Futuria Fantasia, Winter 1940

by Ray Bradbury

  Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

  FUTURIA FANTASIA

  Winter 1940

  By Ray Bradbury

  LAST ISSUE: We made a mistake that we will try not to repeat again verysoon. We printed the editorial page three weeks ahead of the remainderof Futuria Fantasia, thereby creating no end of humorous confusion. Webabbled glibly, in the editorial, about two or three yarns that we laterdecided were unprintable, and, at the same time, threw in some horriblemistakes in grammar that must have left Shakespeare doing nip-ups in hisshroud.

  THIS ISSUE; J. Harvey Haggard bows into what we hope will be a regularspotlight in Futuria Fantasia.... Emil Petaja, whose verses haveappeared in Weird Tales, makes his self known with a neat little weirdyarn and a poem.... Again H.V.B. comes to the fore with a sequel to THEGALAPURRED FORSENDYKE--THE VOICE OF SCARILIOP ... and, in case you havewondered about or will wonder about these two unusual yarns, we areprinting them for no other reason than that we like their description,they tickle our mental palate, they are word pictures of surrealisticdreams ... and anyone who guesses who H.V.B is will get the next editionof Futuria Fantasia gratis.... Henry Hasse blows in and blows up with arebuttle against Foo E. Onya and does himself right proud byscience-fiction.... Ross Rocklynne, prominent Eastern schlameel, offersus a pitiful excuse for an article, HOW TO GET ABOUT.... Ron Reynolds,we have no doubt, will manage to get into the magazine somehow with hishorrendous FIGHT OF THE GOOD SHIP CLARISSA, but if we can do anything atall we'll print it on invisible paper.... Anthony Corvais, if you startguessing who did it, wrote the short story in the rear by the title ofTHE SYMPHONIC ABDUCTION.... Hannes Bok, who has another cover on WeirdTales for March, has drawn our cover again and many insideillustrations, including a large advertisement for Hell, under which youwill find a descriptive poem written by Guy Amory. Unlike Finlay, whodraws pictures from poems, we procure pictures from Bok and write poemsabout them. In fact, I blushingly admit, I even wrote a ten thousandword novelette around that little creature on the cover of the firstFuturia Fantasia ... which, no doubt, will have its share of rejectionsvery soon, in which case I will foist on my poor unsuspecting public,both of them, this story now titled LORELEI. I would have included it inthis issue, but Russell J. Hodgkins threatened me so venemously that Igave in told him to put down his gun. It might be a good idea, by theway, if more of you readers wrote us letters criticizing FuFa. So far wehave heard nothing from Madle, Baltadonis, E.E. Smith, Kuslan,Marconette, Taurasi, Dikty, Wilson, or Speer. How in hell, we ask youguys, can we improve if you won't write in and tell us if and why westink? Co-operation, please....

  * * * * *

  NEXT ISSUE: Robert A Heinlein, of the LA SFL, whose _noval_ is nowcurrent in Astounding, will begin the first of a series of short storieswritten on order for Futuria Fantasia. Ross Rocklynne, also, takes anencore with a thot-provoking, accent on provoking, story or article.Henry Hasse will be here in company with Ross Hodgkins. Hodgkinspossibly writing on Technocracy. And, if schedules go through, anarticle to end all articles, by Charlie Hornig, fresh and sassay fromNew Yawk. Other possible bets are Fred Shroyer, Guy Amory, AnthonyCorvais, Emil Petaja, Willy Ley, Doug Rogers, August Derleth, Ackermanand T. Bruce Yerke. Send your dime for the Spring Edition now--or aquarter for the Spring, Summer and Fall issues. Introduce FuFa to yourfriends and help us grow.

  THE VOICE OF SCARILIOP

  H. V. B.

  Four pillars, arising out of the stone like strange growing things ofdemoniac shape--these Redforth saw and comprehended, knowing full wellthat Tarath had always abounded in monstrosities. "But what," he askedhimself, "will knowing of such as this, be of use to me, as I search forGhiltharmie?" For he had at last come to realise, to admit even tohimself, that he was a lost thing. The Yulphog had taken his soul. Theyhad exiled him to this lost land of dread. But they'd hinted of escape,if he could find it. "Si Yamlon," he had told him, pointing to awrithing belt of suns, lifting and lowering at the horizon like theyellow crest of a flaming wave. And he had nodded his head. They hadvanished, disintegrating, it seemed. He didn't then know that they wererelated to Topper's friends and the jeep in one thing: that theirTyponisif and Tregoifer was applicable to the atmosphere.

