Futuria Fantasia, Winter 1940 - 1

FUTURIA FANTASIA
Winter 1940
By Ray Bradbury


LAST ISSUE: We made a mistake that we will try not to repeat again very
soon. We printed the editorial page three weeks ahead of the remainder
of Futuria Fantasia, thereby creating no end of humorous confusion. We
babbled glibly, in the editorial, about two or three yarns that we later
decided were unprintable, and, at the same time, threw in some horrible
mistakes in grammar that must have left Shakespeare doing nip-ups in his
shroud.
[Illustration]
THIS ISSUE; J. Harvey Haggard bows into what we hope will be a regular
spotlight in Futuria Fantasia.... Emil Petaja, whose verses have
appeared in Weird Tales, makes his self known with a neat little weird
yarn and a poem.... Again H.V.B. comes to the fore with a sequel to THE
GALAPURRED FORSENDYKE--THE VOICE OF SCARILIOP ... and, in case you have
wondered about or will wonder about these two unusual yarns, we are
printing them for no other reason than that we like their description,
they tickle our mental palate, they are word pictures of surrealistic
dreams ... and anyone who guesses who H.V.B is will get the next edition
of Futuria Fantasia gratis.... Henry Hasse blows in and blows up with a
rebuttle against Foo E. Onya and does himself right proud by
science-fiction.... Ross Rocklynne, prominent Eastern schlameel, offers
us 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 his
horrendous FIGHT OF THE GOOD SHIP CLARISSA, but if we can do anything at
all we'll print it on invisible paper.... Anthony Corvais, if you start
guessing who did it, wrote the short story in the rear by the title of
THE SYMPHONIC ABDUCTION.... Hannes Bok, who has another cover on Weird
Tales for March, has drawn our cover again and many inside
illustrations, including a large advertisement for Hell, under which you
will find a descriptive poem written by Guy Amory. Unlike Finlay, who
draws pictures from poems, we procure pictures from Bok and write poems
about them. In fact, I blushingly admit, I even wrote a ten thousand
word novelette around that little creature on the cover of the first
Futuria Fantasia ... which, no doubt, will have its share of rejections
very 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 in
this issue, but Russell J. Hodgkins threatened me so venemously that I
gave in told him to put down his gun. It might be a good idea, by the
way, if more of you readers wrote us letters criticizing FuFa. So far we
have heard nothing from Madle, Baltadonis, E.E. Smith, Kuslan,
Marconette, Taurasi, Dikty, Wilson, or Speer. How in hell, we ask you
guys, can we improve if you won't write in and tell us if and why we
stink? Co-operation, please....
* * * * *
NEXT ISSUE: Robert A Heinlein, of the LA SFL, whose _noval_ is now
current in Astounding, will begin the first of a series of short stories
written on order for Futuria Fantasia. Ross Rocklynne, also, takes an
encore with a thot-provoking, accent on provoking, story or article.
Henry Hasse will be here in company with Ross Hodgkins. Hodgkins
possibly writing on Technocracy. And, if schedules go through, an
article to end all articles, by Charlie Hornig, fresh and sassay from
New Yawk. Other possible bets are Fred Shroyer, Guy Amory, Anthony
Corvais, Emil Petaja, Willy Ley, Doug Rogers, August Derleth, Ackerman
and T. Bruce Yerke. Send your dime for the Spring Edition now--or a
quarter for the Spring, Summer and Fall issues. Introduce FuFa to your
friends and help us grow.


THE VOICE OF SCARILIOP
H. V. B.

Four pillars, arising out of the stone like strange growing things of
demoniac shape--these Redforth saw and comprehended, knowing full well
that Tarath had always abounded in monstrosities. "But what," he asked
himself, "will knowing of such as this, be of use to me, as I search for
Ghiltharmie?" For he had at last come to realise, to admit even to
himself, that he was a lost thing. The Yulphog had taken his soul. They
had 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 a
writhing belt of suns, lifting and lowering at the horizon like the
yellow crest of a flaming wave. And he had nodded his head. They had
vanished, disintegrating, it seemed. He didn't then know that they were
related to Topper's friends and the jeep in one thing: that their
Typonisif and Tregoifer was applicable to the atmosphere.
The four pillars were bending from their own weight. Strange
colors--like an idiot's conception of a spectrum, spectrally rippled
like irid waves across the columns. Like music in color. Assailed by
their complex harmonies, Redforth could only stand speechless, hands
thrust defensively forward. IT WAS THEN THAT HE SAW EIRY.
