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Fantasia, v. 1, issue 1, January 1941
Page 7
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FANTASIA 7 God smilingly receives and accepts the adulation of the mob; The Saviour of North America clicks his heels and salutes, and hears the answering roar of clicked heels and sees the answering flash of extended arms; John Barton, the shiny buttons on his bright blue uniform rivalling the sun in intensity of brilliance, stands beneath the glare of white arc-lights and surveys the clamoring masses in the hall. Blue of the army, blue-green of the fliers, white of the navy. John Barton steps, stiff as a ramrod, up to the rostrum. "God is with me!" he shouts. The mob thunders. The Scientist leans over the battered table. He steps back to observe the hexagonal wooden frame with its crazily criss-crossing cotton threads, and the dry battery, transformer, and rheostat connected in series, and the tuning fork mounted atop the wooden frame. The Scientist speaks softly into the tiny radio mike in his lapel, and the midget transmitter in his coat pocket flings ultra short waves over the intervening space between the dingy room and the great hall. "I'm ready," the Scientist says. "It is trained on the rostrum. When you say the word, I'll turn on the current..." Dimly, in his ear, a tinny voice replies: "He is on the rostrum now. Beginning the speech. Go ahead!" "God is in me!" screams Barton. "I am the personification and the Saviour! I am destined to sweep the world before me!" The assembled multitude shouts wildly. "My people will be the Master Race! My people shall rule until the end of time! The battle we are fighting now against the degenerate sub-humans of South America is only the beginning! The whole world, the whole corrupt mass of scum and iniquity, is shaking like jelly with fear -- and well it may! For it is my destiny and my sacred mission to civilize --- " John Barton stops short, his tongue gagging his throat. His mouth is dry and sticky with saliva. His breath rasps and his eyes start from his head. He feels the hairs on his neck rise while shudders wrack his body...Not two feet in front of him is a monstrosity out of a dream. Himself! Himself in mangled duplicate. A terrible shape of madness with two heads partially joined together, a bloated travesty of a body with extra arms projecting bloodily from its chest, four twisted legs. Two bright blue uniforms with shiny buttons -- conjoined, tattered. A red horror of two identical bodies smeared together in one mass...The thing spouts blood and ichor in frothy streams, and topples at his feet... John Barton feels a buzzing, racing pain. His head whirls. Now the hall is a bedlam of sound. Black uniformed police are rushing to the rostrum. They stand over the limp, bleeding monster, hesitant. With a tremendous effort, John Barton clears his tongue of the spittle that binds it, focuses his glazed eyes on the police. "Take...take it away..." he chokes. An aide rushes to his side. Barton waves him away. "I'll go on...All right, I tell you..." The Scientist deftly connects the ends of his electrical circuit to the hexagonal wooden frame, and binds the remaining battery terminal. The tuning fork atop the frame shivers. It blurs, emitting a faint tone. Now the tone is stronger. The criss-crossing cotton threads in the frame hazily vibrate. They vanish. In their place is only a tension of unimaginable force, cyclonic, but harnessed. There is a force so tremendous that it could not exist save in an intangible form. The Scientist turns to the rheostat. With a sudden twist, he swings the lever around its arc. "Goodbye, God." he says, and disconnects the wires. John Barton stumbles distractedly over his own words. Frantically, he tries to take up the threads of his address where he dropped them. The police have removed the thing, and only a pool of deep red remains. The mob is still murmuring and
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FANTASIA 7 God smilingly receives and accepts the adulation of the mob; The Saviour of North America clicks his heels and salutes, and hears the answering roar of clicked heels and sees the answering flash of extended arms; John Barton, the shiny buttons on his bright blue uniform rivalling the sun in intensity of brilliance, stands beneath the glare of white arc-lights and surveys the clamoring masses in the hall. Blue of the army, blue-green of the fliers, white of the navy. John Barton steps, stiff as a ramrod, up to the rostrum. "God is with me!" he shouts. The mob thunders. The Scientist leans over the battered table. He steps back to observe the hexagonal wooden frame with its crazily criss-crossing cotton threads, and the dry battery, transformer, and rheostat connected in series, and the tuning fork mounted atop the wooden frame. The Scientist speaks softly into the tiny radio mike in his lapel, and the midget transmitter in his coat pocket flings ultra short waves over the intervening space between the dingy room and the great hall. "I'm ready," the Scientist says. "It is trained on the rostrum. When you say the word, I'll turn on the current..." Dimly, in his ear, a tinny voice replies: "He is on the rostrum now. Beginning the speech. Go ahead!" "God is in me!" screams Barton. "I am the personification and the Saviour! I am destined to sweep the world before me!" The assembled multitude shouts wildly. "My people will be the Master Race! My people shall rule until the end of time! The battle we are fighting now against the degenerate sub-humans of South America is only the beginning! The whole world, the whole corrupt mass of scum and iniquity, is shaking like jelly with fear -- and well it may! For it is my destiny and my sacred mission to civilize --- " John Barton stops short, his tongue gagging his throat. His mouth is dry and sticky with saliva. His breath rasps and his eyes start from his head. He feels the hairs on his neck rise while shudders wrack his body...Not two feet in front of him is a monstrosity out of a dream. Himself! Himself in mangled duplicate. A terrible shape of madness with two heads partially joined together, a bloated travesty of a body with extra arms projecting bloodily from its chest, four twisted legs. Two bright blue uniforms with shiny buttons -- conjoined, tattered. A red horror of two identical bodies smeared together in one mass...The thing spouts blood and ichor in frothy streams, and topples at his feet... John Barton feels a buzzing, racing pain. His head whirls. Now the hall is a bedlam of sound. Black uniformed police are rushing to the rostrum. They stand over the limp, bleeding monster, hesitant. With a tremendous effort, John Barton clears his tongue of the spittle that binds it, focuses his glazed eyes on the police. "Take...take it away..." he chokes. An aide rushes to his side. Barton waves him away. "I'll go on...All right, I tell you..." The Scientist deftly connects the ends of his electrical circuit to the hexagonal wooden frame, and binds the remaining battery terminal. The tuning fork atop the frame shivers. It blurs, emitting a faint tone. Now the tone is stronger. The criss-crossing cotton threads in the frame hazily vibrate. They vanish. In their place is only a tension of unimaginable force, cyclonic, but harnessed. There is a force so tremendous that it could not exist save in an intangible form. The Scientist turns to the rheostat. With a sudden twist, he swings the lever around its arc. "Goodbye, God." he says, and disconnects the wires. John Barton stumbles distractedly over his own words. Frantically, he tries to take up the threads of his address where he dropped them. The police have removed the thing, and only a pool of deep red remains. The mob is still murmuring and
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