Futuria Fantasia, Fall 1939 Read online

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  FUTURIA FANTASIA

  fall 1939

  vol. 1 no. 2

  Ray D. Bradbury editor

  10 cents

  WORRY!!!]

  A newer, plumper Futuria Fantasia greets you, with more articles, morevalue and less Technocracy! The reason for the scanty garb of our summerissue was TIME, that villain who holds his sword over all humanity. Ididn't have time to contact various authors and fans--and there waslittle time for mimeographing, since the Angel expedition to New Yorkwas fast approaching, and ye editor was wandering around in a dazewaiting for the day when his bus would sweep him off to Manhattan. Thetrip to New York was a happily successful thing. Futuria Fantasia wouldlike to toss an orchid to the editors who contributed so generously tothe convention, and at the same time blare forth with a juicy razzberryfor a certain trio of fans who made fools of themselves at the Conv.(and u know who we meen).

  But enuf of this boring fan quarreling ** action should have been takenat the convention and there's no use bawling over fused rockets. Thisissue we bring you another cover by Hans Bok. We sincerely believe hiswork is superior to any work done in fan mags for a long time. He has tobe good ** for he is a protegee of no less a person than MaxfieldParrish, whose paintings have, at one time or another in the pastdecades, made more than one home beautiful. If you haven't had aMaxfield Parrish painting in yur home, it ain't a home. And, we feelproud of Hans becuz we acted as agent to Weird Tales whileconventioneering in New York. Latest report is that Hans is doing anIllustration for Weird Tales. Here's luck, Hans, and may you keep up thegood work while staying in Manhattan.

  With this issue we introduce two new fans, and two new authors. They areAnthony Corvais, who makes his part-time home in Tucson, Arizona, andGuy Amory of Phoenix. Corvais, twenty-two years old, has done a neat jobwith his RETURN FROM THE DEAD. In the winter edition he will let go withanother original SYMPHONIC ABDUCTION. Guy Amory, after sum few hours ofhard labor, finally got an interview out of Hankuttner, which is work inany man's lingo. Both boys were in L.A. for two weeks about a monthback, and gave their promise to support FuFa from now to TDWACOH (theday when _astounding_ comes out hourly).

  Ron Reynolds, whose satire on Technocracy received favorable comment,comes back with his views and news about the Convention ** and CorrinneEllsworth, gracious female fan of L.A. presents us with something thatis distasteful to me, THE CASE OF THE VANISHING CAFETERIA. I protestagainst her grossly horrid insinuations about my Ghoul's Broths.Manhattaneers will tell you that it is only at the full moon that I canconcoct one ... tho a cafeteria or Automat atmosphere does work wonderswith my ego--specially if there are enuf people watching to make itprofitable.

  As you will notice there is not a great deal to be sed about Technocracyin this issue ** mainly becuz I am tired of talking and the response weget is vury, vury funny, if not childish. If someone cares to challengeus on Technocracy we shall be only too glad to answer all questions, butwhen a bunch of crackpots start dragging in their own theories,relatives and human nature then we give up the ghost. We take thisoccasion to challenge the so-far-silent John W. Campbell to a duel ofwords on this subject. How's about it, Campbell?

  The Galapurred Forsendyke

  A tale of the Indies

  By H.V.B.

  He remembered--but never dreamed its source--the old poem which began,"A swibosh is an Indian," and as he leaned back in his chair puffing ona pipe, his lean bronzed face darkly serious against the moonglow, alittle echo hooted from the hills as if an owl'd cried.

  Then Edris called. At the alarmant tingle of the bell, like a tinnienttang of a rattlesnake's tremor, he ran to the telephone and shoutedeagerly, "Edris! My darling." Then he remembered to take receiver offthe hook. He was answered by dead silence. Then, to his amazement andutter horror, a long damp tongue swished out of the mouthpiece, lappedhis cheek and disappeared in a puff of acrid steam. "The Martians!" washis first thot, as he tremblingly buttered his toast. Then he heardEdris' voice. It floated easily from the ceiling as if it were invertedsteam. He looked up, and discovered overhead that the planet India hadvanished from the map. It had peeled itself loose and inched over thewallpaper and was now wrapping itself like a second skin around a bakedpotato. "But that's impossible!" he breathed, "There aren't any potatoesin August, and especially in bathtubs." Again Edris' voice reached him.What was she saying? "Go with the pretty men, dear, they'll feed you anorange." But that sounded crazy. He was worried, and clung to a red-hotradiator which melted into a puddle at his touch, burning a round redhole in the rug.

