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Page 11

WAVELENGTH, 11

"Are we to give up our belief in the more modern writers of note, as well?"
"Most decidedly. Take Vernes for instance. He couldn't even write decent English; and Wolls, he couldn't write any good French. And Alfred Bester, who I am told wrote "The Skylark of Voleron" and "The Legion of Space" and much other sensational stuff of a by-gone day, besides knocking off Shakespeare in his spare time knocked Russelll Chauvenet.. but then he deserved it. They are all as hopelessly prehistoric as Wandrai and 4E. It is positively hurts me to think how contemptible they are compared to myself. Why, it is as much as I can do to keep from tearing my hair in handfuls with disgust at hearing them called 'eminent' writers!"
"Don't we have no ideals then left for us to cherish?", I despairing asked "Don't you still retain even a good opinion of the Equator?"
"The Equator, my good sir, is too despicable for words. It has no idea of humor, and cannot appreciate a paradox. I do not recognize its existence as a serious factor in modern life."
"Then you probably don't think much of the Solar System, if I may hazard a final question?"
"I consider it a vastly overrated institution, in spite of the notice it has received from interested parties. I spend a half-hour every day desposing it. This is a useful practice, as I find that it keeps an Universe in its proper place. It makes me feel like Atlas (Charles or maybe that old Greek from mythology? Editor) or was it Archimedes? As I walk down Fleet Street, it's a most exhilarating sensation I assure you, pushing the planet away from beneath one's foot. Which reminds me that I measured my length on the pavement (with the help of a banana.) the other day, and got up with the most profound contempt for the Law of Gravitation.
Just at that moment a missive sailed through the window with the most disregard for glass that I have ever seen in an inanimate object. The Iconoclast disappeared under the desk for more cigar butts, I grabbed my lid and made for the door. .But a funny thing happened . . . Some smart lad had rearranged things a bit so that a second window was where the door had reposed originally. After I had managed to disengage myself from pieces of the former window pane, I turned around to see the Great, the Gigantic, the Asture Presence bending over the thrown object. With a gallant gesture of bravado he leapt to the smashed window thro--which the object had arrived (making sure first that the instigator of the vile deed had departed) and shook his fist. 
"The redhots!" he gritted. "Smash my windows, will they!" Common decency keeps me from recording his further assertions. 
"I'll pulverize them!" he beefed. "I know who did it.... Pong and that worm in the woodwork, Pogo. I'll send the Trolls out after the d--(censored. That's twice now, so watch yere lip! Editor) bunch . The Trolls, the whole Troll pack. You know what they did to that statue... or don't you know? Then you know what the Ghu and the Foo have coming to them, if my boys get busy with them."
I bleached at the horrible thought . The Trolls . . . the most horrible fate to befall anyone. Even the Ghu and the Foo didn't deserve such a ghastly end. 
The Master Mind turned slowly and gaped at me, his eyes were wicked, little red wagons were chasing each other in their scarlet midst. 
"Don't look at me like that!" I cried.
"And you," he laughed a dirty laugh on account of its a dirty laugh that he laughs, most always because it is a dirty laugh he laughs.. "And you, " he says again, looking like a rat, "I'll sift you through immensity where it will require omniscience to find you and omnipotence to put you together again."
"No not that!" I begged. "Anything but that!"

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WAVELENGTH, 11 "Are we to give up our belief in the more modern writers of note, as well?" "Most decidedly. Take Vernes for instance. He couldn't even write decent English; and Wolls, he couldn't write any good French. And Alfred Bester, who I am told wrote "The Skylark of Voleron" and "The Legion of Space" and much other sensational stuff of a by-gone day, besides knocking off Shakespeare in his spare time knocked Russelll Chauvenet.. but then he deserved it. They are all as hopelessly prehistoric as Wandrai and 4E. It is positively hurts me to think how contemptible they are compared to myself. Why, it is as much as I can do to keep from tearing my hair in handfuls with disgust at hearing them called 'eminent' writers!" "Don't we have no ideals then left for us to cherish?", I despairing asked "Don't you still retain even a good opinion of the Equator?" "The Equator, my good sir, is too despicable for words. It has no idea of humor, and cannot appreciate a paradox. I do not recognize its existence as a serious factor in modern life." "Then you probably don't think much of the Solar System, if I may hazard a final question?" "I consider it a vastly overrated institution, in spite of the notice it has received from interested parties. I spend a half-hour every day desposing it. This is a useful practice, as I find that it keeps an Universe in its proper place. It makes me feel like Atlas (Charles or maybe that old Greek from mythology? Editor) or was it Archimedes? As I walk down Fleet Street, it's a most exhilarating sensation I assure you, pushing the planet away from beneath one's foot. Which reminds me that I measured my length on the pavement (with the help of a banana.) the other day, and got up with the most profound contempt for the Law of Gravitation. Just at that moment a missive sailed through the window with the most disregard for glass that I have ever seen in an inanimate object. The Iconoclast disappeared under the desk for more cigar butts, I grabbed my lid and made for the door. .But a funny thing happened . . . Some smart lad had rearranged things a bit so that a second window was where the door had reposed originally. After I had managed to disengage myself from pieces of the former window pane, I turned around to see the Great, the Gigantic, the Asture Presence bending over the thrown object. With a gallant gesture of bravado he leapt to the smashed window thro--which the object had arrived (making sure first that the instigator of the vile deed had departed) and shook his fist. "The redhots!" he gritted. "Smash my windows, will they!" Common decency keeps me from recording his further assertions. "I'll pulverize them!" he beefed. "I know who did it.... Pong and that worm in the woodwork, Pogo. I'll send the Trolls out after the d--(censored. That's twice now, so watch yere lip! Editor) bunch . The Trolls, the whole Troll pack. You know what they did to that statue... or don't you know? Then you know what the Ghu and the Foo have coming to them, if my boys get busy with them." I bleached at the horrible thought . The Trolls . . . the most horrible fate to befall anyone. Even the Ghu and the Foo didn't deserve such a ghastly end. The Master Mind turned slowly and gaped at me, his eyes were wicked, little red wagons were chasing each other in their scarlet midst. "Don't look at me like that!" I cried. "And you," he laughed a dirty laugh on account of its a dirty laugh that he laughs, most always because it is a dirty laugh he laughs.. "And you, " he says again, looking like a rat, "I'll sift you through immensity where it will require omniscience to find you and omnipotence to put you together again." "No not that!" I begged. "Anything but that!"