I have not dealt with Onya's article nearly to the extent that I might,but I don't think it's really necessary, mainly because, as I said, Ihave a very strong idea who Foo E. Onya is. I wish I could hazard mysuspicion right here, but I'm so sure I'm right, and both the editor andOnya seem so determined to keep it secret, that I cannot be otherwisethan silent. I will merely conclude by reiterating my doubt that you,"Foo E. Onya", are really disclaiming sfn. At least I hope you willcontinue both reading and writing it. But I swear, if I ever hear of youdoing so, I shall feel sorely tempted to broadcast what a hypocrite youwere with that article!
THE FIGHT OF THE GOOD SHIP CLARISSA
by one who should know better
The space rocket Clarissa was nine days out from Venus. The members ofthe crew were also out for nine days. They were hunters, fearlessexpeditionists who bagged game in Venusian jungles. At the start of ourstory they are busy bagging their pants, not to forget their eyes. Asort of lull has fallen over the ship (Note: a lull is a time warp thatfrequently attacks rockets and seduces its members into a siesta). Itwas during this lull that Anthony Quelch sat sprawled at his typewriterlooking as baggy as a bag of unripe grapefruit. ANTHONY QUELCH, theCosmic Clamor Boy, with a face like turned linoleum on the third term,busy writing a book: "Fascism is Communism with a shave" for which hewould receive 367 rubles, 10 pazinkas and incarceration in a cinemashowing Gone With The Wind.
The boys upstairs were throwing a party in the control room. They hadbeen throwing the same party so long the party looked like a worn outfirst edition of a trapeze artist. There is doubt in our mind as towhether they were trying to break the party up or just do the morningmopping and break the lease simultaneously. Arms, legs and headslittered the deck. The boys, it seems, threw a party at the drop of achin. Sort of a space cataclysm with rules and little regulation--kindof an atomic convulsion in the front parlor. The neighbors nevercomplained. The neighbors were 450 million miles away. And the boys weretighter than a catsup bottle at lunch-time. The last time the captainhad looked up the hatch and called to his kiddies in a gentle voice,"HELL!" the kiddies had thrown snowballs at him. The captain hadvanished. Clever way they make these space bombs nowadays. A few minutesprevious the boys had been tearing up old Amazings and throwing them atone another, but now they contented themselves with tearing up just theeditors. Palmer was torn in half and he sat in a corner arguing withhimself about rejecting a story for an hour before someone put himthrough an orange juice machine killing him. (Orange juice sorry, now?)
And then they landed on Venus. How in heck they got back there so quickis a wonder of science, but there they were. "Come on, girls!" criedQuelch, "put on your shin guards, get out there and dig ditches for goodold W.P.A. and the Rover Boys Academy, earth branch 27!"
Out into the staggering rain they dashed. Five minutes later they cameback in, gasping, reeling. They had forgotten their corsets! TheVenusians closed in like a million land-lords. "Charge, men!" criedQuelch, running the other way. And then--BATTLE! "What a fight; folks,"cried Quelch. "Twenty thousand earth men against two Venusians! We'reoutnumbered, but we
'll fight!" BLOOSH! "Correction--ten thousand menfighting!" KERBLOM! "One hundred men from earth left!" BOOM! "This isthe last man speaking, folks! What a fight. I ain't had so much funsince--Help, someone just clipped my corset strings!" BWOM! "Someonejust clipped me!"
The field was silent. The ship lay gleaming in the pink light of dawnthat was just blooming over the mountains like a pale flower. The twoVenusians stood weeping over the bodies of the Earthlings like onionpeelers or two women in a bargain basement. One Venusian looked at theother Venusian, and in a high-pitched, hoarse, sad voice said: "Aye,aye, aye--THIS--HIT SHOODEN HEPPEN TO A DOG--NOT A DOIDY LEEDLE DOG!"And dawn came peacefully, like beer barrels, rolling.
_The Intruder_
_emil petaja_
It was in San Francisco, on the walk above the sand and surf thatpounded like the heart of the earth. There was wind, the sky and seablended in a grey mist.
I was sitting on a stone bench watching a faint hint of distant smoke,wondering what ship it was and from what far port.
Mine was a pleasent wind--loneliness. So when he came, wrapped in hisgreat overcoat and muffler, hat pulled down, and sat on my bench I wasabout to rise and leave him. There were other benches, and I was not inthe mood for idle gossip about Hitler and taxes.
"Don't go. Please." His plea was authentic.
"I must get back to my shop," I said.
"Surely you can spare a moment." I could not even to begin to place theaccent in his voice. Low as a whisper, tense. His deep-set eyes heldme ... his face was pale and had a serenity born of suffering. A placcidface, not given to emotional betrayels, yet mystical. I sat down again.Here was someone bewilderingly strange. Someone I wouldn't soon forget.He moved a hand toward me, as tho to hold me from going, and I saw withmild curiosity that he wore heavy gloves, like mittens.
"I am not well. I ... I must not be out in the damp air," I said. "Buttoday I just had to go out and walk. I had to."
"I can understand." I warmed to the wave of aloneness that lay in hiswords. "I too have been ill. I know you, Otis Marlin. I have visitedyour shop off Market Street. You are not rich, but the feel of thecovers 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 fakemystic bent on arousing in me an interest in spiritism favorable to hispocket-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. Iwas there only yesterday," he said. And I remembered him. In returningfrom 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, andI recalled pausing to watch his stiff-legged progress down the streetand around the corner.
There was now a pause, while I watched leaves scuttling along the oiledwalk in the growling wind. Then a sound like a sigh came from mycompanion. It seemed to me that the wind and the sea spoke loudly of asudden, as tho approaching some dire climax. The sea wind chilled me asit had not before, I wanted to leave.
"Dare I tell you? DARE I!" His white face turned upward. It was asthough he questioned some spirit in the winds.
I was silent; curious, yet fearful of what it might be he might not beallowed to tell me. The winds were portentously still.
"Were you ever told, as a child, that you must not attempt to count thestars 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 forone brain. I...."
"I suppose it never occurred to you," he interrupted, "that thissuperstition might hold even more truth than that, truth as malignant asit 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 arepatterns--designs which if read, might lure the intrepid miserable onewho reads them out of earth and beyond ... beyond, to immeasurableevil.... Do you understand what I am saying?" His voice quiveredmetallically, 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 asthat without any shred of evidence."