NONE SO BLIND AS LOVE
These were the times. The good times that I still remember as I rock
back and forth before my fire. Eh? Whassat? Oh, yeah, less ruminating
and more expostulating. Heh, that's a good one, sonny, but don't be
gettin' flip with me ... old Smirtz can still tan the hide off'n any
young whipper snupper like you.
Well, anyhow, I had been making plans to put Cassius and his band into
a supra-super-colossal extravaganza that would out Florenz Ziegfeld.
It was about six months after that mad night at the Cockroach that
rehearsals were over, the show was prepared, the public waited with
bated breath and fish-hooks to see what had been the most highly touted
production in a decade.
Then that night.
I can remember it as if it were twelve years ago. (As a matter of fact,
it WAS twelve years ago). The marquees blazoned their messages to the
crowd that had formed a line _fourteen_ times around the block in front
of the Garden. New York had turned out en masse. And, as I said, those
marquees!
THE AARDVARK FOLLIES
starring CASSIUS Q. AARDVARK with RUBIN, OLGA and KETANYA SCHWARTZ,
MILTON BERLE, LAURENCE OLIVIER, LIONEL BIRDBATH and others
an extravaganza to out-ganza all extras!! STANDING ROOM ONLY
How d'y'like that? SRO signs up, _and we hadn't even opened yet_!
Well, when that curtain rose and the Aardvark came out on the backs
of seventy raging rhinocerii, the crowd went into fits. And when the
Schwartz girls danced the dance of the 8-1/2 x 11 Kleenex, you could
have sworn that the rafters would buckle. And when Rubin did his
imitation of the president (Oh that imitation of _Mamie_!), the Garden
sounded as though 12 billion Zulus were singing, "TIDE'S in, Smirtz
out."
Thirteen weeks went by with two shows a day except when Cassy got
tired, and the money was rolling in. We had to save a box seat each
night for Impelliterri, otherwise the cops would have closed us down.
It wasn't exactly blackmail, I don't blame him a bit, that was one
helluva show.
However, all good things must come to an end.
We had signed on a pair of kids named ... uh ... what in the ... oh
yeah--yeah, that's it, Martin, for some fill-in stuff 'tween acts (we
had to let 'em go eventually. We found 'em carrying on with one of the
hat-check girls name of Monroe, or something. Oh well.) and Cass had
taken off a week to go down to Monte Carlo for some sun and air. That
year, the rage of the Riviera were two three-headed girls named Sally
Louise Lee Munglefootz and Gertrude Alice Roberta Hitslongle (they
called them SLL and GAR for short), and when they saw Cassius....
Well, it went on for three gay, mad days till I sent a wire back to New
York to tell Olga and Ketanya to get down to le ville de mazuma to save
Cass-boy from what might develop into a septangle.
SLL and GAR were entertaining Cass at a party one night, drinking
borscht from his sneakers, when who should drop in through a skylight
from a DC-6 but the Schwartz sisters who immediately began laying about
them with a pair of two-handed broadswords. Fifteen minutes and ninety
gallons of blood later the place was cleared of all sentience save
Cass, myself, the Schwartz girls, and a drunken cockroach (something
familiar about that boy) who immediately staggered to the seashore,
fell in and was poisoned to death.
Cassius, basking in such munificent attention, and also regaling
himself with the beauty of the two girls, immediately realized how
unhappy he really was in civilization. He pleaded on bended bodies for
forgiveness, and upon being received warmly by Olga and Ketanya, made
plans for his leaving "culture."
I didn't try to stop him.
What would'a been the use? I'd made enough to retire, Cass had seen the
World, Rubin had been adopted by some destitute family named DuPont who
wanted a house pet, and all in all, the only drawback was that I hated
to see him go.
But finally he chartered a plane (something about a sacred cow I
believe) and took off back to where he felt was home with the two
Schwartz valkyries.
Yep, that's the last anyone ever saw of 'em. That is, till now. Huh?
Where are they? And what am I doin' here? Well, you see I didn't figger
on taxes after the Show ... and I was broke in two months. That's what
I'm doin' here. Eh? Where are they?
Well, just ste-ep right up, ladeez and gennulmen, for onny twenny-fi'
cents I'm gonna show you a real, authentic, for-sure aardvark and two
girls frozen into a block of lemon flavored ice, right here in the
heart of the Swiss....
_The End_
THREE A. M.
by WALT KLEIN
The clocks are all awry
this hour of the secret
night--the slender hands
all aimless; the terrible, slender
hands all fingering
a different cipher, and the stars
all reeling in their orbits.
O time! time! time!
Time and death have vanished
this enchanted moment, forgotten,
lost in the endless
corridors of mind. But who--
who will know tomorrow
of this moment fleeing, lost?
Wailing, wailing, wailing....
The pendulum, rasping, drops,
the door springs open,
and a tinny voice shrieks:
"Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Cuckoo!"
THE GOTHIC HORROR
BY GEORGE WETZEL
Quite often Penhryn had puzzled over the reasons Gothic arts were made
so hideous; every cathedral he had visited, every Gothic mss read,
even Medieval tapestry was cursed with this ubiquitous grotesqueness.
Once a medieval archaeologist told him it perhaps was the soul--ugly
and deformed--of the Age that tolerated it. Perhaps so. Certainly
there was a shocking parallel between it and the practices of the
witch covens that marked that period; a parallel that suggested many
hidden Satanists carved the wood and stone of the cathedrals. For did
not the same spirit of mockery and perversion of Mass ritual exist in
the gargoyles who leered atop cathedral parapets and from cornices and
recesses?
Even now, the tympanum Penhryn studied was such an example of that
blasphemy. A sly, cynical hint of bigotry, it seemed to him, was
expressed in the too closely crowded group of saints and reveling
demons. Another infamy like this present symbolism of the Elect and the
Damned, he recalled, once carved on the tympanum of Rheims Cathedral,
so shocked its 18th century clergy that they had it chiseled out.
