DIY History | Transcribe | Hevelin Fanzines | Fantascience Digest, v. 3, issue 1, whole no. 12, January-February 1940

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Fantascience Digest, v. 3, issue 1, whole no. 12, January-February 1940

Page 4

Page 4                            FANTASCIENCE DIGEST
   [underlined] THE MUSICIAN
           By Lee Gregor

   Five years, now, and it had been the same all the time. On top was the grey mist, the damp warmth, the grey and the wet mingled with everything. Underneath, the grey concrete corridors, sweating with dampness, the crowded barracks, the smelly machines, the unceasing close association with men and machines until you could not tell which was man and which was machine. And through everything, top and bottom, was the pounding and the droning of war noises that never stopped.

   He was Lieutenant J-74k-MK, now. Five years ago -- or was it a million years -- he had been a name. But in war, when men are machines, and machines are more noble than man, for they do not will death, it is more convenient to give them numbers, according to division, squadron, company. He had been Private B-348k-MH at the beginning, but then there are vacancies, and you get moved up. So now he was Lieutenant, pilot of mole D-431 of the 45th mole squadron.

   Him a soldier! How he'd laughed. But it wasn't very funny now. No, after five years it wasn't very funny. He had wanted to be a musician. Well, there he was, sitting in a tiny underground hall on Venus, pounding on the electronic organ at an initiation rally.

   All the time they came -- the young fellows -- the boys who thought they were soldiers -- filled with the romantic slop of propaganda. They came, load after load, and they laughed and they sang, and he would play the music for the songs on the electronic organ. He, was going to be a musician. Oh yes, he was going to be a musician.
    "Off in Space, there's a place called Venus.
    'Neath its mists, pretty girls will meet us......."
    And so on.
   It was a very funny song. The new recruits laughed. One batch after another -- month after month -- they sang the same songs there in the little underground hall, with the moisture hanging from the grey concrete. They sang and they laughed, and they were new. After they were no longer new their laughter was of a different sort. 
   
   Hit it up! Hit it up, Lieutenant! With all stops out, and feet prancing on the pedals. Play the vulgar songs and the banal marches so that the kids can have a good time before they drink more deeply of the war. Pound it out!  The more noise the better. Make a lot of noise; make more noise than the war, and then maybe you won't hear the war.

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Page 4 FANTASCIENCE DIGEST [underlined] THE MUSICIAN By Lee Gregor Five years, now, and it had been the same all the time. On top was the grey mist, the damp warmth, the grey and the wet mingled with everything. Underneath, the grey concrete corridors, sweating with dampness, the crowded barracks, the smelly machines, the unceasing close association with men and machines until you could not tell which was man and which was machine. And through everything, top and bottom, was the pounding and the droning of war noises that never stopped. He was Lieutenant J-74k-MK, now. Five years ago -- or was it a million years -- he had been a name. But in war, when men are machines, and machines are more noble than man, for they do not will death, it is more convenient to give them numbers, according to division, squadron, company. He had been Private B-348k-MH at the beginning, but then there are vacancies, and you get moved up. So now he was Lieutenant, pilot of mole D-431 of the 45th mole squadron. Him a soldier! How he'd laughed. But it wasn't very funny now. No, after five years it wasn't very funny. He had wanted to be a musician. Well, there he was, sitting in a tiny underground hall on Venus, pounding on the electronic organ at an initiation rally. All the time they came -- the young fellows -- the boys who thought they were soldiers -- filled with the romantic slop of propaganda. They came, load after load, and they laughed and they sang, and he would play the music for the songs on the electronic organ. He, was going to be a musician. Oh yes, he was going to be a musician. "Off in Space, there's a place called Venus. 'Neath its mists, pretty girls will meet us......." And so on. It was a very funny song. The new recruits laughed. One batch after another -- month after month -- they sang the same songs there in the little underground hall, with the moisture hanging from the grey concrete. They sang and they laughed, and they were new. After they were no longer new their laughter was of a different sort. Hit it up! Hit it up, Lieutenant! With all stops out, and feet prancing on the pedals. Play the vulgar songs and the banal marches so that the kids can have a good time before they drink more deeply of the war. Pound it out! The more noise the better. Make a lot of noise; make more noise than the war, and then maybe you won't hear the war.