The pillars split. From each of then drifted a whiff of steam. They
united into a wavering cloud which shimmered an instant in mid-air, then
settled to the ground. And as it touched the metallic grass blades which
stretched on and on like the upraised swords of a midget army, the
vapor-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 not
human. Her body was like a snake's, and she had bat wings. From a
cluster of writhing worm-tentacles leered her face, like a mask in the
heart of a seething flower. It was oval, and the scarlet mouth was like
a velvet cushion--disproportionate--waiting for some priceless burden.
Her nose was negligible, but her lone eye was vast and blue; like a
doorway opening upon a sky too blue to belong to our world. Like blue
incarnate: 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 wandered
lightly over Redforth's cheek, and for the first time EIRY spoke: "It
comes to me that here is the man for whom we have been seeking,
Yasgorphitove." Her voice was soft as clouds. Redforth in vain peered to
behold her companion. "Now shall we enlighten him as to the ways of
escape? In return for a favor, of course."
The air about her, for a fleeting instant, had turned blue. Then she
nodded. She leaned forward, to whisper, but suddenly there was a
crackling. "The rock!" she cried. "The rock! I must return before it is
too late and I too am trapped!" She writhed, became coiling wreathes of
smoke, and the smoke flowed back to the rocks, hovered over it. The four
pillars quivered and joined into one and then, in a twinkling, had
crumbled to powder.
But there was an uncanny blueness in the air about Redforth. And that
night 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 can
I. I read his article, I'M THROUGH, with varying degrees of interest. If
an answer were really necessary, it could be found more appropriately in
the 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, (to
paraphrase Mr. Onya) always feel it necessary to hide behind a pseudonym
when 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 it
necessary to make one final, grand broadcast to the effect that he will
no longer read paltry science-fiction? Does he think that any real lover
of sci-fic gives a damn whether there is one less reader, especially a
reader who crawls behind such a silly pseudonym as "Onya"? I've seen
other broadcasts such as Mr. Onya's, and they always puzzled me. It
surely can be nothing else but the egotistical urge.
But I'm convinced that Onya isn't half so bitter really against
sci-fiction as he tries to pretend. He's not really through. Because
anyone really bitter against and through with sci-fic would simply stop
reading it, not start deriding it! And I doubt if any person, once a
fan, has ever completely broken away from sci-fic, THEY ALWAYS COME
BACK.
And right here I'd like to say that a good deal of my doubt as to Onya's
sincerity is because I'm fairly certain of the fellow's real identity.
The general tone of his article, and several clues he divulged, convince
me I'm right. And if I AM right, I can assure you, Brad, and any other
readers who nay have been picqued at Onya's tone, that he shouldn't be
taken seriously, and the less attention paid to his rantings, the
better. I'm sure Onya would feel flattered if he thot someone took his
article so seriously as to answer it. Yet here I am answering it, and
damned if I know why, except that I think I took some of Mr. Onya's
phrasing personally, almost. I don't think he should have gone to the
extent of calling names and using words such as "moronic", "arrogant",
etc.
Aside from this his piece seemed to me a conglomeration of
contradictions, inconsistencies, praises here, derisions there, pats on
the back, exaggerations, sneers and scorn, and, oh yes, a book review.
Yes, I liked and appreciated and mostly agreed with Onya's comments on
BRAVE 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 THE
KNOB HEADS in the Dec. issue of SCIENCE FICTION, whereas Mr. Onya
probably 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 really
entertaining and meaningful piece of writing, but that's all right,
since Mr. Onya's own words said: "There is so much else of importance
that 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 case
against sfn, poor fellow, and became (to me at least) amusing instead of
convincing. 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 is
merely trying to persuade _himself_, more than other people, that sfn is
as bad as he painted it! Naturally every fan has his likes and dislikes
of the various stories, authors and magazines. Some have more _dislikes_
than likes. I think even I do. But it must be admitted that every once
in a while, usually unexpectedly, there pops up a story which is a
delectable gem and a masterpiece, either of ingenuity or writing or
both. Then one is exultant, and one continues reading sfn, even some
trite and bad sfn, knowing that regularly he will encounter one of the
gems which he wouldn't have missed reading for the world! Meanwhile we
have with us Clark Ashton Smith, C. L. Moore, Stanton Coblentz
(delightful sometimes, not always), A. Merritt, and an occasional few
others, whose work I doubt if even Mr. Onya could glibly pronounce as
ordinary pulp. And we did have Lovecraft, Weinbaum, Howard, and others
of whom the same thing can be said.