His examination of the stone figures on the entrance arch was broken by
the verger, commenting pedantically on some IX century Saxon brickwork
in the wall. Penhryn stepped into the cathedral and a palpable sea of
silence which even the stone of sound (that was his footsteps) could
barely ripple. Mumbling about the church's reliquary, the verger
started off; and Penhryn, despite the verger's boresome presence,
decided to follow him.
Beneath tones of stone they passed, whose weight elfin Plantagenet
ribbed vaults appeared incapable of supporting. Reaching the Reliquary
in the gloom of the west transept arm, the verger unlocked it and
brought out of a chest therein the cathedral's mortuary wealth--the
remains of illustrious prelates and canonized saints--that reposed
in bejeweled, golden urns and containers. Dryly, the verger spoke of
dullsome abbots and obscure saints.
"This particular urn," said the verger, picking one manifestly no
different from the rest, "whose osseous contents are those of an early
saint, has a quaint history. In 1163 the Popish monks here gathered
some henbane found growing in their garden, mistaking it for a kind of
parsley."
Unimaginatively, he went on, relating--_despite_ his pedantic
manner--an interesting account of how those monks who did not eat of
it were woke that same midnight by the Matin's bell. And coming into
the cathedral read scrawled across the sacred books what was never
originally written there, saw written in chalk on the walls blasphemy,
and heard profane things uttered by those who had awakened them.
"The archives," said the verger, "are not explicit on the outrages;
though they did say how the drugged monks, for one thing, made a
mockery of Christian ritual by reverencing this urn."
At Penhryn's look of amazement, the verger smiled, reflected a bit, and
said: "Oh, we've had other misfortunes here, worse than that. Why the
west tower has come down four times since their time. And fires without
number are always breaking out and always had been." The verger went on
to recount other calamities suffered by the cathedral.
"Don't you think it odd," interrupted Penhryn, "such an uncommon number
of disasters has struck here?"
The verger pondered this a moment and then smiled triumphantly,
"Why, not at all. We have missed some serious misfortunes that have
plagued lesser churches.... Cromwell's troopers let us alone when they
desecrated other cathedrals about us."
"But Cromwell was a hidden Satanist," blurted out Penhryn. "At least
Montague Summers thought he was."
"Which is why," added the verger, "he and his Roundheads desecrated so
many British churches."
Penhryn desisted from further argument. The verger did not see he meant
his emphasis on the fact that Cromwell had left _this place_ inviolate.
He pondered a bit. Then, he asked the verger another question, "I
wonder--just what do the bones in that urn," he pointed to the one that
figured in the curious story of the drugged monks, "look like?"
A look of quizzical tolerance crossed the verger's face, "Just like any
other, if not dust already." Then the amused verger added, "They could
be fraudulent, you know. It wouldn't be the first time three thigh
bones of a saint existed in three separate churches."
Whet the verger referred to was the traffic in spurious relics during
the medieval times, the monstrous incongruities that sometimes existed
along with the monkish pilfering of relics from rival monasteries. But
that was not what Penhryn had in mind--at least not entirely. Better
he not voice what he thought of those relics lest he shock the verger.
Considering the spirit that motivated the Gothic decorations, it was
very likely just _what_ those relics might be.
At moment a man in faded overalls entered the cathedral, looked about,
and spying the verger, came over. A conversation about gardening
ensued. Finally, the gardener--quite obviously--not comprehending the
pedantic instructions of the verger, asked that person to accompany him
outside and see the vegetable problem himself. Penhryn breathed a deep
sigh of relief. The verger was a bore, besides openly regarding Penhryn
as a ridiculous, superstitious man.
Now at last Penhryn could do what he originally came for--examination
of the cathedral's organ. As he ascended to the triforium gallery, a
feeling of self reproach arose. He regretted remarking on the oddness
of this place; no wonder the verger had smiled. And yet there was
no denying of it--the cathedral had an atmosphere of wrongness; it
affected him.
Sunlight glorified the mosaic panes up here; and alternately, where
no window pierced the stone wall, a chill darkness lurked. Thrusting
up its ornate spires and pipes in perpendicular Gothic style was the
organ case beneath the oculus window. Dry dust assailed his nose as
he crawled behind the organ to examine its geometric world of square
and round pipes. Coming out, after a time, he paused to look over the
balustrade into the hollowed out nave below, and was seized with awe;
the Gothic craftsman had been clever, for their arboreal and animal
carvings on pew boards, corbel-tables, and moldings seemed living
things frozen in acts of motion, waiting for some mysterious summons
before they convulsed with life again.
Penhryn felt an oppressive sense of heat; and looking up, saw last,
lingering sunlight burning through a window. And the sainted figure
that looked down at him seemed to be twisting agonizingly, as though
its abode there was some fiery hell. The window frames were wrought
in sections resembling flame tongues--a feature similar to the French
Flamboyant Gothic style--which furthered the illusion that the window
opened into a fiery domain. And he speculated if flame tracery was
not also deliberately fashioned, along with the grotesqueness of the
Gothic carvings. Another thought, of imitative magic--at least the wish
it expressed--came to mind as he looked at the fiery window, and he
grew more uneasy. Quite suddenly he realized there was _some sort_ of
blistering warmth emanating from the window--too much for comfort--and
he retired into the gloom.
Raising his eyes upwards to the clerestory regions, he noted the
irregular alignment of the longitudinal axis, proof that a later repair
had been incorrectly engineered. While he studied this mistake, the
shifting sunlight retreated roofwards as darkness filled the depths
below, and he became aware of the long time he had browsed up here,
hoping it was not so long that the verger may have forgotten his
presence and locked him in. The thought terrified him--the spending of
a cold night here--but why he could not say, or else did not want to
dredge up the reason.
Hastening downwards he found his worst fears were true. The entrance
door had been locked. A kind of reasonless panic threatened to engulf
him--his theories about Gothic art were the blame--but by mimicking
the verger's pedantic cynicism, he kept a surface calm. Possibly he
could find a broken pane somewheres where he could shout out until
someone came. Penhryn had barely made up his mind when it happened.