  Seventeen puffs of black vapor--he counted them--whiffed up winsomelyfrom the charred circle. "Around and around," he said, dreamily,remembering the second line of the poem, "When Fifthly is perplexed."Edris oozed out of the shadows to him, longlike and snaky, with fearthyfettles adorning her foresome, and a blaze in her eyes like thehurmwurst of Whidby. Island, island, he repeated to himself, thrustingan negatory hand thru the farthing of her wrabdy--and her mouth partedto disclose another mouth, from which issued visible words like tickertape of steam in chilly air, so surprising him that he could only standrooted, like a tree. It was then that he noticed the snakes in her hair,as the leaves sprouted from his cheeks end from every simple vascicle ofhis tubular perpendages sometimes cursorily applellated, eyebreams.

  Among the amiderie of her fascinating fingers, which she waved beforehis face like the shimmer of phosphorescence on a salty sea on hotmidsummer moonlight, took shape an elegant form, something reminiscentof a redchief. Within his sore heart a black thot grew, spurred by theexcess of his agonized birdtwitters, bidding him to slay and do soquickly. He reached for a weapon. There was nothing at hand but a slug.He groaned. A slug against snakes? What chance of victory? As tho she'dread his thot, she moved nearer, her laffter lifting and lowering like afragile boat on waves of honey. One by one her eyes--390 of them--poppedout with hollow slaps like corks from bottles, while within the dulldraperies of scarlet which adorned the farthest lamp-post stirred anunnameable bloody something which sent forth a thrill of foreboding intohis anguished heart, and he remembered the 4th and last lines of thepoem "He who dines alone is hexed." He uttered a gurgling scream as sheleaped upon him, and her snales torn and the steam of her bareeye-sockets scalded him--then the ensanguined thing crawled limply overthe face of the blinding desert and the vacant sun stared sitelessly atnothing.

  I'M THROUGH!

  BY _Foo E Onya_

  The editor of this magazine, under the impression that I am still one ofthat queer tribe known as science-fiction fans, has asked me to write anarticle. I am no longer a science-fiction fan. I'M THROUGH! However, Ihave decided to do the article and explain with my chin leading just whyI am through. Here goes.

  As to science-fiction; the trouble with me, I think, is that I haveoutgrown the stuff mentally--and that's not a boast, seeing the type ofminds modern science-fiction is dished up for. I'll admit there are afew exceptions, but on the whole, s.f. fans are as arrogant,self-satisfied, conspicuously blind, and critically moronic a group asthe good Lord has allowed to people the Earth. I don't blush that I wasonce a s.f. fan, starting back in '26--I merely thank my personal godsthat somewhere along the route I woke up and began to see s.f. as itreally is. The superiority complex found in group known as sciencefiction fans is probably unequalled anywhere. Their certitude in theirsuperiority, as readers of s.f., over all other fiction, isrepresentative of an absolutely incredibly stupid complacence. F
acingthe business squarely, we can see why s.f. lays CLAIM to suchsuperiority: for no other obvious reason than that such fiction is thebastard child of science and the romantic temperament. But NOT, goodlord, because it is INSTRUCTIVE! This has too long been preached, untils.f. readers actually believe it! The amazing _naivette_ of thesereaders who think their literature is superior merely because they thinkit teaches--this simple moves me to despair. The fact is, any literaturewhose function it is to teach, ceases to be literature _as such_; itbecomes didactic literature, which is the color of another horse. Whenliterature becomes obsessed by _ideas as such_, it is no longerliterature. Just how the delusion could have arisen that writing,because invested with scientific symbols, automatically became possessedof new and more precious values, is beyond me to explain. Ideas are outof place in literature unless they are subordinate to the spirit of thestory--but s.f. readers have never perceived this. "Give us SCIENCE!"they shriek, running with clenched fists uprisen to the stars. "We wantSCIENCE! Give us the Great God!" Well, they are given _science_, andwhat does it turn out to be? For the most part the off-scourings of thelunatic fringe. Talk about scientists being inspired by s.f.stories--WHEW! Why, not one s.f. writer in fifty has the remotest ideaof what he is talking about--he just picks up some elementary idea andkicks hell out of it. I'll wager that no scientist is going to producevery spectacularly on the basis of any ideas provided by s.f. It'spossible, but wholly improbable. Scientists don't tick that way.