Naturally, too, a lot of criticism can be directed against sfn and sfn
readers. A lot of criticism can be directed against _everything_, and
usually is, by certain people who take an unholy delight in it. I myself
have sometimes snorted in wrath at the gross egotism and, yes, stupidity
and childishness, of certain fans. I would have taken great delight in
kicking their blooming teeth down their bloody well bally throats. But
did I do this? Did I succumb to this desire? No, I did not. I never got
close enough. A more important reason is that I had the patience to
realize this type of fan is a minority (_not_ a majority, Mr. Onya, by
any means!). But what I did _not_ do was write bitter articles about it.
Here is only one of Mr. Onya's inconsistencies: he makes such
statements as "fans are arrogant, blind, critically moronic", etc.--and
"editors and writers as well cannot see anything beyond their own
perverted models." In virtually the next breath he admires P. Schuyler
Miller's intellectuality. Yet P. Schuyler Miller continues to write
sfn, 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 longer
literature." And I'd like to challenge Onya to a further debate on this,
if he _dares_. Also his statement about Wells' early stories. It so
happens (what a coincidence!) that I also read Wells' EXPERIMENT IN
AUTOBIOGRAPHY--and yes, while Wells did admit his early sfn stories were
a preparation for his later and more serious writing, he did _not_
disclaim them as not being literature of their own type. The trouble
with Mr. Onya, I'm afraid, is that he has (deliberately?) lost sight of
the fact that there is literature _and_ literature. Instead, he wants
everything to conform precisely to his own rather peculiar conception of
literature. I'll make a statement right here that will undoubtedly shock
Mr. Onya: I'll go so far as to say that pulp fiction, even the pulpiest
of pulp fiction, is really and truly LITERATURE, insofar as it has its
own special niche, its own certain purpose for being. There, I've said
it! I'll admit, Mr. Onya, that it took a little courage to say it. But I
ask 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, I
have a very strong idea who Foo E. Onya is. I wish I could hazard my
suspicion right here, but I'm so sure I'm right, and both the editor and
Onya seem so determined to keep it secret, that I cannot be otherwise
than silent. I will merely conclude by reiterating my doubt that you,
"Foo E. Onya", are really disclaiming sfn. At least I hope you will
continue both reading and writing it. But I swear, if I ever hear of you
doing so, I shall feel sorely tempted to broadcast what a hypocrite you
were 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 of
the crew were also out for nine days. They were hunters, fearless
expeditionists who bagged game in Venusian jungles. At the start of our
story they are busy bagging their pants, not to forget their eyes. A
sort of lull has fallen over the ship (Note: a lull is a time warp that
frequently attacks rockets and seduces its members into a siesta). It
was during this lull that Anthony Quelch sat sprawled at his typewriter
looking as baggy as a bag of unripe grapefruit. ANTHONY QUELCH, the
Cosmic Clamor Boy, with a face like turned linoleum on the third term,
busy writing a book: "Fascism is Communism with a shave" for which he
would receive 367 rubles, 10 pazinkas and incarceration in a cinema
showing Gone With The Wind.
The boys upstairs were throwing a party in the control room. They had
been throwing the same party so long the party looked like a worn out
first edition of a trapeze artist. There is doubt in our mind as to
whether they were trying to break the party up or just do the morning
mopping and break the lease simultaneously. Arms, legs and heads
littered the deck. The boys, it seems, threw a party at the drop of a
chin. Sort of a space cataclysm with rules and little regulation--kind
of an atomic convulsion in the front parlor. The neighbors never
complained. The neighbors were 450 million miles away. And the boys were
tighter than a catsup bottle at lunch-time. The last time the captain
had looked up the hatch and called to his kiddies in a gentle voice,
"HELL!" the kiddies had thrown snowballs at him. The captain had
vanished. Clever way they make these space bombs nowadays. A few minutes
previous the boys had been tearing up old Amazings and throwing them at
one another, but now they contented themselves with tearing up just the
editors. Palmer was torn in half and he sat in a corner arguing with
himself about rejecting a story for an hour before someone put him
through an orange juice machine killing him. (Orange juice sorry, now?)
And then they landed on Venus. How in heck they got back there so quick
is a wonder of science, but there they were. "Come on, girls!" cried
Quelch, "put on your shin guards, get out there and dig ditches for good
old W.P.A. and the Rover Boys Academy, earth branch 27!"