Hitherto all was a canvas of dead silence but now a sound was brushed
across it. From the transept of the Reliquary it had come; and as he
turned in that direction he sensed, then saw, a stirring in the almost
impenetrable dark. Fear had called up that presence.
Memory was fragmentary after that. Some shock drove him to seek the
upper regions where a blur of light remained. A priceless stained glass
window was smashed. And he plunged to the ground outside. No questions
were asked him when days later he came out of a state of delirium. None
were needed; he had babbled disjointedly while in that state, enough to
cause the cathedral to be closed. An examination was made, discreetly,
of certain relics. Later the gardener was observed by some to cast a
small paper parcel into the river. And shortly afterwards several high
ranking clergymen held a private church service in the cathedral to
which no one was admitted. Though the more noisy spoke of hearing a
hand bell ring and ponderous Latin phrases uttered.
Penhryn's experience had blanks in it which was well for him. One
thing, not fully erased, was of a "face eaten away by darkness."
There was one final thing that, when he learned of it, sent him into
a paroxysm of horror. The investigators, taking much of his delirium
babbling into serious consideration, had medical examinations made
of the relics. One osseous remain--that which the drugged monks had
blasphemously reverenced--had been non-human and unhallowed; a spurious
relic passed off as genuine. The substitution was made obviously by a
hidden Satanist, mocking the Church, as the Gothic carvers had, and the
witch covens.
_The End_
* * * * *
DIFFERENT
A Voice of the Atomic Age
resumes publication at 79-14 266 St. Glen Oaks, Floral Park, Long
Island, N. Y. Poetry and Science Fiction. $2.00 per year, fifty
cents per copy. Lilith Lorraine, Editor.
AT TAKEOFF TIME
by Raymond L. Clancy
I'd like to leave for the stars from Iceland,
There where they gleam in purple and gold,
In green and orange, and all gorgeous colors,
And the Northern Lights their beauties unfold
Under the eyes of Venus and Mars,
From the Northern Isle, I would leave for the stars.
LOOSE ENDS
by JEAN REEDY
Ada Webster had a feeling of buoyance as she moved away from her
body. Sights and sounds were crystal clear. Each mote in the shaft of
sunlight, falling through the window pane, was sharply defined. Sounds
of the small city came acutely to her ears. Sounds of laughter and
talk and moving cars and busses. And closer, the rustle of a nurse's
starched uniform, the soft closing of a door as she went out.
In the room, quiet sobbing.
Tenderly the two beside the bed reached for the sheet and together they
covered the whole body.
Ada watched in amazement. Brother and sister! They had not seen each
other since girl and boy days. Now they were crying in each other's
arms.
Ada wished they would stop crying. Their crying made her feel guilty.
As though she were the cause of their unhappiness. Was she softening
toward Howard? She knew he was there before she left her body. Even
then, in her semi-coma, she had resented his presence. How did he know?
How did she sense his presence and know him? This tall, good looking
man with more grey than black in his hair did not resemble the boy she
had tried to forget. This well groomed man with the expensive clothes
and the charm of Ben, his father, but without the marks of dissipation.
The old bitterness flared. Why had Howard come, after a lifetime of
neglect? He'd soon know she left nothing. Anyhow, she would have left
_him_ nothing. She wished there were something for Ellie and her
boys--and Ted. If just a few keepsakes. But there was nothing--nothing.
Ada looked at the body under the sheet. It was not as old as some, in
years. Hard work rather than age had broken it down so that now it was
bent and wrinkled. Why, she could see clear through it! There was the
deformed hip bone! The one that had not been properly set after Ben
threw her down the stairs in one of his drunken rages. She was quite
young when that happened and all the rest of her life she walked with a
limp.
"Never again, Ada," Ben sobbed. "Never again will I take a drink."
She knew then that he was too weak-willed to keep the promise. She also
knew that she would always love him.
The babies had come too close. Howard. Several that she could not carry
to the full. Two still-born. Then Ellie. The twins, both dying after a
few weeks of sickly life. Doctor bills. Short rations. Ben, so abusive
when out of work and drinking. Ben, so sweet when working and sober.
Ben, who died in a charity ward many years ago.
It was before Ben died that Howard ran away from home.
"It's your fault, Ada," Ben accused when he sobered. "You took the
money he earned with his paper route."
"My fault!" Ada screamed. "I didn't take all his money. It was little
enough. I only took it when there was nothing in the house to eat."
"It's your fault. It's your fault," Ben repeated as though reciting
a lesson to himself. He raised bleary eyes to her stormy ones. "You
didn't tell him and he thought of it as stealing."
"He'll come back, Mother," said Ellie soothingly.
"He better _not_ come back," said Ada, fiercely. "Running away from
home! All this added disgrace! I had enough to bear before."
Howard never came back and Ada remembered how, in her stubborn
bitterness, she would not allow the mention of his name.
Now she studied the knees under the sheet. Yes, the swollen joints were
prominent. Scrubbing floors had done that to the knees that were once
round and dimpled. She thought it was the only work for her after Ben
died. She was not used to anything but housework.
Scrubbing floors was not bad. Without fear in the back of her mind she
could laugh and joke with the other scrub women when they met to eat a
midnight lunch in the tall building. She could sleep in her quiet room
without fear of being rudely awakened to appease a befuddled man and
guard against his attacks.
And she was independent!
When Ellie left her job as waitress to marry Ted Hayes they went into
a small house, just around the corner from the rooming house where Ada
lived.
"Come live with us, mother," said Ellie. "Ted wants you to."
"Oh, no!" Ada replied. "I'll have my own place, though it _is_ only one
room."
It was some years ago that Ellie went around with the letter. That time
stood out clearly for Ada. The young folks had not started their family
early. Then there were two boys, Carl and Alfred. Sometimes Ellie
brought the children to her mother's room. But that time she was alone.