  Another amusing fallacy: this well-known business of Wells and Vernedoing some _predicting_. It's one of the biggest laffs of all. They madea _flock_ of predictions, a few of which were realized, and some only inways most vaguely related to the original conception. How many ideas didthey have that _never_ have been realized and never will? Give themcredit for being good and often logical guessers, perhaps--but don'tclaim that as a merit for their WRITING! And how many other goodguessers must there have been who never got around to setting down theirpredictions in print?

  There is but one affectation about Wells' "scientific" stories which hepublished before he discovered his capability at characterization, andthis is the affectation of imagination. There is no genuine imaginationin beating out cleverness of the s.f. type; the point of view, theinventive quality necessary for their construction, is the same as withthe widely circulated tales of Nick Carter. Science-fiction stories arenot struck forth with a creative hand, they are manufactured productsput together piece-meal--none of them being written in any but thecalmest and most conscious mood. They are lacking in that importantelement of all really GREAT works of the imagination: inspiration. Andwhat is inspiration? It is essentially the soaring of one's soul withoutthe knowledge of the mind. In the gleaming moment the mind becomes theslave of the spirit. Read Wells' EXPERIMENT IN AUTOBIOGRAPHY and see whyand what he thinks of his early writings of s.f. He admits that theywere only a means to an end, a preparation for his more serious writingthat was to come later--Plato's REPUBLIC and More's UTOPIA also servinglargely to hasten Wells' Utopian proclivities. When he really began totake his predictions seriously, he began to turn out the important stuffwhich now bores the average s.f. enthusiast silly--or should I saysillier!

  As for Verne, his stuff has never been literature except for boys. It isinnocuous adventure--stuff that will not pervert morals. It is not toobadly written, and the language is so simple that Verne is readily to beread in the original French, in fact some of his stuff serves astextbooks in French classes in American schools.

  But in the main, what I am speaking about now is s.f. as it isconstituted today. All of this modern s.f. is worthless except inperhaps _one minor respect_, and I'm not even sure of that. It CAN openthe minds of boys and girls reaching puberty, giving them a morecatholic attitude toward startling new ideas. However, it is so veryoften fatal at the same time, in that these boys and girls becomeobsessed with it--it enmeshes them until, as I said, they becomeincredibly blind to all else, so certain are they of the superiority oftheir hobby over all other fiction. There are exceptions, but myexperience has proven that the exceptions are by far a minority.

  Also I will admit that s.f. can on occasion provide escapist flights ofimagination--in fact, it can be admirable for this; but this type ofs.f. has become exceedingly rare because this crazy superstructure ofSCIENCE, and even more so ADVENTURE, has become such a fetish that soundwriting concerning people is rarely to be found. In pulpscience-fiction, never.

  And the frightful smugness fostered by the modern s.f. magazines issimply appalling. It seems that not only the readers, but the editorsand writers as well, cannot or will not see anything beyond their ownperverted models. Just as one example which I remember very well, lookhow BRAVE NEW WORLD, the admirable and really important novel byHuxley, was received a few years ago. It was Clark Ashton Smith, Ibelieve, who mentioned it as embodying some of Huxley's "habitualpornography"--simply, stunning P. Schyler Miller; whom, I might mention,I consider as one of the most intellectual authors and fans. And,reviewing the book, C.A. Brandt also decried its preoccupation with sex,but said complacently that it might, at least, bring to the attentionof people that there was such a thing as the science-fictionists andtheir so-called literature. Of all the damned nonsense! BRAVE NEW WORLDwas, as a matter of fact, a satire on sex, and of FAR MORE IMPORTANCEthan to "bring to the attention of people that there is such a thing assci-fiction." Huxley conceived a future world in which Ford'smechanistic contributions had become so emphatic as to deprive thepeople of all but an animal interest in sex; he projects a more normalman into such a civilization for no other reason than to characterizepresent-day tendencies with searing satire. But Brandt--he evidentlywould demolish this to set up in its stead a "Space-wrecked On Mars"atrocity.