Out into the staggering rain they dashed. Five minutes later they came
back in, gasping, reeling. They had forgotten their corsets! The
Venusians closed in like a million land-lords. "Charge, men!" cried
Quelch, running the other way. And then--BATTLE! "What a fight; folks,"
cried Quelch. "Twenty thousand earth men against two Venusians! We're
outnumbered, but we'll fight!" BLOOSH! "Correction--ten thousand men
fighting!" KERBLOM! "One hundred men from earth left!" BOOM! "This is
the last man speaking, folks! What a fight. I ain't had so much fun
since--Help, someone just clipped my corset strings!" BWOM! "Someone
just clipped me!"
The field was silent. The ship lay gleaming in the pink light of dawn
that was just blooming over the mountains like a pale flower. The two
Venusians stood weeping over the bodies of the Earthlings like onion
peelers or two women in a bargain basement. One Venusian looked at the
other 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 that
pounded like the heart of the earth. There was wind, the sky and sea
blended 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 his
great overcoat and muffler, hat pulled down, and sat on my bench I was
about to rise and leave him. There were other benches, and I was not in
the 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 the
accent in his voice. Low as a whisper, tense. His deep-set eyes held
me ... his face was pale and had a serenity born of suffering. A placcid
face, 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 with
mild curiosity that he wore heavy gloves, like mittens.
"I am not well. I ... I must not be out in the damp air," I said. "But
today I just had to go out and walk. I had to."
"I can understand." I warmed to the wave of aloneness that lay in his
words. "I too have been ill. I know you, Otis Marlin. I have visited
your shop off Market Street. You are not rich, but the feel of the
covers on a fine book between your hands suffices. Am I right?"
I nodded, "But how...."
"You have tried writing, but have had no success. Alone in the world,
your loneliness has much a family man, harassed might envy."
"That's true," I admitted, wondering if he could be a seer, a fake
mystic bent on arousing in me an interest in spiritism favorable to his
pocket-book. His next words were a little amused, but he didn't smile.
"No, I'm not a psychic--in the ordinary sense, I've visited your shop. I
was there only yesterday," he said. And I remembered him. In returning
from my lunch I had met him coming out of my humble place of business.
One glimpse into those brooding eyes was not a thing to soon forget, and
I recalled pausing to watch his stiff-legged progress down the street
and around the corner.
There was now a pause, while I watched leaves scuttling along the oiled
walk in the growling wind. Then a sound like a sigh came from my
companion. It seemed to me that the wind and the sea spoke loudly of a
sudden, as tho approaching some dire climax. The sea wind chilled me as
it had not before, I wanted to leave.
"Dare I tell you? DARE I!" His white face turned upward. It was as
though he questioned some spirit in the winds.
I was silent; curious, yet fearful of what it might be he might not be
allowed to tell me. The winds were portentously still.
"Were you ever told, as a child, that you must not attempt to count the
stars in the sky at night--that if you did you might _lose your mind_?"
"Why, yes. I believe I've heard that old superstition. Very reasonable,
I believe; based on the assumption that the task would be too great for
one brain. I...."
"I suppose it never occurred to you," he interrupted, "that this
superstition might hold even more truth than that, truth as malignant as
it is vast. Perhaps the cosmos hold secrets beyond comprehension of man;
and what is your assurance that these secrets are beneficent and kind?
Is nature rather not terrible, than kind? In the stars are
patterns--designs which if read, might lure the intrepid miserable one
who reads them out of earth and beyond ... beyond, to immeasurable
evil.... Do you understand what I am saying?" His voice quivered
metallically, was vibrant with emotion.
I tried to smile, but managed only a sickly grin. "I understand you,
sir, but I am not in the habit of accepting nebulous theories such as
that without any shred of evidence."
"There is, sad to say, only too much evidence. But do you believe that
men have _lost their minds_ from incessant study of the stars?"
"Perhaps some have, I don't know," I returned. "But in the South of this
state in one of the country's leading observatories, I have a friend who
is famous as an astronomer. He is as sane as you or I. If not saner." I
tacked the last sentence on with significant emphasis.
The fellow was muttering something into his muffler, and I fancied I
caught the words "danger ..." and "fools ..." We were silent again. Low
dark clouds fled over the roaring sea and the gloom intensified.
Presently, in his clipt speech, the stranger said, "Do you believe that
life exists on other planets, other stars? Have you ever wondered what
kind of life might inhabit the other stars in this solar system, and
those beyond it?" His eyes were near mine as he spoke, and they
bewitched me. There was something in them, something intangible and
awful. I sensed that he was questioning me idly, as an outlander might
be questioned about things with which the asker is familiar, as I might
ask a New Yorker, "What do you think of the Golden Gate Bridge?"
