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its essentials, the story still sticks in my mind.... I can see the old man now, with a pair of my best socks around his neck, moaning and wheezing and spitting on the floor, and in between times telling his strange, strange story. Of course, the whole thing was fantastic; the old loon had probably escaped from some nut factory.... and yet.... No, no, the old man was booby. And yet.... And yet....

The night it happened I was sitting in my study in my white silk Russian lounging robe, smoking a narghile or Indian water-pipe and throwing darts at a signed photograph of Sally Rand. I'd just pinked her neatly in the gluteus maximus, when I was startled by a crash of glass, and turned around to see an aged man tottering carefully thru the remains of my French windows.

At once the chill of horror griped me. Oops, I mean gripped!! Unable to move, I stared speechlessly as the old man went directly to my chest of drawers and fumbled within, the overhead light throwing his face into sombre shadow.

Blowing his nose on one of my dress shirts he grumbled to himself about the starch and selected a pair of lamb's wool socks and tied them around his neck. This done, he hobbled over to a chair facing mine, sat down, pulled his tattered undershirt, which for some reason he was wearing as a shawl, more closely around his thin shoulders, stared reproachfully at me, shivering at the icy blast that came in thru the shattered windows. "There's a draft in here, and you know what you can do about it," he complained.

"Yes, there is," I managed to get out.

He nodded, satisfied. "I thought there was," he said. Then, dragging his chair closer, he leaned over and, grasping me firmly by the lapels, said pleasently, "Ipswitch on the amscray, don't you think?"

Half stifled with terror, I gasped, "Uh, yes." At once his manner was transformed. Drawing himself up indignantly he sneered "That's a lie! That's what they all say, the sniveling hypocrites! They know it's a lie!"

Then he drew nearer once again. "But," he said, "I'm going to tell you my story anyway. You have a kind face. And I—I just don't have any at all." He raised the rim of his hat and I saw it was true! He had no face! Gibbering, I tried to get away, to flee or scram, but it was too late. Taking a firmer grip on my lapels, and standing heavily on my foot, the old man began his story.

"You may not believe it (he began) but I, too, was once a carefree young fan like yourself. From morning til night I thot of nothing but eating, sleeping, sex, and my fan-mag, PUKE. In the evening I would stay up til morning, splashing happily in my hecto inks, and turning out pages and pages of material like mad. And at last I'd go to bed, tired but happy, knowing I had done my duty as an honest fan.

"And then, one day, it happened. By some unfortunate chance, I got a little double-strength purple hectograph ink on my face. Noticing it in the mirror the next morning, as I was trying to decide whether to shave this week or not, I took a washcloth and tried to rub off the stain. Alas, poor fool that I was, I recked not of the consequences!

"With hard rubbing, I managed to get some of the ink off, but when I went on rubbing, to remove the rest, the ink I had rubbed off was transferred back to my face. And so it went, the adament ink going from washrag to face and from face back to washrag.

"The ink, as I have said, was double-strength purple undiluted, and suffered nothing in the process. But something had to give way. The washrag, by an unhappy coincidence, was a brand-new one, and my face was some years old. Only one thing could have happened. It did."

Thus, shedding a tear on the carpet, the old stranger ended his weird tale. Getting slowly to his feet, he drew his hat down over his eyes once more, tied his socks around his neck more tightly, and shuffled off toward the shattered windows. At the sill, he turned, faced the room, and made one last parting shot, ere he vanished in the gloom. "Dogs have fleas!" he screamed.

But sometimes I wonder.

I'VE NEVER SEEN by Hannes Bok
 
I've never seen a Flirtenflog.
I've heard that it's a Martian dog.
But science-fiction has romanced
That the Martian race is much advanced;
So thus my reasoning should be,
Has a Flirtenflog ever seen ME??????

HAVE YOU TRIED READING

freehafer's POLARIS?

HANNES V: BOK ARTIST AS SEEN BY HANNES V: BOK CRITIC.

Hannes Bok, born in Seattle. Age; 23. Arrived in New York in August, 1939. Is doing interiors and covers for Weird Tales and several other wellknown fantasy magazines.

ninevah by J. E. Kelleam
They say the bittern and the cormorant
Have nested in the upper lintels there.
The wind builds flowers of dust upon the air,
Lifting and falling, slow and hesitant.
Within the crumbling temples beasts have laired;
Eyeless the windows, broken the terraces;
No laughter breaks the silence. The palaces
Are weathered and the cedar work is bared.
If this be glory's wage, then let me trust
The fragile things that are not built of might,
The lovely things that leave no trace when gone:
The rose that swiftly turns into the dust,
Beauty that blazed a moment——Or a night
Of golden stars forgotten with the dawn.

Do U Want Fans to

Point At U & Say

"HE'S BEHIND THE TIMES—HE WRITES WITH AN OLD BLACK & RED RIBBON"? Or—"Well, he uses one of those swell fantastic green-&-brown ribbons like Erle Korshak & Tom Wright & Russ Hodgkins & Ackerman & 'Alchemist' & Yerke & Freehater &"—look at the record: 3 dozen sold to date! $1 ppd from MOROJO, Bx 6475 Met Sta, Los Angeles Cal.

Daugherty's 2 Sensations

Walt Daugherty: 1039 W 39 Los Angeles Cal

(Both for 15c!)

SHANGRI-LA 10c

The Rocket 10c

LE ZOMBIE—the Nickel Nifty, the Flower of Fandom. From Bob Tucker, PO Box 260, Bloomington Illinois

Get the Lead out of your Shoe, son, & send for that copy of Snide, the "Thud & Blunder" mag, 10c from Damon Knight, 803 Columbia, Hood River Ore.

THE MERCURY is rising! Send for this temperature-raising news-mag of Pacificoast Palaver, only 5c a copy from Tom Wright, 1140 Bush St, Martinez, Calif. Companion, The Comet, costs but 10c from same publisher, & will be sure to please U!

BOK'S creatures of Lorelei
LOCAL LEAGUE LIFE —GUY AMORY

THE ROADS MUST ROLL! And the road rolls right into Campbell's office and rolling right back comes a check to Mr. Robert A. Heinlein, member of the L.A. S.F.L., whose noval is currently in ASTOUNDING now. Heinlein's yarn about roads deals with a culture where roads are the most important things to mankind and he just sold it to John W., for which, BRAVO, BOB!

Story will appear with above title or as ROADTOWN, all dpendin' on which side of the bed Campbell gets up from.

How's about a letter of criticism, Mr. Swisher. We would like to know what you think of F.F. Thanx.

THE EDITORS

SCIENTIFAN 15 c

Jan-Feb

Terrificover! The only magazine of its size for fans—slick covers! Material by Tucker, Hart, Sullivan & others! "Horrors Cellar", feature-length fiction by Harry Warner Jr. Long fan-interest article by Lowndes. 10 interesting depts. Publication profusely illustrated.

SPECIAL SUPPLEMENT: Mercury—controversial matters.

A SMASHING PUBLICATION, 1836 - 39th Ave, Oakland, Calif.

FUTURIA FANTASIA

An LA SFL Publication

Ray Bradbury, Editor

3054 1-2 W. 12th St. Los Angeles, Calif.

RETURN POSTAGE GUARANTEED

End of Project Gutenberg's Futuria Fantasia, Spring 1940, by Various
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