  To get back to the subject, it is my honest opinion that no person ofvery conspicuous intelligence can subsist very considerably on s.f.after he begins to mature intellectually. There is simply not enuf _to_it to provide intellectual or spiritual nourishment. He may string alongwith it for a few years out of habit or some mental quirk--but stuffaimed at juvenile minds cannot very long sustain a person of matureyears, unless that person is himself a mental adolescent. The way thefans flocked to the S.F. League, indulged in "tests" to prove their"superiority" over other readers, the silly letters in the mags, thepetty internal strife, and many other things, have served to widen thegulf between me and s.f.

  The most important thing, however, is that I have discovered thatthere's been too much else of importance, REAL importance, that has beensaid and written in this world (and is being and will be), for me todesire to give much attention to such a petty thing as s.f. any more. Ishall read on the fringe of it, but increasingly less frequently I'mafraid.

  I might have summed this entire thing up by saying, "I'm satiated," butthat wouldn't be the entire truth. The entire truth would be: "I amsatiated and much wiser." In conclusion let me point out that this isonly one man's opinion. I have intentionally been harsh in my estimates,maybe some points are in need of qualification or elucidation, but byand large, I stand back of what I have written here. AMEN.

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  THE ABOVE ARTICLE IS SUBJECT TO CRITICISM--THEREFORE ANY AND ALL FANSAND AUTHORS WHO DISAGREE WILL FIND THEIR ARTICLES AGAINST THIS ONE BY AFAMOUS AUTHOR WELCOMED AND PRINTED IN THE WINTER EDITION OF FUFA!. THEWINTER EDITION WILL BE OUT DURING THE MONTH OF DECEMBER--SOCONTRIBUTIONS SHOULD BE MAILED IMMEDIATELY TO FUTURIA FANTASIA--3054-1/2West 12th Street, Los Angeles. (EDITOR)

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  FUTURIA VOLUME ONE NO. THREE FANTASIA! OUT IN DECEMBER TEN CENTS

  Contributions welcomed. Short stories preferred. No personal stuff orcaustic feuding. Humor wanted. Material bought but never paid for--sowhat can you lose? We suggest you send a quarter for the next 3 issuesof Futuria Fantasia and save yourselves a nickel.

  Contributing Authors/ Willy Ley, Rocklynne, Hasse, Kuttner, Ackerman,
Corvais

  Satan's Mistress

  by Doug Rogers

  Where flames of purgatory twist, and Earth's transgressors dwell, She dances swathed in heated mist, before the gates of Hell. Her gleaming naked body flees before the Demon fires, Along the shores of molten seas--ridged high by fuming pyres. Her hair, a liquid cape of flame, whips hot about her breasts, A strumpet in the Devil's name, which he alone invests, Gives power to a woman born of brimstone, steam and smoke, Her soul, a spark in early morn, flares up to share the yoke Of evil Mephistopheles upon his throne of death, Unheeding shrieks and doleful pleas choked out by dying breath. The Devil's Mistress dances down thru dungeons carved from bone, Upon her head the sinner's crown, each jewel a sigh, a moan. Before the wailing souls in caves, tossed down from earthly things, To charred and cindered minds of slaves her dancing passion brings. Then, tired of her evil joke, and laughing at her games, She draws about her fiery cloak to vanish in the flames.

  Lost Soul

  by Henry Hasse

  From far across the desolate moor I heard The echo of a wild and anguished cry-- A tortured voice that shrieked aloud a word, A name, that shivered 'cross the leaden sky. I stopped--stared 'round--I knew that voice did sound A faint, familiar note within my brain. I fled across that dark and desolate ground Seeking out the direction whence it came. Forebodingly, that voice kept echoing Within a brain that did not seem my own ... A vague remembrance of a recent thing I could not grasp ... I was a lost and lone Forsaken soul that sped I knew not where, Wondering frightenedly what I did seek.... At last I found it, there beside a bare And lonely road, when trembling and weak, I gazed upon a gallows-tree where hung A corpse, the very site of which did freeze The blood within my veins; a corpse that swung Grotesquely to and fro upon the breeze. And then, through rising panic, closer still I peered--then saw!--and knew! Again that cry That shrieked a name--the cry that issued shrill From my own throat, and shivered to the sky!