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Fantasmia, issue 1
Page 2
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Conclusion Doubtful by Tom Jewett "Yeah," Mow Benson protested. "But that don't make no difference. It's all these false premises that you got to watch out for." Moe was seated on a park bench and talking with a short gentleman with a receding hairline and wearing a blue-serge suit. Blue-serge looked as tho he wanted to rest, and possibly sleep, but tall lanky good-natured Moe kept right on talking. "Them electrical brains-" Moe waved idly at a round plastic dome situated just beyond the park, "- can solve any problem once the facts, not inaccuracies but facts, are impressed on them." His blue-serged companion nodded noncommittally. Moe gazed up into the hazy blue afternoon sky and murmured: "Why, I remember one time--" He broke off, reminiscing. After a minute he straightened up and glanced at Blue-serge, who seemed to be in a receptive mood. Rubbing his chin thoughtfully, Moe began: "It started about three years ago. September nineth, 1974, to be exact. I had run into an old school chum of mine who was studying to be an engineer at this university where one of them brains was kept. Well, as things turn out, Jimmy--my friend--invited me over to take a look at the thing. He managed to sneak me past the guard, who was sweet-talking to a co-ed anyway. By and by we got in the room where the brain was. All I could see was a bunch of dials, levers, buttons, meters and signal lights, all set in a wall with a typewriter attached at waist level. Jimmy said that behind the instrument-covered wall was the brain, which was a cyclotron, atomic pile and electrical calculator all in one. "As Jimmy put it, this particular brain-- they had another, a new one-- this brain was supposed to figure out the maximum area of airfoil-- wingd, y'know-- that a rocket plane should have o provide enough lift at high speeds, yet not present too much drag. "Jimmy didn't know what made the thing work, but you were supposed to type out the problem, feed it thru a slot, adjust them hundreds
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Conclusion Doubtful by Tom Jewett "Yeah," Mow Benson protested. "But that don't make no difference. It's all these false premises that you got to watch out for." Moe was seated on a park bench and talking with a short gentleman with a receding hairline and wearing a blue-serge suit. Blue-serge looked as tho he wanted to rest, and possibly sleep, but tall lanky good-natured Moe kept right on talking. "Them electrical brains-" Moe waved idly at a round plastic dome situated just beyond the park, "- can solve any problem once the facts, not inaccuracies but facts, are impressed on them." His blue-serged companion nodded noncommittally. Moe gazed up into the hazy blue afternoon sky and murmured: "Why, I remember one time--" He broke off, reminiscing. After a minute he straightened up and glanced at Blue-serge, who seemed to be in a receptive mood. Rubbing his chin thoughtfully, Moe began: "It started about three years ago. September nineth, 1974, to be exact. I had run into an old school chum of mine who was studying to be an engineer at this university where one of them brains was kept. Well, as things turn out, Jimmy--my friend--invited me over to take a look at the thing. He managed to sneak me past the guard, who was sweet-talking to a co-ed anyway. By and by we got in the room where the brain was. All I could see was a bunch of dials, levers, buttons, meters and signal lights, all set in a wall with a typewriter attached at waist level. Jimmy said that behind the instrument-covered wall was the brain, which was a cyclotron, atomic pile and electrical calculator all in one. "As Jimmy put it, this particular brain-- they had another, a new one-- this brain was supposed to figure out the maximum area of airfoil-- wingd, y'know-- that a rocket plane should have o provide enough lift at high speeds, yet not present too much drag. "Jimmy didn't know what made the thing work, but you were supposed to type out the problem, feed it thru a slot, adjust them hundreds
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