"I wouldn't attempt to guess, to describe, for instance, a Martian man,"
I said. "Yet I read with interest various guesses by writers of
fiction." I was striving to maintain a mood of lightness and ease, but
inwardly I felt a bitter cold, as one on the rim of a nightmare. I
suddenly realized, with childish fear, that night was falling.
"Writers of fiction! And what if they were to _guess too well_? What
then? Is it safe for them to have full rein over their imaginations?
Like the star-gazers...." I said nothing, but smiled.
"Perhaps, man, there have been those whose minds were acute beyond most
earthly minds--those who have guessed too closely to truth. Perhaps
_those who are Beyond_ are not yet ready to make themselves known to
Earthlings? And maybe THEY, are annoyed with the puny publicity they
receive from imaginative writers.... Ask yourself, _what is
imagination_? Are earth-minds capable of conceiving that which is not
and has never been; or is this imagination merely a deeper insight
into worlds you know not of, worlds glimpsed dimly in the throes of
dream? And whence come these dreams? Tell me, have you ever awakened
from a dream with the sinister feeling that all was not well
inside your mind?--that while you, the real you, were away in
Limbo--_someone_--some_thing_ was probing in your mind, invading it and
reading it. Might not THEY leave behind them in departure shadowy
trailings of _their_ own minds?"
Now I was indeed speechless. For a strange nothing had started my
neck-hairs to prickling. Authors who might have guessed too well....
Two, no three, writers whose stories had hinted at inconceivable yet
inevitable dooms; writers I had known; had recently died, by accident.
"What of old legends? Of the serpent who shall one day devour the sun.
That legend dates back to Mu and Atlantis. Who, man, was and is Satan?
Christ? And Jehovah? benevolent and all-saving, were but a monstrous
jest fostered by THEY to keep man blindly content, and keep him divided
among himself so that he strove not to unravel the stars?"
"Man, in my foolish youth I studied by candleflame secrets that would
scorch your very soul. Of women who with their own bare hands have
strangled the children they bore so that the world might not know....
Disease and sickness at which physicians throw up their hands in
helpless bafflement. When strong men tear at their limbs and heads and
agony--seeking to drive forth alien forces that have netted themselves
into their bodies. I need scarcely recount them all, each with its own
abominable significance. It is THEM. Who are eternal and nameless, who
send their scouts down to test earth-man. Don't you realize that they
have watched man creep out of primal slimes, take limbs and shamble, and
finally walk? And that they are waiting, biding their time...." I
shivered with a fear beyond name. I tried to laugh and could not. Then,
bold with stark horror, I shouted quite loudly: "How do you know this?
Are you one of THEM?" He shook his head violently. "No, no!" I made as
to go, feeling an aching horror within me.
"Stay only a moment more, man. I will have pity on you and will not tell
you all. I will not describe _them_. And I will not assay that which,
when upon first seeing you here by the sea, _I first intended_...." I
listened. Not daring to look at him; as in the grip of daemonaic dream.
My fingers clutched at the edges of the bench so tightly that I have
been unable to write with them until now. He concluded thus:
"So you see that I am everywhere a worldless alien. Sometimes this
secret is too great for one mind to contain, and I must talk. I must
feel the presence of someone human near me, else I shall attempt to
commit suicide and again fail. It is without end--my horror. Have pity
on me, man of earth, as I have had pity on you."
It was then that I gripped him by the shoulders and looked with pleading
desperation into his staring eyes. "Why have you told me? What--" My
voice broke. My hands fell to my sides. I shuddered.
He understood. Shrieked one word: "PITY!" into my insensible ear, and
was gone.
That was 3 nites ago and each nite since has been hell. I cannot
remember how long it was after the STRANGER left that I found myself
able to move, to rise, hobble home, suddenly ancient with knowledge. And
I cannot--WILL NOT--reveal to you all that I heard.
I thot myself insane, but after an examination, a physician pronounced
me that I had been strained mentally. I am competent. But I wonder if he
is wrong.
I view the silken stars tonight with loathing. HE sought to master their
inscrutable secret meaning, and succeeded. He imagined, he dreamed; and
he fed his sleep with potions, so that he might learn where his mind
might be during sleep, and himself probe into the mind that wandered
from space into his resting body-shell. I am no scientist, no