DIY History | Transcribe | Hevelin Fanzines | En Garde, whole no. 17.5, 1946

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En Garde, whole no. 17.5, 1946

Page 5

page 5.

Ten years later his college cleaned house and destroyed all the accumulated records. The books he had written his name in finally had been worn out and burned.

Twenty years later the old man of Fandom, at the Chicon 1964, rose and spoke briefly on the philosophy of Fandom. Steve Mallon's name was mentioned once in a conversation with a new fan after the old man of Fandom had finished his address. That was the last time Steve Mallon's name was ever spoken in the world of man.

When the old man of Fandom died five years later, his meager effects were examined. Steve Mallon's three pages of masterpiece holding the essence of Fandom were lumped with the old magazines, among which was the first issue of the rare FANTASY of 1948, and the whole lot found its way into a paper and rag dealer's yard. Three months later "A Pervading Philosophy of Fandom" by Steve Mallon had been bleached, washed, and shredded, then pressed and rolled into wrapping paper.

For a brief moment twenty-seven years later his name flashed across the mind of a dying girl, as the events of her life fled through her mind in a few swift seconds. That was the last Steve Mallon was ever thought of in the world of man.

A fire in the courthouse of a small town in the mid-west destroyed the records of his birth. He was never baptized. There were no church records.

In the third world war that began in 1972 without warning, the adjutant general's files at Washington were completely destroyed by a forty-ton rocket that fell out of the skies.

In 1972, the same year, as if in judgment against a wicked world, and unprecedented cold wave swept down from the North. A tongue of the Polar mass reached down over the small island where Steve Mallon had been given a rude grave.

The cold mass lingered. The island had never felt cold before. The natives, long since deserted by white man, huddled in grass shelters, their skins bare and exposed to the wintery blast.

A  native built a fire of wood to keep himself warm. He succeeded temporarily by burning the odd white crosses stolen from the taboo place where the mounds of the dead were.

A cross had a name Steve Mallon, but the flames licked across it. Letter by letter the name blackened, became fiery red, then blackened once again.

And in that instant---only twenty-eight years after Steve Mallon's death---his life perished from earth.....

But for this.....

Saving...

page 5. Ten years later his college cleaned house and destroyed all the accumulated records. The books he had written his name in finally had been worn out and burned. Twenty years later the old man of Fandom, at the Chicon 1964, rose and spoke briefly on the philosophy of Fandom. Steve Mallon's name was mentioned once in a conversation with a new fan after the old man of Fandom had finished his address. That was the last time Steve Mallon's name was ever spoken in the world of man. When the old man of Fandom died five years later, his meager effects were examined. Steve Mallon's three pages of masterpiece holding the essence of Fandom were lumped with the old magazines, among which was the first issue of the rare FANTASY of 1948, and the whole lot found its way into a paper and rag dealer's yard. Three months later "A Pervading Philosophy of Fandom" by Steve Mallon had been bleached, washed, and shredded, then pressed and rolled into wrapping paper. For a brief moment twenty-seven years later his name flashed across the mind of a dying girl, as the events of her life fled through her mind in a few swift seconds. That was the last Steve Mallon was ever thought of in the world of man. A fire in the courthouse of a small town in the mid-west destroyed the records of his birth. He was never baptized. There were no church records. In the third world war that began in 1972 without warning, the adjutant general's files at Washington were completely destroyed by a forty-ton rocket that fell out of the skies. In 1972, the same year, as if in judgment against a wicked world, and unprecedented cold wave swept down from the North. A tongue of the Polar mass reached down over the small island where Steve Mallon had been given a rude grave. The cold mass lingered. The island had never felt cold before. The natives, long since deserted by white man, huddled in grass shelters, their skins bare and exposed to the wintery blast. A native built a fire of wood to keep himself warm. He succeeded temporarily by burning the odd white crosses stolen from the taboo place where the mounds of the dead were. A cross had a name Steve Mallon, but the flames licked across it. Letter by letter the name blackened, became fiery red, then blackened once again. And in that instant---only twenty-eight years after Steve Mallon's death---his life perished from earth..... But for this.....