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Science Fiction Savant, issue 5, Summer 1946
Page 5
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[illegible, [voice spoke to his soul, he would go.]] In his little kitchen he picked up a skillet, musing over the irony of using a frying implement for cookery, in a world where there was naught to fry or fry with. Nothing lived to provide grease. Only -- himself! He was the last--the only man, on earth, and he was about to die. He felt that death was no further away than the next room. Queer---! Suddenly, startled, he dropped the skillet and it went clattering to the floor. Loudly and clearly, there had been a knocking upon the front door. Herndon took a deep breath. He threw back his shoulders and gave himself a quick glance in the mirror across the room. Slowly, he walked toward the living room -- through it. He extended his hand and opened the door. -------------- THE DRIPDRUDGE DRAMA By Delbert B. Vance Mr. Blanken mount Percevil Dredgewater was a tycoon--or was it a goon?--oh, well, anyway, he headed the Facts and Figures Typewriter Company. They had sold over one million typewriters and five hundred thousand adding machines in the last year. To top things off he also owned a publishing company, which in turn published (purely spasmodically) text books and the like. Now Mr. Dredge water was rich, filthy rich, he had something like six automobiles, but alas only one set of tires. The sad part of that was they were for an ancient relic of a car, a Stanley Steamer I think--no--no, it was a Crosley--yes a Crosley. In his thirty years, he had totaled over seven hundred million dollars. This year was rather low; he only made seven million, that's on the income tax; however he gives the government his income and keeps the tax. From all sources of information he is still living quite comfortably in his forty room cottage. Everything was rosy for Mr. Dredgewater until about three o'clock one bright day when a gentleman with a definite apple green complexion sauntered into his room, a small brief case tucked under his arm. "May, I see you Mr. Droopwater," he asked in his flute pitched voice. "Dredgewater." "So sorry to correct you, but it is tread water, Mr. Droopwater," came the little green man's reply. "I mean my name is Dredgewater," was the tycoon's insistant reply. "Dredgewater, Dredgewater," muttered the green personage. "Well, anyway Mr. Droopwater, I've come here on business and so let's get down to it." The Adding Machine Wolf seated himself and stared. "Well, aren't you going to offer me a smoke," demanded the little
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[illegible, [voice spoke to his soul, he would go.]] In his little kitchen he picked up a skillet, musing over the irony of using a frying implement for cookery, in a world where there was naught to fry or fry with. Nothing lived to provide grease. Only -- himself! He was the last--the only man, on earth, and he was about to die. He felt that death was no further away than the next room. Queer---! Suddenly, startled, he dropped the skillet and it went clattering to the floor. Loudly and clearly, there had been a knocking upon the front door. Herndon took a deep breath. He threw back his shoulders and gave himself a quick glance in the mirror across the room. Slowly, he walked toward the living room -- through it. He extended his hand and opened the door. -------------- THE DRIPDRUDGE DRAMA By Delbert B. Vance Mr. Blanken mount Percevil Dredgewater was a tycoon--or was it a goon?--oh, well, anyway, he headed the Facts and Figures Typewriter Company. They had sold over one million typewriters and five hundred thousand adding machines in the last year. To top things off he also owned a publishing company, which in turn published (purely spasmodically) text books and the like. Now Mr. Dredge water was rich, filthy rich, he had something like six automobiles, but alas only one set of tires. The sad part of that was they were for an ancient relic of a car, a Stanley Steamer I think--no--no, it was a Crosley--yes a Crosley. In his thirty years, he had totaled over seven hundred million dollars. This year was rather low; he only made seven million, that's on the income tax; however he gives the government his income and keeps the tax. From all sources of information he is still living quite comfortably in his forty room cottage. Everything was rosy for Mr. Dredgewater until about three o'clock one bright day when a gentleman with a definite apple green complexion sauntered into his room, a small brief case tucked under his arm. "May, I see you Mr. Droopwater," he asked in his flute pitched voice. "Dredgewater." "So sorry to correct you, but it is tread water, Mr. Droopwater," came the little green man's reply. "I mean my name is Dredgewater," was the tycoon's insistant reply. "Dredgewater, Dredgewater," muttered the green personage. "Well, anyway Mr. Droopwater, I've come here on business and so let's get down to it." The Adding Machine Wolf seated himself and stared. "Well, aren't you going to offer me a smoke," demanded the little
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