  The four pillars were bending from their own weight. Strangecolors--like an idiot's conception of a spectrum, spectrally rippledlike irid waves across the columns. Like music in color. Assailed bytheir complex harmonies, Redforth could only stand speechless, handsthrust defensively forward. IT WAS THEN THAT HE SAW EIRY.

  The pillars split. From each of then drifted a whiff of steam. Theyunited into a wavering cloud which shimmered an instant in mid-air, thensettled to the ground. And as it touched the metallic grass blades whichstretched on and on like the upraised swords of a midget army, thevapor-cloud condensed into a woman's body. EIRY. Queen of Scariliop!

  He recognized her at once, tho he had only read of her. She was nothuman. Her body was like a snake's, and she had bat wings. From acluster of writhing worm-tentacles leered her face, like a mask in theheart of a seething flower. It was oval, and the scarlet mouth was likea velvet cushion--disproportionate--waiting for some priceless burden.Her nose was negligible, but her lone eye was vast and blue; like adoorway opening upon a sky too blue to belong to our world. Like blueincarnate: and blue is the color of MYSTERY.

  She opened her mouth, and her tongue unrolled, uncoiled toward Redforth.Three feet long, the tongue was filamental, like a strand of red cobweb,tipped by a touch of fluff like a dandelion's seed. This member wanderedlightly over Redforth's cheek, and for the first time EIRY spoke: "Itcomes to me that here is the man for whom we have been seeking,Yasgorphitove." Her voice was soft as clouds. Redforth in vain peered tobehold her companion. "Now shall we enlighten him as to the ways ofescape? In return for a favor, of course."

  The air about her, for a fleeting instant, had turned blue. Then shenodded. She leaned forward, to whisper, but suddenly there was acrackling. "The rock!" she cried. "The rock! I must return before it istoo late and I too am trapped!" She writhed, became coiling wreathes ofsmoke, and the smoke flowed back to the rocks, hovered over it. The fourpillars quivered and joined into one and then, in a twinkling, hadcrumbled to powder.

  But there was an uncanny blueness in the air about Redforth. And thatnight he had a dreadful dream.

  For he had become--Yrthicaol! And EIRY had been merely--THE BAIT!

  AW G'WAN!

  _HENRY HASSE_

  THERE! If "Foo E. Onya", in the last issue, could use a pseudonym so canI. I read his article, I'M THROUGH, with varying degrees of interest. Ifan answer were really necessary, it could be found more appropriately inthe two words of my title above, than in any words that might follow.And that brings up my first point in my rebuttal--

  Why is it that people, including the lowly science-fiction fan, (toparaphrase Mr. Onya) always feel it necessary to hide behind a pseudonymwhen they have something to say which they think will displease someone?I've seen this happen so many times! And, coincidently, why SHOULD Mr.Onya take such pains to be unpleasent in print? Why should he feel itnecessary to make one final, grand broadcast to the effect that he willno longer read paltry science-fiction? Does he think that any real loverof sci-fic gives a damn whether there is one less reader, especially areader who crawls behind such a silly pseudonym as "Onya"? I've seenother broadcasts such as Mr. Onya's, and they always puzzled me. Itsurely can be nothing else but the egotistical urge.

  But I'm convinced that Onya isn't half so bitter really againstsci-fiction as he tries to pretend. He's not real
ly through. Becauseanyone really bitter against and through with sci-fic would simply stopreading it, not start deriding it! And I doubt if any person, once afan, has ever completely broken away from sci-fic, THEY ALWAYS COMEBACK.

  And right here I'd like to say that a good deal of my doubt as to Onya'ssincerity is because I'm fairly certain of the fellow's real identity.The general tone of his article, and several clues he divulged, convinceme I'm right. And if I AM right, I can assure you, Brad, and any otherreaders who nay have been picqued at Onya's tone, that he shouldn't betaken seriously, and the less attention paid to his rantings, thebetter. I'm sure Onya would feel flattered if he thot someone took hisarticle so seriously as to answer it. Yet here I am answering it, anddamned if I know why, except that I think I took some of Mr. Onya'sphrasing personally, almost. I don't think he should have gone to theextent of calling names and using words such as "moronic", "arrogant",etc.

