Futuria Fantasia, Summer 1939 - 2

The fighters of WAR'S END, leaving their machines and countries to
congregate for personal combat, were engaging in hand-to-hand attacks in
the ruins of what once had been a tall and powerful city in the
Twentieth Century, but now lay crumbling, its proud buildings falling to
the ground, sticking out iron-rusted skeletons to the sky--and the city
was LOS ANGELES!
HEDRIK HUNSON was fighting with phosphorized fists--hand inclosed in
chemically treated gloves that burned as they struck the antagonist,
insulated on the interior for the wearer--when suddenly the two of them
were caught by a spreader. The other man died instantly, but Hedrik got
it in the side and was whirled about sickeningly, and survived.
He was lying painfully on something when he came to, but felt too dizzy
and sick to move. At last, when his head had cleared a bit, he rolled
over into a sitting position and reached out his arms to grasp--a
phonograph!
Big things came in small packages in the days of 2171, and a portable
phonograph might well be taken for a weapon of some sort--which was
exactly what Hedrik thought! And you can hardly blame him, because no
one in that generation had ever seen one of the things.
There was a curious story connected with the dying of music, concerning
the days of 2050 when there was a movement to stamp out all symphonies
and songs and things even slightly sentimental.
--but back to Hedrik!
Hedrik found the crank that wound the portable, turned it, reasoning
that perhaps it gave power--and then--holding it away from him--he
waited for rays to spurt out or something to explode. Nothing happened!
Hedrik was disappointed. After an agony of perspiration and puzzlement
he finally accidentally placed the needled arm onto the disk. The disk,
he noticed, was black and filled with little undulations. The disk was
like a wheel--so Hedrik thought--it should revolve like one, shouldn't
it? He pushed the starter thoughtfully and was more than surprised when
the disk started spinning.
From the phonograph came music--music and singing! The lost Art had
returned! The Art banished under compulsion had made a comeback.
Some man was singing on the record--in a queerly interesting and
familiar tongue, the ancient English. The singer seemed sad, almost
crying. And Hedrik was thrilled as he played it over and over again,
drinking in the new experience like wine on the lips of a connoisseur.
The voice rose, fell, lingered. And Hedrik suddenly didn't feel like
fighting anymore!
The music floated out over the tumbled ruins, descended to the ears of
the other people. AND THE FIGHTING CEASED! They were transformed. They
came running to crowd about the machine.
And there in that aged music shop they stood enthralled--music filled
their souls. It was exactly what they had needed and wanted for many
years. And it had been denied them. Music was the balancing force ...
the force that would help them struggle ahead rebuilding the world. And
next time they would be saner ... they knew ... the lesson of luxury had
been learned and learned well. Never again would they leave all of the
work to the machines. Now they would work and sing and play.
It would be work ... hard work ... for some time to come. But they had
found music again, and that would anchor them to sanity.
And thus was mankind saved through a record--_SONNY BOY!_
* * * * *
FUTURIA FANTASIA! FALL ISSUE COMING UP AS SOON AS YE EDITOR RETURNS FROM
JAUNT TO MANHATTEN (in case you intend writing me and telling me I
spelled MANHATTAN wrong in the editorial and above, I already know
it ... it was just a typical-graphical error.) THE NEXT ISSUE WILL BE
EVEN LARGER--CONTAINING YOUR COMMENTS ON FUFA AND ARTICLES BY ACKERMAN,
YERKE, HENRY KUTTNER, JACK ERMAN AND RON REYNOLDS. There will also be a
play by play dew-scription of the trip to New Yawk and the happenings
there in the science-fiction outfield--by Bradbury of course.
* * * * *


THOUGHT AND SPACE
BY RAY D. BRADBURY

Space--thy boundaries are
Time and time alone.
No earth-born rocket,
seedling skyward sown,
Will ever reach your cold,
infinite end,
This power is not Man's to
build or send.
Great deities laugh down,
venting their mirth,
At struggling bipeds on
a cloud-wrapped Earth,
Chained solid on a war-swept,
waning globe,
For FATE, who witnesses,
to pry and probe.
BUT LIST! One weapon have
I stronger yet!
Prepare Infinity! And
Gods regret!
Thought, quick as light,
shall pierce the veil,
To reach the lost beginnings
Holy Grail.
Across the sullen void on
soundless trail,
Where new spawned suns and
chilling planets wail,
One thought shall travel
midst the gods' playthings,
Past cindered globes where
choking flame still sings.
No wall of force yet have ye
firmly wrought,
That chains the supreme
strength of purest thought.
Unleashed, without a body's
slacking hold,
Thought leaves the ancient
Earth behind to mold.
And when the galaxies have
heeded DEATH,
And welcomed lastly SPACE'S
poisoned breath,
Still shall thought travel
as an arrow flown.
SPACE--thy boundaries are
TIME----AND TIME ALONE!
* * * * *
FAMOUS LAST WORDS:
"But, Mr. Smith, how do you explain that
gyro-statistic-electromagnetiosonomonator on the radiostuntomotor?"
"CLUNK!"
* * * * *
RETURN ADDRESS:
Futuria Fantasia,
A SCIENCE CIRCLE PUB.
1841 S. MANHATTAN PL.
Los Angeles, Calif.