Ellie was nervous and fidgety. "Mother, I want to tell you something,"
she said at last.
"Well, out with it," said Ada, impatiently.
Ellie drew the letter from her pocket. "Now don't flare up, Mother."
She tried to laugh.
"Stop fussing and come to the point."
Ellie took the letter from the envelope. "It's another letter from
Howard," she said timidly.
"Another!" cried Ada. "Have you heard from him before?"
"Y-y-yes. Please forgive him for leaving home and not writing for so
long. H-he wants to take care of you. He wants you to stop working."
"How does he know I'm working?"
"I told him. And that you won't come with us because you think you'll
be a burden on Ted. As if--"
"Oh! Squealing to your brother who did not write to us for half a life
time. The trouble and worry he caused me when he ran away! Having the
neighbors talk about us more than before! I'm ashamed of you, Ellie!
Where's your spunk?"
Ada remembered how patient Ellie was that day. How hard she tried to
explain. How she said: "Please! Howard wanted to make good before he
let us hear from him. He has been working for an archeologist of late
years. He travels all over the world with expeditions."
"Why didn't he say all this before?"
"He did. But I was afraid to tell you. You're so stubborn, Mother. Now
you are getting old and I think you should--"
Even now Ada recalled the hot flush of anger that crept over her. "You
take that letter out of here," she said.
"B-but--"
"If you ever mention his name again I'll forbid you to come here. And
don't you forget it."
"I won't forget it." Ellie had gone out, her pointed chin as firmly set
as her mother's.
That was the last mention of Howard and in Ada's senile years even the
memory of him was blurred.
She studied the hands under the sheet. The knobby joints, the callus.
How clever those hands could have been!
Even in her first grades in school she loved to sketch. But there was
no money to develop her talent.
And when Ben Webster came with his handsomeness and charm she didn't
care about it.
But later her talent helped her through many dark hours. With it she
could sometimes lighten fear and trouble by her own feeble attempts to
create. A funny face would appear on a brown shopping bag. A white box
lid became a winter scene. She remembered that in her floor scrubbing
years there was a time when she worked in a school house. How tempting
was the black-board when a piece of chalk had been carelessly left in
the trough! Once she had almost completed a picture of a city street
when a fellow employee poked her head around the half closed door.
Ada quickly smudged the picture with her floor cloth.
But the time came when she _had_ to stop work. No more would the old
joints bend and stretch.
Then Ellie came to her room one evening with determination in her eyes.
"I'm taking you to another home, Mother," she said, firmly.
Ada was too tired to protest. "Where?" she asked.
"Let's play a kind of game," said Ellie. "Close your eyes and I will
lead you."
Like a child Ada agreed. Before they left the rooming house that
had been her home for so many years she closed her eyes and put her
wrinkled hand into Ellie's. "Is it far?" she asked, trustingly.
"Not far, Mother. Don't look until I say so."
"I promise," laughed Ada.
A short walk and around a corner. Ada kept her promise, even when going
into another house and up the stairs.
Then Ellie said: "Open your eyes, Mother."
Ada looked and she was in the middle of a well lighted room. A thick
carpet was on the floor, bright paper on the wall, a luxurious bed room
suite, a roomy easy chair and beside it a radio.
"This is your room," Ellie said, softly.
Ada stared, speechless. Then Ted and Carl and Alfred crowded into the
room.
Ada's gaze went from one familiar face to the other before she realized
that she was in the front room of their house.
Once more flared the old independence. "B-but--all this. You can't
afford all this," she protested.
Ted put his arm around her shoulders. "A fellow can get a raise."
What blessed comfort to the old bones was the soft mattress, compared
to the lumpy one in her recent quarters. The fine wool blankets,
compared to the rough scratchy ones. The quilted gown to keep her
cozy when sitting on the big chair. The fleece-lined slippers for her
bunioned feet.
And now the last year stood out clearly. She had been in the
comfortable bed most of the time and there was a white clad nurse to
give her the best of care. There was no pain--just weakness. Frequently
there appeared a doctor. And the tray, filled with delicacies!
Everything she craved, in and out of season.
Like a child she had taken all this for granted but with great
enjoyment.
Now Ellie and Howard went slowly out of the room and Ada moved with
them. She realized that only a few minutes had passed since she began
to examine the body and bring it up to date.
The small living room on the first floor was cheerful with late
sunshine. Ellie partly closed the Venetian-blinds so that the corners
of the room were shadowed.
Howard went to the settee. "Let's talk a while, Sis," he said. "It's
been so long."
Ellie sat beside him. "All right. The boys will be home from school
soon and Ted gets home from work in an hour. That will be time enough
to make arrangements."
"I'll take care of the expenses," said Howard.
"Oh, thank you. But you've done so much."
"I can afford it. I wanted to--"
"I know." Ellie patted her brother's hand. "We had to trick her so that
you could do for her. It's too bad but that's the way it had to be. We
could never have given her the luxuries you provided."
To Ada the voices had a metallic sound, like the tinkle of silverbells.
So Howard was the one! He had taken care of her after all! No, if she
had known, her stubborn pride would not have allowed it. Somehow, pride
did not figure now. She knew that she had lost a lot through false
pride. The anger she had felt toward Howard was not there now--only
regret.
Ellie's voice went on. "I'm sorry mother was so far gone. I thought she
might rally and know you at the end."
"I came as soon as I got your wire," said Howard, sadly. "I'm glad I
was in this country. It's just as well she didn't know me. She didn't
want to see me." Then he brightened. "I'm so anxious to see your boys.
How old did you say they are?"
"Carl is twelve and Alfred is fourteen."
"Are they doing well in school?"
"Fair. Enough to get by. Like average boys. But Alfred--I don't know."
"What about Alfred?"
"He has a talent for sketching. Wants to go into commercial art.
It's funny, neither Ted nor I can draw a straight line. Ted wants
Alfred to learn a trade. He says we can't afford to give the boys
extra advantages. We still have a mortgage on this house. Ted had an
operation and lost a lot of time at the factory. It's always something."
