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Spacewarp, v. 3, issue 4, July 1948
Page 17
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THE LOST CHORD by r-tRapp I haven't the heart to get sore at Morgan Botts -- after all, it wasn't his fault -- but I do wish he'd figure out some way of getting my envelope back..... Botts was at his usual table as I entered Joe's Tavern. Obviously he'd been nursing one beer for three hours, waiting for me to show up and buy him more. "The world's full of jerks," I told him, seating myself across the table and plopping a fat manila envelope down on its marble top. "Meaning?..." "Meaning you, of course." I assured the stfan-inventor blithely. "But more particularly meaning the dope who bumped into me and almost knocked me down just now on the Fourth Level ramp." "Some people never look where they're going," agreed Botts. "Of course, I suppose you were entirely blameless?" "Well, I might have been a bit abstracted," I admitted. "After all, an occasion like today is plenty to give one that walking-on-air feeling." "What's today?" asked Botts, waving for Joe the bartender to hurry up with the beers. "Today marks the emergence of a glorious new addition to the ranks of stfwriters," I told him modestly. "On the table before you is the story which will make me famous in the annals of our noble literature. I have finally succeeded in my long efforts to crash the prozines!" "I knew it," commented Botts gloomily. "Didn't I always say stf is going to the dogs? I never thought it would degenerate so far that your crud would sell, tho." "You're a mere fossilized relic of prehistory," I told him. "Grab a beer and help me celebrate this memorable occasion." Joe approached with a heavily-laden tray. "Do me a favor, Joe," I told the bartender. "Run out to the corner and drop this envelope in a mail-slot for me. It's gotta get into the evening pickup." "Sure, bud," said Joe. "So you finally sold one, hey? Congratula-tions." "Thanx, Joe," I said. I fondled my manila-clad brainchild affect-tionately before entrusting it to Joe's brawny grasp. Botts helped himself to a brimming stein as Joe went out with the envelope. "Awright, give with the gruesome details," the stfan-inventor said, settling back resignedly in his chair. "You will, of cource, whet-her I want to listen or not."
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THE LOST CHORD by r-tRapp I haven't the heart to get sore at Morgan Botts -- after all, it wasn't his fault -- but I do wish he'd figure out some way of getting my envelope back..... Botts was at his usual table as I entered Joe's Tavern. Obviously he'd been nursing one beer for three hours, waiting for me to show up and buy him more. "The world's full of jerks," I told him, seating myself across the table and plopping a fat manila envelope down on its marble top. "Meaning?..." "Meaning you, of course." I assured the stfan-inventor blithely. "But more particularly meaning the dope who bumped into me and almost knocked me down just now on the Fourth Level ramp." "Some people never look where they're going," agreed Botts. "Of course, I suppose you were entirely blameless?" "Well, I might have been a bit abstracted," I admitted. "After all, an occasion like today is plenty to give one that walking-on-air feeling." "What's today?" asked Botts, waving for Joe the bartender to hurry up with the beers. "Today marks the emergence of a glorious new addition to the ranks of stfwriters," I told him modestly. "On the table before you is the story which will make me famous in the annals of our noble literature. I have finally succeeded in my long efforts to crash the prozines!" "I knew it," commented Botts gloomily. "Didn't I always say stf is going to the dogs? I never thought it would degenerate so far that your crud would sell, tho." "You're a mere fossilized relic of prehistory," I told him. "Grab a beer and help me celebrate this memorable occasion." Joe approached with a heavily-laden tray. "Do me a favor, Joe," I told the bartender. "Run out to the corner and drop this envelope in a mail-slot for me. It's gotta get into the evening pickup." "Sure, bud," said Joe. "So you finally sold one, hey? Congratula-tions." "Thanx, Joe," I said. I fondled my manila-clad brainchild affect-tionately before entrusting it to Joe's brawny grasp. Botts helped himself to a brimming stein as Joe went out with the envelope. "Awright, give with the gruesome details," the stfan-inventor said, settling back resignedly in his chair. "You will, of cource, whet-her I want to listen or not."
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