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Spacewarp, v. 3, issue 4, July 1948
Page 5
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We checked in at the Prince George, a most fascinating establishnment. Ultra-modern all-glass doors swing aside to admit the visitor to a pastel-and-chrome lobby slightly larger than Mammoth Cave, indirectly lit, and decorated with artistic murals and functional furniture. Yes. So we registered, and the ballboy took our baggage. "This way," he said, leading us toward an inconspicuous door in one wall, marked "elevator." In the twinkling of an eye we found ourselves in a bare-board corridor littered with old newspapers and the remains of some employee's lunch, not to mention a couple of dog-eared phonebooks and an ancient pedestal-type telephone. We skirted some slabs of wallboard propped against a flimsy partition, and found ourselves in a paleo0lithic elevator presided over by something out of Lovecraft, who eventually, after several attempts, go us level with the second floor so the door could be opened. Dodging a light-switch which dangled by its wiring from the cracked plaster wall beside us, we entered our rooms, which proved to be the 14-foot-ceiling type so popular in the Victorian Era. Great black sprinkler pipes sprawled across the ceiling in mute reminder not to smoke in bed. In one corner jutted the rusty taproots of the hotel sign. There was a radio of the quarter-in-the-slot variety but this we didn't mind, because the hammering of the workmen perched on scaffolding outside, dismantling the sign, would have drowned out a radio anyhow. These workmen carries no watches, finding it simpler to pop their heads in our window at intervals and ask us the time. Singer go on the phone while we repaired the ravages of travel and no sleep. He announced that Bob Tucker was the only other arrival so far, making us relative earlybirds. Also Don Hutchison of MACABRE fame would be over shortly. After breakfast we returned to the lobby to await Don. Almost simultaneously, Les Croutch sauntered in, spotted us as stfen from a mile off, and introduced himself. A bullsession filled the rest of the morning. Don, Ben, george and myself took off for chow and to buy some firecrackers. Les and Martin remained in the hotel. At this point Ben decided he was in dire need of a telescope and developed a tendency to rush madly for hockshop windows. (In Toronto, traffic lights have practically no significance. You walk across the street whenever you please, and traffic obligingly stops for you -- even streetcars. Detroit should only live so long!) So we proceeded down Queen Street, Ben behaving like a puppy-dog investigating a picket fence, much to Don's bewilderment. George and I are used to Singer. Incidentally, Don Hutchison is a quiet guy with a friendly grin, rather short and slight in comparison with the rest of Canadian fen who run to massive and towering physiques. Les Croutch has the build of a moving van, and is himself amazed th at he can be so fat and at the same time enjoy perfect health.* Eventually we talked Ben out of attending a burlesque show a t 1:00 in the afternoon, and returned to the Prince George, where he got on the phone again, and presently announced that Ackerman wa coming over. 4sJ arrived (he's tall, energetic, friendly) together with Beak Taylor (also tall) and Chan Davis (short only by comparison, dark-haired, ------------------------------------ * I hope my reactions don't start any feuds. In describing people for WARPreaders, I'm merely stating how they struck me at first meeting. -------------------------------------
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We checked in at the Prince George, a most fascinating establishnment. Ultra-modern all-glass doors swing aside to admit the visitor to a pastel-and-chrome lobby slightly larger than Mammoth Cave, indirectly lit, and decorated with artistic murals and functional furniture. Yes. So we registered, and the ballboy took our baggage. "This way," he said, leading us toward an inconspicuous door in one wall, marked "elevator." In the twinkling of an eye we found ourselves in a bare-board corridor littered with old newspapers and the remains of some employee's lunch, not to mention a couple of dog-eared phonebooks and an ancient pedestal-type telephone. We skirted some slabs of wallboard propped against a flimsy partition, and found ourselves in a paleo0lithic elevator presided over by something out of Lovecraft, who eventually, after several attempts, go us level with the second floor so the door could be opened. Dodging a light-switch which dangled by its wiring from the cracked plaster wall beside us, we entered our rooms, which proved to be the 14-foot-ceiling type so popular in the Victorian Era. Great black sprinkler pipes sprawled across the ceiling in mute reminder not to smoke in bed. In one corner jutted the rusty taproots of the hotel sign. There was a radio of the quarter-in-the-slot variety but this we didn't mind, because the hammering of the workmen perched on scaffolding outside, dismantling the sign, would have drowned out a radio anyhow. These workmen carries no watches, finding it simpler to pop their heads in our window at intervals and ask us the time. Singer go on the phone while we repaired the ravages of travel and no sleep. He announced that Bob Tucker was the only other arrival so far, making us relative earlybirds. Also Don Hutchison of MACABRE fame would be over shortly. After breakfast we returned to the lobby to await Don. Almost simultaneously, Les Croutch sauntered in, spotted us as stfen from a mile off, and introduced himself. A bullsession filled the rest of the morning. Don, Ben, george and myself took off for chow and to buy some firecrackers. Les and Martin remained in the hotel. At this point Ben decided he was in dire need of a telescope and developed a tendency to rush madly for hockshop windows. (In Toronto, traffic lights have practically no significance. You walk across the street whenever you please, and traffic obligingly stops for you -- even streetcars. Detroit should only live so long!) So we proceeded down Queen Street, Ben behaving like a puppy-dog investigating a picket fence, much to Don's bewilderment. George and I are used to Singer. Incidentally, Don Hutchison is a quiet guy with a friendly grin, rather short and slight in comparison with the rest of Canadian fen who run to massive and towering physiques. Les Croutch has the build of a moving van, and is himself amazed th at he can be so fat and at the same time enjoy perfect health.* Eventually we talked Ben out of attending a burlesque show a t 1:00 in the afternoon, and returned to the Prince George, where he got on the phone again, and presently announced that Ackerman wa coming over. 4sJ arrived (he's tall, energetic, friendly) together with Beak Taylor (also tall) and Chan Davis (short only by comparison, dark-haired, ------------------------------------ * I hope my reactions don't start any feuds. In describing people for WARPreaders, I'm merely stating how they struck me at first meeting. -------------------------------------
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