Howard reached for his sister's hand. "Don't discourage the boy," he
said, "You folks are all I've got. I'll see that the boys get their
chance, if you and Ted will let me."
"Oh, Howard, you're sweet." Ellie brushed tears from her eyes.
Ada moved closer. She should have known about Alfred's talent but she
was always too tired to take an interest in the boy's studies. Yes,
Howard would take care of it. But _she_ had planted the seed of _her_
talent in Alfred. She had left something after all! And, through her
going, Howard would be close to this family for the rest of their lives.
"I can't believe I am back here after all those years," said Howard,
dreamily. "When I first left I was very homesick. But I could see no
future in this town. What chance did drunken Ben Webster's kid have
here? Yet, I knew that if I wrote to Mother and gave her a chance to
coax me back, I would come.
"I had ambition and I did not want to destroy it by coming back here. I
didn't know what I wanted to do then. But I knew that some day I would
find it." He searched Ellie's face. "Do you understand that, Sis?"
"Yes. I think so."
Ada understood also. The tinkling sound of his voice was like the
breaking of fine glass. The words came clear and almost before they
were spoken she had their meaning. The bitterness was ebbing and in its
place there was admiration.
A TIME TO LOVE
BY DON HOWARD DONNELL
Clark stretched his eighteen year old body luxuriously, rippling the
splendid muscles he had acquired from a vigorous, outdoor life. He
surveyed himself critically. He had just bathed in the icy lake nearby,
and the water droplets glistened in the soft mid-morning sun. Standing
there, as he felt the breeze dry him, he drank in the beauty of his
surroundings. As the sun plucked the moisture from his bronzed skin,
he listened attentively to the mocking birds nearby. The birds seemed
unaffected by the happenings of the past few years, and sang their song
so joyfully that Clark forgot for one happy moment, before memory crept
stealthily back into his forcibly matured mind. Slowly he put on his
ragged blue jeans, and settled down beneath an oak tree, losing himself
in observation of the countryside. The ever present, ever beautiful
grass marched stolidly, like long rows of soldiers.... No. Grass does
not kill, it must not be compared with soldiers, ever. Yet it marched,
rhythmically, in time to something.... Clark pushed the nearly blond,
sun-bleached hair out of his youthful, yet hard face, and played with
the sickle bladed grass. He pulled one and examined it closely. There
was a ladybug on it; he maneuvered it to his finger. A half-forgotten
rhyme came to his lips and bubbled into spoken verse:
"Ladybug, ladybug, fly away...." What came next? He thought hard, back,
back to his childhood to when everything was....
He nearly cried.
The hills came up from the morning mist, rough hewn and uneven,
reminiscent of a buzzsaw, yet, a buzzsaw did not accurately describe
them. They were a deep resplendent purple, streaked with white cold
veins. Behind them, gradually building up in the distance, were icy
mountains of majestic clouds. And all in all there were the bobbing,
bending wild flowers, in numbers and colors too numerous and vivid to
describe, with wild-honey honey bees like black buzzing dots, floating
from the daisy to the dandelion, pollenating, and birds darting across
the deep expanse of turquoise blue that was the sky. The warm, active,
late spring day tended to create a sense of security, no matter how
false, and his head fell to his chest, and he slept.
At first, it was only a subtle sensation, creeping from his thighs up
his body to the nerve centers of his brain. It was the vague feeling
of warmth, the kind that can only come from...! He was wide awake and
sat upright in the next second, looking into the heaven that was her
face....
"Well," she said in the voice that only she could possess, "am I _that_
ugly?" Badly off-balance, he stuttered around for something to say.
"Why ... or hardly. I mean...." He broke off as she started laughing.
"Am I that funny?" he said.
"Yes, silly," he giggled, "You should have seen the look on your face.
You didn't know what to say, did you?" He snorted and sat up.
"There's nothing to laugh about, girly. Wake a follow out of a sound--"
The last word was silenced for she leaned over and kissed him firmly on
the mouth. When he was sufficiently recovered he spoke:
"You work fast, don't you?" She cocked her head prettily, pushing the
brown chestnut hair out of her long oval face, and smiled a smile that
Venus herself would envy.
"Maybe you work slow," she said, not too seriously. She had finished
tying her hair behind her head, and her long, discriminately tanned
arms matched the extremely delicate, yet beautiful legs that showed
from the short, skirt-like affair that she wore. Her small mouth was
gently outlined by a light shaded lipstick which he knew to taste good.
It was the only cosmetic she wore, or needed to. He licked his lips
subconsciously. Her eyes were deep, large and colored to match the
wonderfully long hair that was tied in back. His appraising gaze soon
became a stare and she said:
"Do you like me?"
"Being no fool, little girl, I'll say I do, and it's not quite a fair
question, I don't even know your name."
"Dianne, if it will make you feel any better," she said softly as she
rose to a standing position.
Clark did mental somersaults. She couldn't be much more than sixteen,
yet her breasts bore the full aura of a woman, rising and falling,
graceful and full. The trim contours of her young body were sleek,
lithe lines of feminine muscle that were attractive, outlined through
the thin material of her clothes. He felt quite a lump in his throat,
the reason for this being that she filled out that age old form that
had enchanted the male from the time of the much maligned Adam to
Clark's furiously pounding heart.
"Damned if you're not pretty," he breathed in an undertone that was
more than complimentary.
"Thanks," she said in the high prim voice of a girl, and cocking her
head again, added; "and I still don't know your name."
"Clark, if it'll help any," he said. "How come ... uh, er. How did you
happen to find me?"
"I didn't find you, Clark, so deflate your ego a little. You just
happened to be here when I came."
"Come here every day, eh?" She smiled a deep pretty smile. Clark
noticed she had dimples.
"Every day," she said.
"Suddenly I begin to grow attached to this spot," he said softly, "very
attached." He looked at her for a long time, silent, then he said:
"Where do you live, Dianne?" Now it was she who became silent, and
didn't answer for a long interval. Clark became sober too, guessing the
reason for her silence.
