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Fantasy Digest, v. 1, issue 6, August-September 1939
20
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20 FANTASY DIGEST into the house more dead than alive and gave us a good dinner to nurse us back to health. The four of us sat up until four that morning, drinking beer and wine chasers and discussing the forthcoming Chicago Convention. Reinsberg and I carried the votes by proxy for the other Chicago fans. An organization was formed which was called "Illini Fantasy Fictioneers". This organization will sponsor the Chicago in 1940 Convention. The outcome of the elections were as follows: Bob Tucker...Director Richard I. Meyer...Corresponding Secretary & Treasurer Erle Korshak...Executive Advisor Sully Roberds...Publicity Director Mark Reinsberg...Chairman of the Convention Committee Altho we hit the hay at 4 that morning we did not sleep until six as Sully and I, dissatisfied with the blanket distribution, made a series of raids on Tucker and Reinsberg. The outcome of it was Tucker on his hands and knees begging for mercy. (Stop looking at me like that, Bob.) Next day we drove out to Bob's mother-in-law's farm for a real country chicken dinner. Bob drove us in his new car. He had just learned to drive about two weeks before and his driving sure showed it. Boy, but was I glad to put my feet on good, solid earth again! (Good thing that Bob is in Bloomington and I N. Y. or I would be playing a harp when this sees print.) At the farm we wrote the constitution of the I. F. F. When this job was finished, we took some pictures. Funniest (?) stf picture ever taken: The four of us with our heads sticking out of the farm's out-house and a look of awe on our faces. Let's hope Bob does not print it in a future issue of Le Zombie. The out-house was dubbed "Futurian House" (Appropriate???) Anyway we had a swell time and are now ready for the work of getting this convention going. See you in Chicago in 1940! (EK) --------------------------- (METAL RAIDER -- Cont. from p. 13) the detron gun. Slow tears formed, rolled down his withered cheeks, but the ancient spectre, dwelling behind his gaunt visage had fled..."The Robot Pirate is dead," he said then, squaring his shoulders. "God rest his soul in space!" (JHH) -------------------------- (HOMAGE TO S. WEINBAUM -- cont. from p. 10) trader is a woman---too melodramatic and commonplace an episode to suit me---and jusy when they are getting into a hot argument, a "dough-pot" sweeps into her hut, & begins to eat it away. There is nothing to do but get out, and she determined to take the almost suicidal course across the Mountains of Eternity. Ham, in vain, attempts to persuade Pat to do otherwise, and failing, follows her, on the way his xixtchil disappears---she has thrown it to the molds, she says, since technically it was British property---her fatherland---and he an American. Disgusted, he leaves her to shift for himself, and starts out on his own hook. Bit after various and sundry other adventures the two are re-united; she tells him that it was not actually his xixtchil that she stole, but that she merely wanted to revenge on him for being so "distant". He gets back his prospective wealth, and they live happily ever after---or at least in future yarns of Weinbaum's. Little can be said about this story. The Jack Ketch trees; the "friendly" trees; the dough pots, & all the other strange parasites of the hostile planet are finely done. Except for one early episode, the yarn is commonplace...commonplace, that is, for Weinbaum. A masterpiece for any other author. (HW)
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20 FANTASY DIGEST into the house more dead than alive and gave us a good dinner to nurse us back to health. The four of us sat up until four that morning, drinking beer and wine chasers and discussing the forthcoming Chicago Convention. Reinsberg and I carried the votes by proxy for the other Chicago fans. An organization was formed which was called "Illini Fantasy Fictioneers". This organization will sponsor the Chicago in 1940 Convention. The outcome of the elections were as follows: Bob Tucker...Director Richard I. Meyer...Corresponding Secretary & Treasurer Erle Korshak...Executive Advisor Sully Roberds...Publicity Director Mark Reinsberg...Chairman of the Convention Committee Altho we hit the hay at 4 that morning we did not sleep until six as Sully and I, dissatisfied with the blanket distribution, made a series of raids on Tucker and Reinsberg. The outcome of it was Tucker on his hands and knees begging for mercy. (Stop looking at me like that, Bob.) Next day we drove out to Bob's mother-in-law's farm for a real country chicken dinner. Bob drove us in his new car. He had just learned to drive about two weeks before and his driving sure showed it. Boy, but was I glad to put my feet on good, solid earth again! (Good thing that Bob is in Bloomington and I N. Y. or I would be playing a harp when this sees print.) At the farm we wrote the constitution of the I. F. F. When this job was finished, we took some pictures. Funniest (?) stf picture ever taken: The four of us with our heads sticking out of the farm's out-house and a look of awe on our faces. Let's hope Bob does not print it in a future issue of Le Zombie. The out-house was dubbed "Futurian House" (Appropriate???) Anyway we had a swell time and are now ready for the work of getting this convention going. See you in Chicago in 1940! (EK) --------------------------- (METAL RAIDER -- Cont. from p. 13) the detron gun. Slow tears formed, rolled down his withered cheeks, but the ancient spectre, dwelling behind his gaunt visage had fled..."The Robot Pirate is dead," he said then, squaring his shoulders. "God rest his soul in space!" (JHH) -------------------------- (HOMAGE TO S. WEINBAUM -- cont. from p. 10) trader is a woman---too melodramatic and commonplace an episode to suit me---and jusy when they are getting into a hot argument, a "dough-pot" sweeps into her hut, & begins to eat it away. There is nothing to do but get out, and she determined to take the almost suicidal course across the Mountains of Eternity. Ham, in vain, attempts to persuade Pat to do otherwise, and failing, follows her, on the way his xixtchil disappears---she has thrown it to the molds, she says, since technically it was British property---her fatherland---and he an American. Disgusted, he leaves her to shift for himself, and starts out on his own hook. Bit after various and sundry other adventures the two are re-united; she tells him that it was not actually his xixtchil that she stole, but that she merely wanted to revenge on him for being so "distant". He gets back his prospective wealth, and they live happily ever after---or at least in future yarns of Weinbaum's. Little can be said about this story. The Jack Ketch trees; the "friendly" trees; the dough pots, & all the other strange parasites of the hostile planet are finely done. Except for one early episode, the yarn is commonplace...commonplace, that is, for Weinbaum. A masterpiece for any other author. (HW)
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