  Aside from this his piece seemed to me a conglomeration ofcontradictions, inconsistencies, praises here, derisions there, pats onthe back, exaggerations, sneers and scorn, and, oh yes, a book review.Yes, I liked and appreciated and mostly agreed with Onya's comments onBRAVE NEW WORLD. It's a book which I'm sure sure many of the _moronic_sci-fic fans appreciated as well as Mr, Onya. But here's where Mr.Onya's and my tastes differ slightly, for I _also_ liked PLANET OF THEKNOB HEADS in the Dec. issue of SCIENCE FICTION, whereas Mr. Onyaprobably wouldn't deign to read it because it's in one of the pulp mags.that he so deplores; thereby Mr. Onya would be missing a reallyentertaining and meaningful piece of writing, but that's all right,since Mr. Onya's own words said: "There is so much else of importancethat has been written--".

  You know, somehow I cannot bring myself to be as vitriolic against Mr.Onya as he was against sfn at moments. He tried hard to work up a caseagainst sfn, poor fellow, and became (to me at least) amusing instead ofconvincing. Do you know what I saw? I saw a person who is temporarily_satiated_, as he said, with sfn,--but more than that, a person who ismerely trying to persuade _himself_, more than other people, that sfn isas bad as he painted it! Naturally every fan has his likes and dislikesof the various stories, authors and magazines. Some have more _dislikes_than likes. I think even I do. But it must be admitted that every oncein a while, usually unexpectedly, there pops up a story which is adelectable gem and a masterpiece, either of ingenuity or writing orboth. Then one is exultant, and one continues reading sfn, even sometrite and bad sfn, knowing that regularly he will encounter one of thegems which he wouldn't have missed reading for the world! Meanwhile wehave with us Clark Ashton Smith, C. L. Moore, Stanton Coblentz(delightful sometimes, not always), A. Merritt, and an occasional fewothers, whose work I doubt if even Mr. Onya could glibly pronounce asordinary pulp. And we did have Lovecraft, Weinbaum, Howard, and othersof whom the same thing can be said.

  Naturally, too, a lot of criticism can be directed against sfn and sfnreaders. A lot of criticism can be directed against _everything_, andusually is, by certain people who take an unholy delight in it. I myselfhave sometimes snorted in wrath at the gross egotism and, yes, stupidityand childishness, of certain fans. I would have taken great delight inkicking their blooming teeth down their bloody well bally throats. Butdid I do this? Did I succumb to this desire? No, I did not. I never gotclose enough. A more important reason is that I had the patience torealize this type of fan is a minority (_not_ a majority, Mr. Onya, byany means!). But what I did _not_ do was write bitter articles about it.

  Here is only one of Mr. Onya's inconsistencies: he makes suchstatements as "fans are arrogant, blind, critically moronic", etc.--and"editors and writers as well cannot see anything beyond their ownperverted models." In virtually the next breath he admires P. SchuylerMiller's intellectuality. Yet P. Schuyler Miller continues to writesfn, reads it, and is one of the active fans.

  Furthermore, I disagree outright and violently with Onya's statement,"When literature becomes possessed of _ideas as such_, it is no longerliterature." And I'd like to challenge Onya to a further debate on this,if he _dares_. Also his statement about Wells' early stories. It sohappens (what a coincidence!) that I also read Wells' EXPERIMENT INAUTOBIOGRAPHY--and yes, while Wells did admit his early sfn stories werea preparation for his later and more serious writing, he did _not_disclaim them as not being literature of their own type. The troublewith Mr. Onya, I'm afraid, is that he has (deliberately?) lost sight ofthe fact that there is literature _and_ literature. Instead, he wantseverything to conform precisely to his own rather peculiar conception ofliterature. I'll make a statement right here that will undoubtedly shockMr. Onya: I'll go so far as to say that pulp fiction, even the pulpiestof pulp fiction, is really and truly LITERATURE, insofar as it has itsown special niche, its own certain purpose for being. There, I've saidit! I'll admit, Mr. Onya, that it took a little courage to say it. But Iask all who read this, isn't it true when you come to think of it?

  I have not dealt with Onya's article nearly to the extent that I might,but I don't think it's really necessary, mainly because, as I said, Ihave a very strong idea who Foo E. Onya is. I wish I could hazard mysuspicion right here, but I'm so sure I'm right, and both the editor andOnya seem so determined to keep it secret, that I cannot be otherwisethan silent. I will merely conclude by reiterating my doubt that you,"Foo E. Onya", are really disclaiming sfn. At least I hope you willcontinue both reading and writing it. But I swear, if I ever hear of youdoing so, I shall feel sorely tempted to broadcast what a hypocrite youwere with that article!

