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Acolyte, v. 4, issue 1, whole no. 13, Winter 1946
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INVASION, 1949 CHARLES BURBEE JR IT was in the early Spring of 1949 that the first odd event took place. When the man, who stood eighteen inches high at the shoulders and an additional four inches when measured from the top of his head to his unshod feet, first began to walk the streets of Los Angeles, no one paid any attention to him at all. He was the smallest man ever seen, and perfectly proportioned too, but no one paid any attention to him. Angelenoes had all carefully cultivated an air of complete sophistication, and merely passed him by with a glance. No one wished to make himself conspicuously naive by taking more than casual notice of the little visitor. So he walked the streets unmolested, except that he was almost stepped on sometimes. He rode street-cars half-fare, and since the fare in Los Angeles was 7[[cent symbol]], casually dropped his 3 1/2 [[cent symbol]] piece into the coinbox, or sometimes a 2[[cent symbol]] piece and a 1 1/2 [[cent symbol]] piece. (The 1 1/2[[cent symbol]] piece had been developed for people who wished to purchase a one 1 1/2[[cent symbol]] stamp. He was seen everywhere, but no one wrote him up for the papers. Secretly, everyone knew it was all a publicity gag for some super-colossal motion picture which some studio might release at any time, and they did not wish to be fooled. The little man spoke to everyone. His English was excellent, though he had a tendency to swallow his words, and for fear of choking to death on some multi-syllabled word, he spoke only in words of three or less syllables. When he'd been around for six months he became a community institution. One day a courageous reporter, full of rum, saw the little fellow and stopped to talk to him. "What is your name?" he said. "George," said the little man. "George what?" "Smith." "And what do you do for a living?" "I don't pay any attention to that." "Where do you live?" "In my ship in Pershing Square." Here the reporter looked narrowly at his interviewee and then asked, "What sort of ship?" "Why, my space ship, of course," said the little man whose name was George. The reporter, who had a nose more for whiskey than news, thought of going away for awhile until he felt better, but thought he'd ask just one more question and then go away and lie down somewhere. "Tell me all about it?" he said. "Certainly," said the little man. "My name is George Smith because you can pronounce that. I have come from the planet you know as Saturn, the one with the ring around it. I came here six months ago, parked mys hip in Pershing Square, and have since been reconnoitering. The time is ripe. We will strike soon. This is an in-
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INVASION, 1949 CHARLES BURBEE JR IT was in the early Spring of 1949 that the first odd event took place. When the man, who stood eighteen inches high at the shoulders and an additional four inches when measured from the top of his head to his unshod feet, first began to walk the streets of Los Angeles, no one paid any attention to him at all. He was the smallest man ever seen, and perfectly proportioned too, but no one paid any attention to him. Angelenoes had all carefully cultivated an air of complete sophistication, and merely passed him by with a glance. No one wished to make himself conspicuously naive by taking more than casual notice of the little visitor. So he walked the streets unmolested, except that he was almost stepped on sometimes. He rode street-cars half-fare, and since the fare in Los Angeles was 7[[cent symbol]], casually dropped his 3 1/2 [[cent symbol]] piece into the coinbox, or sometimes a 2[[cent symbol]] piece and a 1 1/2 [[cent symbol]] piece. (The 1 1/2[[cent symbol]] piece had been developed for people who wished to purchase a one 1 1/2[[cent symbol]] stamp. He was seen everywhere, but no one wrote him up for the papers. Secretly, everyone knew it was all a publicity gag for some super-colossal motion picture which some studio might release at any time, and they did not wish to be fooled. The little man spoke to everyone. His English was excellent, though he had a tendency to swallow his words, and for fear of choking to death on some multi-syllabled word, he spoke only in words of three or less syllables. When he'd been around for six months he became a community institution. One day a courageous reporter, full of rum, saw the little fellow and stopped to talk to him. "What is your name?" he said. "George," said the little man. "George what?" "Smith." "And what do you do for a living?" "I don't pay any attention to that." "Where do you live?" "In my ship in Pershing Square." Here the reporter looked narrowly at his interviewee and then asked, "What sort of ship?" "Why, my space ship, of course," said the little man whose name was George. The reporter, who had a nose more for whiskey than news, thought of going away for awhile until he felt better, but thought he'd ask just one more question and then go away and lie down somewhere. "Tell me all about it?" he said. "Certainly," said the little man. "My name is George Smith because you can pronounce that. I have come from the planet you know as Saturn, the one with the ring around it. I came here six months ago, parked mys hip in Pershing Square, and have since been reconnoitering. The time is ripe. We will strike soon. This is an in-
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