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Fantascience Digest, v. 2, issue 3, March-April 1939
Page 5
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FANTASCIENCE DIGEST Page 5 beneath his sometimes gruff mask and found him out for what he really was. They were worth all the double-cross and double-dealing the fan field could produce. They made up for all the nasty things that sometimes took place behind the scenes. His stream of thought culminated suddenly as he reached the door of his home and stumbled across the threshold into the house. - - - - - - - - - - - - The bell rang sharply. Bleary-eyed, Jack Adams raised his head from the typewriter and the article he was dashing off for the FANTASY COLLECTOR. "Maybe it's more dope about that offer Jackson made me," he thought to himself. "I certainly would likemto take that offer." He rose quickly from his seat, heaved himself onto a small coat and opened the door. His fingers, with an experienced gesture, flipped a couple fan magazines from the rack and then dived into the slot in the letter-box and quickly excerpted half-dozen letters of various shapes. There was a letter from the editor of the FANTASY COLLECTOR. "Please hurry along that article," it read."I announced it in last issue and I must have it before the end of the week to get it into the April issue." Letter number two read: "Could you please give me information on the following list of nfan mags, etc. etc. Bob Davids told me I could depend upon you to send me a list of the best ones. I'm new in the field and don't know my way around. You wouldn't know someone living in St. Louis who is interested in fan mahazines, would you?" Sure he knew fellows in St. Louis; a dozen of them. Good fans, too. He'd ship the fellow a list as soon as he finished the article for the Collector. The next letter, marked in two or three place, "Important" caused him a bit of concern as he hastily slitted the envelope. It read as follows: Jack, i'm in a terrible fix. I didn't realize the work necessary for a successful convention when I took over the job of presenting the Fifth National Science Fiction Convention. I don't know where to turn. My committees are falling over one another, and make one mistake after another. Aw! What's the use, everything is shot to pieces. What makes it worse is that I've collected money from most of the fans in the country to pay for the affair, and I've spent more than I can afford to return out of my own pocket. You've got to help me jack! You've presented two successful conventions and one of them was a world convention. I've got to pull out of this mess somehow or I'll never dare show my face to a fan again. There's only six weeks until the date of the convention left." Jack Adams read no further. Bill Davids was in a fix. Bill Davids, one of his best friends. It wasn't only Bill, it was also all the other fans. They'd skimped and saved and contributed liberally to make the affair a success and now----. Hell! he'd given more than twenty-five dollars himself and he could not affaord it. My god! He'd almost forgotten. He couldn't help Bill! It was either the fans or that professional editing job and he was up against it for cash. He needed that job desperately. But what would the fans think? Would they think he had double-crossed him? "Grand Old Fan," they called him. Called him that because he had never let them down. But what would happen if he did let them down? If he told them he couldn't help with the convention, what would they think? Would they see his side of the thing? Would they see how desperately he wanted that job? What to do? It wasn't as if he had started this latest convention. He hadn't. It was
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FANTASCIENCE DIGEST Page 5 beneath his sometimes gruff mask and found him out for what he really was. They were worth all the double-cross and double-dealing the fan field could produce. They made up for all the nasty things that sometimes took place behind the scenes. His stream of thought culminated suddenly as he reached the door of his home and stumbled across the threshold into the house. - - - - - - - - - - - - The bell rang sharply. Bleary-eyed, Jack Adams raised his head from the typewriter and the article he was dashing off for the FANTASY COLLECTOR. "Maybe it's more dope about that offer Jackson made me," he thought to himself. "I certainly would likemto take that offer." He rose quickly from his seat, heaved himself onto a small coat and opened the door. His fingers, with an experienced gesture, flipped a couple fan magazines from the rack and then dived into the slot in the letter-box and quickly excerpted half-dozen letters of various shapes. There was a letter from the editor of the FANTASY COLLECTOR. "Please hurry along that article," it read."I announced it in last issue and I must have it before the end of the week to get it into the April issue." Letter number two read: "Could you please give me information on the following list of nfan mags, etc. etc. Bob Davids told me I could depend upon you to send me a list of the best ones. I'm new in the field and don't know my way around. You wouldn't know someone living in St. Louis who is interested in fan mahazines, would you?" Sure he knew fellows in St. Louis; a dozen of them. Good fans, too. He'd ship the fellow a list as soon as he finished the article for the Collector. The next letter, marked in two or three place, "Important" caused him a bit of concern as he hastily slitted the envelope. It read as follows: Jack, i'm in a terrible fix. I didn't realize the work necessary for a successful convention when I took over the job of presenting the Fifth National Science Fiction Convention. I don't know where to turn. My committees are falling over one another, and make one mistake after another. Aw! What's the use, everything is shot to pieces. What makes it worse is that I've collected money from most of the fans in the country to pay for the affair, and I've spent more than I can afford to return out of my own pocket. You've got to help me jack! You've presented two successful conventions and one of them was a world convention. I've got to pull out of this mess somehow or I'll never dare show my face to a fan again. There's only six weeks until the date of the convention left." Jack Adams read no further. Bill Davids was in a fix. Bill Davids, one of his best friends. It wasn't only Bill, it was also all the other fans. They'd skimped and saved and contributed liberally to make the affair a success and now----. Hell! he'd given more than twenty-five dollars himself and he could not affaord it. My god! He'd almost forgotten. He couldn't help Bill! It was either the fans or that professional editing job and he was up against it for cash. He needed that job desperately. But what would the fans think? Would they think he had double-crossed him? "Grand Old Fan," they called him. Called him that because he had never let them down. But what would happen if he did let them down? If he told them he couldn't help with the convention, what would they think? Would they see his side of the thing? Would they see how desperately he wanted that job? What to do? It wasn't as if he had started this latest convention. He hadn't. It was
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