  THE FIGHT OF THE GOOD SHIP CLARISSA

  by one who should know better

  The space rocket Clarissa was nine days out from Venus. The members ofthe crew were also out for nine days. They were hunters, fearlessexpeditionists who bagged game in Venusian jungles. At the start of ourstory they are busy bagging their pants, not to forget their eyes. Asort of lull has fallen over the ship (Note: a lull is a time warp thatfrequently attacks rockets and seduces its members into a siesta). Itwas during this lull that Anthony Quelch sat sprawled at his typewriterlooking as baggy as a bag of unripe grapefruit. ANTHONY QUELCH, theCosmic Clamor Boy, with a face like turned linoleum on the third term,busy writing a book: "Fascism is Communism with a shave" for which hewould receive 367 rubles, 10 pazinkas and incarceration in a cinemashowing Gone With The Wind.

  The boys upstairs were throwing a party in the control room. They hadbeen throwing the same party so long the party looked like a worn outfirst edition of a trapeze artist. There is doubt in our mind as towhether they were trying to break the party up or just do the morningmopping and break the lease simultaneously. Arms, legs and headslittered the deck. The boys, it seems, threw a party at the drop of achin. Sort of a space cataclysm with rules and little regulation--kindof an atomic convulsion in the front parlor. The neighbors nevercomplained. The neighbors were 450 million miles away. And the boys weretighter than a catsup bottle at lunch-time. The last time the captainhad looked up the hatch and called to his kiddies in a gentle voice,"HELL!" the kiddies had thrown snowballs at him. The captain hadvanished. Clever way they make these space bombs nowadays. A few minutesprevious the boys had been tearing up old Amazings and throwing them atone another, but now they contented themselves with tearing up just theeditors. Palmer was torn in half and he sat in a corner arguing withhimself about rejecting a story for an hour before someone put himthrough an orange juice machine killing him. (Orange juice sorry, now?)

  And then they landed on Venus. How in heck they got back there so quickis a wonder of science, but there they were. "Come on, girls!" criedQuelch, "put on your shin guards, get out there and dig ditches for goodold W.P.A. and the Rover Boys Academy, earth branch 27!"

  Out into the staggering rain they dashed. Five minutes later they cameback in, gasping, reeling. They had forgotten their corsets! TheVenusians closed in like a million land-lords. "Charge, men!" criedQuelch, running the other way. And then--BATTLE! "What a fight; folks,"cried Quelch. "Twenty thousand earth men against two Venusians! We'reoutnumbered, but
we'll fight!" BLOOSH! "Correction--ten thousand menfighting!" KERBLOM! "One hundred men from earth left!" BOOM! "This isthe last man speaking, folks! What a fight. I ain't had so much funsince--Help, someone just clipped my corset strings!" BWOM! "Someonejust clipped me!"

  The field was silent. The ship lay gleaming in the pink light of dawnthat was just blooming over the mountains like a pale flower. The twoVenusians stood weeping over the bodies of the Earthlings like onionpeelers or two women in a bargain basement. One Venusian looked at theother Venusian, and in a high-pitched, hoarse, sad voice said: "Aye,aye, aye--THIS--HIT SHOODEN HEPPEN TO A DOG--NOT A DOIDY LEEDLE DOG!"And dawn came peacefully, like beer barrels, rolling.

  _The Intruder_

  _emil petaja_

  It was in San Francisco, on the walk above the sand and surf thatpounded like the heart of the earth. There was wind, the sky and seablended in a grey mist.

  I was sitting on a stone bench watching a faint hint of distant smoke,wondering what ship it was and from what far port.

  Mine was a pleasent wind--loneliness. So when he came, wrapped in hisgreat overcoat and muffler, hat pulled down, and sat on my bench I wasabout to rise and leave him. There were other benches, and I was not inthe mood for idle gossip about Hitler and taxes.

  "Don't go. Please." His plea was authentic.

  "I must get back to my shop," I said.

  "Surely you can spare a moment." I could not even to begin to place theaccent in his voice. Low as a whisper, tense. His deep-set eyes heldme ... his face was pale and had a serenity born of suffering. A placcidface, not given to emotional betrayels, yet mystical. I sat down again.Here was someone bewilderingly strange. Someone I wouldn't soon forget.He moved a hand toward me, as tho to hold me from going, and I saw withmild curiosity that he wore heavy gloves, like mittens.