"Bad memories?"
"Uh huh," she said in a subdued tone. "62 Blitz."
"My horror was the first Bomb. I saw the people around me cut to
ribbons by flying glass." The birds and the wind through the trees were
the only sounds, until, suddenly, she was in his arms, crying. He put
his arms around her, pressing her close, comforting himself as well as
her.
"Why? Why did it happen...? Oh Clark...." The bitterness of perhaps
many years flowed out in a flood of tears that seemed ceaseless.
Silently, Clark listened to her story. And it wasn't an unfamiliar one,
in fact commonplace, tragically commonplace.
Dianne, as many other countless millions of girls, had been ordinary;
the typical American maiden. (Clark could disagree with that.) She
has been living in Los Angeles when the war came and disturbed the
routine, the everyday life of everybody. Her parents had died in that
murderous '62 blitz, and left her homeless when she was about ten. When
civilization had crumbled, her own world gone, she found herself one of
the tearful few left, living in the hills around the devastated cities.
One of the very few. She had lived, just as Clark had, on Nature,
and had found it to be ... pleasant. Once in a while, she obtained
luxuries, such as cosmetics, soap and good clothing from one of the
deserted houses among the hills. It was an old story ... tragically old.
Dianne dried her eyes and looked beautiful, which wasn't hard. "I'm a
cry baby," she said bitterly.
"How long has it been since you've been with another person?"
Dianne sniffled. "About four years. I can't remember exactly."
"You're no cry baby kid, you've got a right to cry, and cry a helluva
lot." He put a finger under her chin, raised her face, and kissed her
lightly. "Hell! I haven't seen a girl in three years." She laughed.
"What about you, Romeo," she said. "How did the war affect your life?"
He sort of grinned, and leaned back against the tree, pulling her with
him.
"You know, I think it affected my life for the better. If it weren't
for the war, I night not have met you. It seems that I'm falling in
love with you already."
Dianne frowned. "Don't say that.... Don't say that you wanted the war,
think of the people that died ... your folks ... mine."
"It was coming, I didn't realize then, but it had to come. Man was too
far apart from Nature and Nature wanted him back...."
"That's silly."
"No, Dianne, no, it's not silly. Man lived in his concrete skyscraper,
above the earth ... complex, not simple. He lost his sense of good and
decency; he depended upon someone else for his food and well being. He
became soft. It had to come."
"Maybe you're right Clark, maybe," Dianne whispered, nestling close to
him warmly.
"I know I am," he said. He was aware of her in the crook of his arm,
and, he added, almost too softly to be heard, "I know."
"How about when you were little?" she softly enquired.
"Oh, nothing really. The only thing I remember clearly was the
Huntington Park Bomb that dropped on my tenth birthday."
"Birthday?"
"Yeah. Had a party going full blast when it hit. I remember it as a
sort of a thunder-clap and a bright flash in the sky. Then, amid the
screams of my playmates, came a wave of heat that prickled my skin
while flying glass cut everybody around me. I don't remember anything
very clear after that; guess I was in a state of shock or something.
After that, I wandered around, living and growing up with Nature. It's
been very pleasant ... though I haven't met many people until I saw
you, lucky day." She grinned.
"You've been through a lot," she said simply.
"We've all been through a lot. Maybe a lot more. Who knows? There's
always a few lunatics and degenerates wandering around after the
war ... ever been bothered by them?" Suddenly, she cringed, wrinkling
her face with revulsion, then swallowed hard.
"When I was about twelve...." She was nearly ready to cry again. She
pressed closer to Clark....
"Never mind," said Clark, "It's over now, don't think about it." Again
she was pouring out the sadness of many years of loneliness.
"I love you," said Clark. It was later in the day and they were still
in the same position. "I think I love you too," she said leaning back
on him. "It's strange," he breathed.
"A few years ago they'd call it puppy love. I'm sure this isn't. It
can't be, Dianne. The war has changed things. Before I met you, I
used to lay on the grass, staring up at stars thinking. Maybe that
civilization was finished, but man wasn't. He's a tough animal to kill
off. The future may lie in us, Dianne."
"You're being dramatic, Clark, we're not the only ones left; there are
plenty more people. In fact," she said suspiciously, "I am beginning to
doubt your intentions. My name is Dianne, not Eve."
"And mine's Clark, glad to know you." They laughed and settled down to
watch the sunset. "Where are you living?" asked Clark a little later.
"It's a cave over near the Santa Monica mountains."
"There? That's infested with a lot of renegades?" Dianne smiled.
"They're too stupid to look under their own noses." She sat up and
stretched. "Come up, I'll show you." She sprang up and began running,
her long hair streaming out behind her. Clark bounded after, at a
pace only youth and vigor could maintain. He soon caught her and they
both rested, laughingly. When the shadows were deep, they continued,
silently. Within an hour, they were at the cave.
"Well, I'll be damned!"
"It's cozy."
"No doubt. Now I begin to doubt your intentions, young lady." She
smiled and squelched him.
"I hope you're used to the hard cold ground, because that's where
you're sleeping. There is only one bed. Or you can go outside."
"Never mind, I've got a tough back. But allow me this; this cave's
pretty well concealed." The last was true. The cave was situated so
that it was invisible and nearly impregnable. A dense growth foliage
covered the entrance while the passage-way into the main chamber
twisted and turned so that light and smoke were diffused perfectly.
"Where ... how did you find it?" Dianne sat down on a makeshift bed and
began to braid her hair. She raised her eyes and said:
"When I was a little girl, my family came up here on Sundays to visit
my uncle. I used to play around in the hills while they were so
engrossed in their deep adult conversation. One day I just found it.
I didn't tell anybody about it, and used it for a secret hideaway ...
when the war came, I remembered it. Once in a while I go to my uncle's
house just over the rise for things I need, but most of the time I've
been here." She finished braiding her hair and leaned back on the bed.
