast-iron creature endowed with a limitless capacity for getting into trouble from which she must be extricated, a chilled-steel neural system and a grim resolve to suffer death before dishonor -- is not pursued by human dastards alone. She is also in imminent peril of outrage by the inhabitants of nine planets and twenty nearby star-clusters. The poor girl is fleeing like mad, and hot on her heels -- but incandescently -- come bounding, crawling, slithering, barking e-t monsters. I sometimes suspect that despite the apparent erudition of authors, their mothers never told them. In short, it won't work; you can't argue with chromosomes. And aside from the distantly mechanical aspects, why should the e-t appreciate the human female? His standards of physical beauty are not hers. Reverse the situation. Can you imagine yourself kidnapping a Venusian maiden -- claws and all -- with amorous intent? Ugh!

I won't even mention the half-breeds. Mr. Burroughs, for one, has laid a lot of eggs, but the biggest was undoubtedly that out of which hatched -- yes, hatched -- the lad Carthoris, son of Dejah Thoris (Mars) and John Carter (Earth), both of whom must be thoroughly ashamed of themselves by now.

Another avenue of attack is open. A few progressive authors burst forth with the uncommonly sane postulate that the e-t need not necessarily operate on a bi-sexual basis. One, or any number of sexes might well contribute to the final gruesome product. It is intriguing to speculate that a live-wire love affair on Saturn, say, may resemble nothing so much as a Detroit assembly-line banging away full blast.

One parting admonition, fellow-crusaders. Though the trends are gradually turning with us, let us have our fun like gentlemen. Moderation is vital. Were our future women too realistic, they'd probably never appear in space-ships at all.

And wouldn't that be awful.

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12 FANTASIA plasm and animated engine-rooms for what dire purposes we'll never know. Although a few bits of uninhibited cheesecake still pop up -- you know the type: formidable females, generally imprisoned in large test-tubes, with spouts of steam or mechanical doo-jiggers intercepting the mélange in just the right spots for satisfaction of the U.S. Postal Laws and Regulations -- on the whole, this sort of unsportsmanlike exploitation of sex seems about played out. But we reformists have one very promising sphere of evangelical activity left. It lies in in the ruthless debunking of the big, black, unsavory absurdities invariably connected with the sex-element as presented in our magazines. Here are plenty of windmills for us to buck, so let's have at them briefly. Science-fiction villains are a source of never-ending wonder to my admittedly unenterprising mind. They are terribly brilliant and largely insane. They either covet absolute rule of the Earth, or are quite seriously determined to blow the whole damn planet to hell and gone. I submit that the latter obsession, while perhaps not entirely laudable, can at least be viewed with a certain degree of sympathetic understanding if one is objective about it. Now while huge masses of brilliant villains lay their catastrophic plans with diabolic cunning, and totter to the very brink of success, they generally discard that magnificent gray-matter of theirs at the critical moment -- and go chasing around after the heroine! Unsatisfactory, highly unsatisfactory. A villain bent on destruction of Earth would undoubtedly intend to obliterate womankind in the bargain, hence it would be singularly uninterested in the physical assets of the heroine -- who, after all, is just another wench playing hooky from washing dishes and darning the hero's socks. On the other hand, the villain who merely wants to dominate this world not, if he is smart as he's cracked up to be, jeopardize his colossal project by pursuing the heroine lustfully. Once the Earth is under his heel, he could have fifteen harems, if his inclinations ran along those lines. But the villain always harasses the heroine, thus goading the perspiring hero on to prodigious feats for the salvation of his beloved (he's a dope, too). Result: the villain and his fiendish plottings come crashing down in ruins. Let's have a logical villains in the future. We have not yet reached the nadir of nausea. The science-fiction heroine -- a cast-iron creature endowed with a limitless capacity for getting into trouble from which she must be extricated, a chilled-steel neural system and a grim resolve to suffer death before dishonor -- is not pursued by human dastards alone. She is also in imminent peril of outrage by the inhabitants of nine planets and twenty nearby star-clusters. The poor girl is fleeing like mad, and hot on her heels -- but incandescently -- come bounding, crawling, slithering, barking e-t monsters. I sometimes suspect that despite the apparent erudition of authors, their mothers never told them. In short, it won't work; you can't argue with chromosomes. And aside from the distantly mechanical aspects, why should the e-t appreciate the human female? His standards of physical beauty are not hers. Reverse the situation. Can you imagine yourself kidnapping a Venusian maiden -- claws and all -- with amorous intent? Ugh! I won't even mention the half-breeds. Mr. Burroughs, for one, has laid a lot of eggs, but the biggest was undoubtedly that out of which hatched -- yes, hatched -- the lad Carthoris, son of Dejah Thoris (Mars) and John Carter (Earth), both of whom must be thoroughly ashamed of themselves by now. Another avenue of attack is open. A few progressive authors burst forth with the uncommonly sane postulate that the e-t need not necessarily operate on a bi-sexual basis. One, or any number of sexes might well contribute to the final gruesome product. It is intriguing to speculate that a live-wire love affair on Saturn, say, may resemble nothing so much as a Detroit assembly-line banging away full blast. One parting admonition, fellow-crusaders. Though the trends are gradually turning with us, let us have our fun like gentlemen. Moderation is vital. Were our future women too realistic, they'd probably never appear in space-ships at all. And wouldn't that be awful.