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Fantasy Digest, v. 1, issue 6, August-September 1939
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WHO GOES THERE? by Harry Warner, Jr. I, in all my innocence, was turning handsprings in the backyard, in my favorite daisy patch, that fatal night, when suddenly a thunder of trumpets pealed forth from the other side of my humble domicile. (That may be a little exaggerated, of course, but I recently read that you should always start any piece of writing with something to draw the reader's attention. At any rate, the news came that someone was on the front porch to see me.) I went around the side, stopping meanwhile to watch my rather, drooping polka-dot garlic plants, pluck a few blos-soms, and make sure I had silver bullets in my trusty .44 ( just in ca-se), turned the corner, and there they stood! That, I realize now, was the turning point in my life, I fear I shall never be the same again. Nor, I fear, will they. The foremost of the two immediately shook hands, and proceeded to exasperate me with a "guess-who" business, first warning me that I was a correspondent of his. After futile thrusts in the dark (nearly literally dark, too, at that time) duringwhich my guessesof Madle, Hoy Ping Pong, Campbell, Mephistopheles, and Fu Manchu proved to be inaccurate, he finally broke down and admitted that he was Frederik Pohl, and the gentleman standing quietly beside him Jack Gillespie. We immediately squatted upon the front porch, and I proceeded to try to extract satisfaction as to who wrote a certain article by "Peggy Gillespie". After that episode, I came to the conclusion that, (a), Peggy Gillespie is Dick Wilson's cousin; (b), Peggy Gillespie is a kitten and member of the Science Fiction League; (c), that Peggy Gill-espie wrote the article in question; (d), that Sleeping giant of Ric-hmond Hill Wilson was actually the culprit; and (e), that someone was pulling wool over my eyes. This not settled to everyone's satisfaction, we entered the door of my house, proceeded back into my "office: (actually consisting of a mimoo, typer, and desk), and I stapled each of the fans a copy of the just-completed-and-sorted seventh SPACEWAYS. Freddie approved my policy of running a feature article each issue; disapproved once more of Mr. Moskowitz, and then proceeded to give the sordid details of the World Stf. Convention----the first news I'd heard of it, though it had been consummated for three or four days. The recital was from the outside looking in upon it, of course, but nevertheless I got some rather intriguing information. Unfortunately, some of it wouldn't go through the mails. Talk kept flying so fast that even now I can't speak above a whis-per, after the aftermath to this meeting, about which you shall learn. But, back to the original subject, at length it was decided by the committee of two )Pohl & Gillespie) that it was time to proceed home-ward, Having given their chauffeur permission to leave before they, since their Rolls-Royce was in storage over the summer and the Chrysl-er in which they had arrived was in rather poor shape; having done this, it was decided that they must lower themselves to the degredat-ion of hitch-hiking home. Of course, don't even suspect that this was the way they had arrived. Around 9:45, PM, if memory serves, I guided them through the wild-erness of Saturday-night Hagerstown to a telegraph station, for them to inform relatives in Philadelphia that they would be arriving there in a few hours. (Poor innocents! Just wait.) This finished, we stop-ped at an elegant lunchroom known as, I think, Joe's Diner, or some-thing like that, while they satisfied the inner man with a bowl each
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WHO GOES THERE? by Harry Warner, Jr. I, in all my innocence, was turning handsprings in the backyard, in my favorite daisy patch, that fatal night, when suddenly a thunder of trumpets pealed forth from the other side of my humble domicile. (That may be a little exaggerated, of course, but I recently read that you should always start any piece of writing with something to draw the reader's attention. At any rate, the news came that someone was on the front porch to see me.) I went around the side, stopping meanwhile to watch my rather, drooping polka-dot garlic plants, pluck a few blos-soms, and make sure I had silver bullets in my trusty .44 ( just in ca-se), turned the corner, and there they stood! That, I realize now, was the turning point in my life, I fear I shall never be the same again. Nor, I fear, will they. The foremost of the two immediately shook hands, and proceeded to exasperate me with a "guess-who" business, first warning me that I was a correspondent of his. After futile thrusts in the dark (nearly literally dark, too, at that time) duringwhich my guessesof Madle, Hoy Ping Pong, Campbell, Mephistopheles, and Fu Manchu proved to be inaccurate, he finally broke down and admitted that he was Frederik Pohl, and the gentleman standing quietly beside him Jack Gillespie. We immediately squatted upon the front porch, and I proceeded to try to extract satisfaction as to who wrote a certain article by "Peggy Gillespie". After that episode, I came to the conclusion that, (a), Peggy Gillespie is Dick Wilson's cousin; (b), Peggy Gillespie is a kitten and member of the Science Fiction League; (c), that Peggy Gill-espie wrote the article in question; (d), that Sleeping giant of Ric-hmond Hill Wilson was actually the culprit; and (e), that someone was pulling wool over my eyes. This not settled to everyone's satisfaction, we entered the door of my house, proceeded back into my "office: (actually consisting of a mimoo, typer, and desk), and I stapled each of the fans a copy of the just-completed-and-sorted seventh SPACEWAYS. Freddie approved my policy of running a feature article each issue; disapproved once more of Mr. Moskowitz, and then proceeded to give the sordid details of the World Stf. Convention----the first news I'd heard of it, though it had been consummated for three or four days. The recital was from the outside looking in upon it, of course, but nevertheless I got some rather intriguing information. Unfortunately, some of it wouldn't go through the mails. Talk kept flying so fast that even now I can't speak above a whis-per, after the aftermath to this meeting, about which you shall learn. But, back to the original subject, at length it was decided by the committee of two )Pohl & Gillespie) that it was time to proceed home-ward, Having given their chauffeur permission to leave before they, since their Rolls-Royce was in storage over the summer and the Chrysl-er in which they had arrived was in rather poor shape; having done this, it was decided that they must lower themselves to the degredat-ion of hitch-hiking home. Of course, don't even suspect that this was the way they had arrived. Around 9:45, PM, if memory serves, I guided them through the wild-erness of Saturday-night Hagerstown to a telegraph station, for them to inform relatives in Philadelphia that they would be arriving there in a few hours. (Poor innocents! Just wait.) This finished, we stop-ped at an elegant lunchroom known as, I think, Joe's Diner, or some-thing like that, while they satisfied the inner man with a bowl each
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