"I lived in the open," Clark said moodily. "With the grass for a
mattress and the sky for cover." He glanced around, "I think I'll like
it here, better." Dianne raised an eyebrow.
"Keep the gleam out of your eyes or else you'll be roughing it again,"
she said jokingly. He laughed and sat down beside her.
"Where did you get the candles?" Clark motioned to several wax lumps
scattered about.
"Uncle liked them, so...."
"Yeah," she yawned. "Tired?" he asked.
"Very." There was a silence.
"Ever read the Bible?"
"Some."
"I remember a verse that I read a long time ago ... it sort of stuck in
my mind."
"Tell it to me, Clark, please."
"Sure." Clark licked his lips and recited his favorite verse into the
murky stillness of the room:
"To everything there is a season; and a time to every purpose under the
heavens;
"A time to be born and a time to die; a time to plant and a time to
pluck up that which is planted;
"A time to love and a time to hate; a time of war and a time of
peace...."
"Hmmm," she said lazily, "Where did you get that from?"
"Ecclesiastes."
"Nice." There was a long silence.
"Dianne?" There was no answer. He stood over the bed and saw that
she slept. He stood there a long time, just watching her, drinking
in her beauty. She was something he couldn't tear his eyes from. He
scratched his youthful stubble, and was aware that the candles were
low, casting a ruddy glow, deepening the shadows on her face, creasing
her ankles and thighs, accenting everything that needed to be accented,
and perfectly. Her breasts rose and fell to the even tempo of her
breathing. He walked over and blew out the candles, thoughtfully.
Clark stretched out full length on the rough floor of the cave using
his hands for pillows, staring straight into the blackness of the
ceiling. The ground felt good against his back. He grinned. Something
ran through his mind over and over again.
A time to love.... A time to love.... A time to love....
Soon, he slept.
The End
ASSAY REPORT
For the July-September issue:
_PLACE_ _AUTHOR_ _STORY_ _POINTS_
1 Don Howard Donnell I LOVE YOU, ROBERTA 1.57
2 Tom Covington A BIT PREMATURE 2.36
3 J. S. Semens I 2.79
4 Terry Carr SUPER BOMB 3.29
... and the Nov.-Jan.:
1 Larry Saundors A PHONE IS RINGING 1.33
2 Al Leverentz TARRY THOU HERE 2.33
3 Toby Duane COLIN AND THE LEPRECHAUN 2.83
4 Ken J. Krueger SOLUTION T-400 3.50
For once, the ratings flowed in in a manner reminiscent of old
times--thanks to my consistent bewailing. There is no rating sheet
provided for your use in this issue, so I am not too hopeful about
the results. I hope, though, that you will fool me and send in your
story-preferences in volume. In the latter issue, the poem most liked
was VIGIL, by Isabelle E. Dinwiddie, and second was Toby Duane's THE
MAN-HEART.
In the next issue, you may definitely expect DeWeese's long story,
which was promised for this issue. Circumstances intervened, however.
--THE EDITOR
NOVA
A yellow star
Burned wanly in the spreading dawn,
Then died.
"Hello, Joe, how's the missus?"
"Fine, Bill.
Did you see the news?"
"No, what's up?"
"Something about a new bomb, K factor Of two hundred, whatever that
means."
"Probably Nothing, they're always talking about new bombs, And anyway,
we're not at war."
"Well, I don't know, I hear this one's something new."
"That's what they say about any new stuff. Remember the first Atom
bomb?"
"Yeah, well there's nothing we can do, and like you said, we're not at war."
A red star
Burned fiercely in the black void,
Then died.
--Keran O'Brien
THE SEA AT EVENING
It was in the purple evening, as the moon rose on the sand,
When I heard the restless waters calling me across the land;
And I left the moors and meadows and the forests stretching free,
Left the wind-swept fields behind me, and went down to meet the sea.
How the surges roared to greet me, soared to meet me as I came!
And it seemed that they were calling clearer, chorusing my name.
When the moonlight on them glowing like the luster in a pearl
And the sapphire dwelling in their depths, I saw the waves uncurl
As they spread their crystal fingers, carving figures in the sand--
That the sea had known and bounded, tales from every distant shore;
And I knew that the enchantment would be with me evermore,
That the restless roll and refluence would shackle me apart,
For the sea was in my spirit, and its song was in my heart.
--Andrew Duane
TAVERN MOOD
The melancholy
faces drift in gloom like pale
headlights through the fog.
--Walt Klein
WHAT THE CAT DRAGGED IN
All letters for this column should be sent to Robert E. Briney, 561
W. Western Avenue, Muskegon, Michigan. No letter should exceed 250
words in length.
Dear Bob: Maybe you're wondering what my reaction was toward Saunders'
story, A PHONE IS RINGING. Well, I'm still wondering, too. I don't
know whether I liked it or whether I didn't. I'm perplexed. Before I
go any further, however, I must admit that the story held my interest.
The suspense was superbly executed. But when I read the ending, I
was disappointed. It seemed as if Saunders had a good idea in the
beginning ... but as the tale progressed, he forgot about it. He seemed
to be in too much of a rush to get it finished. And the ending struck
me----huh? I'm still saying "huh?" Perhaps I skipped a vital paragraph
in the story--I'll have to reread it one of these days and possibly my
"huh?" will change to an "Oh!" I don't know, though. The short-shorts,
I didn't care for, and as for Leverentz' column.... I cannot see how
he considers "The Crimson Pirate" as science-fiction. He creates an
argument that really isn't an argument. CP was a comedy, anyway, and
it was supposed to create a laugh, which it did.... This is the first
time I have heard it classed as science fiction. [If memory serves,
it was not Leverentz but the movie reviewer he quoted who classed
"Crimson Pirate" as science fiction, thus reflecting the public opinion
of sf.--Ed.] Not that science fiction is "respectable"--but Leverentz
should have chosen a better example to illustrate his point.----Joe
Semenovich, 155-07 71st Avenue, Flushing 67, New York. P.S.: In
SOLUTION T-400 there are 399 words! You're wrong, Ken, I took time to
count them.
[Judging from the following letter from Larry Saunders, we doubt that
you missed a vital point in A PHONE IS RINGING. In fact, you probably
noticed something that no one else has bothered to comment upon, and
which Larry mentions in his letter.--Ed.]
Dear Bob: An explanation for the confusion that probably resulted
from the appearance of A PHONE IS RINGING seems to be in order. I
wrote the story some years ago while I was under the influence of
Leiber, Bradbury, and Benet. When I submitted it to Paul, he accepted
it with reservations. In other words, he was confused. He suggested
that I might rewrite it and clear up a few points. This seemed like
a good idea. The fact remains that I am a lazy SOB, in other words a
typical fan, and I never did rewrite it for him. Its appearance in
the Nov.-Jan. issue of F-F thus came as a complete and utter surprise
to me. I was both pleased and embarrassed. Embarrassed because the
story is a confused mess. As it stands, I know what's going on but the
readers do not--a situation which should not be allowed to happen.
Rather than offer you my full explanation of PHONE, I offer you my
apology instead. Ghu forgive me. ### Toby Duane's COLIN AND THE
LEPRECHAUN was well-written and capably handled. Ken Krueger's SOLUTION
T-400 was an amusing play on words. The best item was Al Leverentz'
TARRY THOU HERE, which though unoriginal, was masterfully pulled-off.
INTRANSIGEANT impressed me with its Nietzschean bitterness. Can't say
that I agree with him.... Who gives a faint, unheated damn whether sf
is "respectable" or not? If I want to read something respectable I can
turn to Dostoyevsky, Balzac, Dickens, Hardy, or even Nietzsche. As for
the song RUDOLPH--well I can't stand it either, but not for the same
reason. The song just is no good--it stinks. The majority of commercial
songs do. I listened to this tripe all my life and it had no apparent
affect on me. I just outgrew it. Now instead of the current Hit Parade,
it's Brahms, Bruckner, Mahler, Handel, Nielson, Strauss, etc.----Larry
Saunders, 170 Washington Avenue, Stamford, Connecticut.
Cheerio: About the matter of Al Leverentz' red-nosed reindeer. This
is a version of Rudolph's birth that I picked up somewhere, I don't
remember just where, but it sounds only too true. You might check with
Bob Bloch--he's in the advertising business and will probably know the
score. ### My understanding is that the song was deliberately written a
few Christmasses ago to promote Sears-Roebuck merchandise. [Am inclined
to think it was Montgomery Ward rather than Sears--I can remember
when the first rash of that Rudolph bilge came out.--Ed.] Some bright
advertising genius sold that company a package deal: a song to do the
plugging, and "Rudolph" toys, books, soap, clothing, etc. It worked
very well, too, with perhaps hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of
junk being palmed off on the kids and their helpless parents. ### That
sort of promoting is done all the time to sell many products. When one
of George Pal's interplanetary movies, WHEN WORLDS COLLIDE, was being
readied for the theaters, one of the movie trade journals I subscribe
to reported that Paramount had arranged to plant an article on how the
picture was made, in ASTOUNDING. And that's just what happened. At
least, friend Campbell printed it. ### Meanwhile, they've got a new
picture coming up next May, WAR OF THE WORLDS, and the publicity men
are bust again. One of them has been in contact with me, getting names
and addresses of both pro and fan magazines, so there's no telling what
kind of propaganda barrage is about to come our way!----Bob Tucker,
P.O. Box 702, Bloomington, Illinois.
Dear Bob: I'm a little confused about the Lovecraft Collectors'
Library. On the contents page of F-F it states that one volume has been
published and there are six more to go, the set to sell for $2.25.
On page 18, it says the set will consist of six volumes and sell for
$1.20. I'd like to get the set, but ... well, could you clear up the
confusion? And what about GROTESQUE? I'd like to sub, but how much does
it cost and how often is it published?----Richard Billings, 610 E.
Street, North Wilkesboro, North Carolina.
[The true state of affairs with regard to the Lovecraft Library is as
follows: there are seven volumes in the set, one of which has been
published and a second of which is about to appear. Price for the set
of seven is $2.25, or 35¢ per volume if purchased separately. As for
GROTESQUE: as was stated in F-F, the magazine is now defunct, due to
the induction of the editor into the Army. The first three issues of
the magazine, however, are still available from the editor of FAN-FARE
@ 50¢. Take it from us, they are well worth getting!--Ed.]
Dear Bob: On the pleasant side of the ledger, the fiction. A PHONE IS
RINGING----a rather excellently integrated yarn. A certain resource of
technique and imagination definitely present. TARRY THOU HERE--well
done. Maybe I had better say no more, except that to the best of
my knowledge my reason for the placing of this story is entirely
aesthetic. COLIN & THE LEPRECHAUN--clever. SOLUTION T-400--this is a
story? The title was good enough as a pun, but that was about the best
part of the whole thing. ### Now for the CAT. If this were the only
communication I ever received from Al Leverentz (direct or indirect),
I would think him a terrible fellow indeed. Actually, he seems to be
a rather nice guy. However, I can't let a challenge of this magnitude
go by without some response. Case I: My reaction is entirely wrong.
Conclusion: Al was deducing entirely too much from my short remarks,
and his lack of acquaintance with my personality at the time. Case
II: Al is completely wrong. Conclusion: of my remarks in preceding
FAN-FARE. I probably erred in the direction of charity. Case III:
Article fails insofar as it led to individual interpretations on the
part of the reader--interpretations which were false, but _please!_ not
maliciously so. Conclusion: Al errs by excess in his reaction. This
I think is the most probable. There may be many more positions, but
I think I've covered the ground sufficiently. Now that the fiery one
is in the Army, it may not be just to get the last word by default,
but there seemed no other course. I trust Al Leverentz will forgive
me.--Keran O'Brien, 186-29 Avon Road, Jamaica 32, New York.