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Spaceways, v. 4, issue 1, whole no. 24, December 1941
6
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SPACEWAYS 6 THE LOG OF THE FOOFOO SPECIAL to be denied. "Ya got fingers, aincha?" he queried bluntly. "Yes," said Milty, unable to believe the implied connection. Widner insisted he have mustard despite an eloquent address from Milty on the evils of consuming said condiment. Milty looked at the mustard and then at the sandwich, trying desperately to figure some way out. It wasn't so much getting his hands dirty, as it was violating all rules and regulations of table manners. It was completely outside his sphere of ethics. So anti-Postish as to be almost revolting. Finally he sighed, dipped just one finger into the mustard, sloshed some on the ham, and presented it to Widner, who gobbled it avidly in 1:3:2-5. Milty said it was a far, far worse thing than he had ever done.... The 96° heat abated as we crossed into Indiana with the setting sun and rip-roaring game of stinky-pinky with no holds barred. In Richmond, I sent an apologetic telegram to Rocklynne for not coming when we had planned, and promising to see the Cinci gang on the way home. Most of the night was spent on the desolate state routes trying to make up for lost time by not sleeping. We got beautifully turned around near West Lafayette, or what some jerk said was West Lafayette. At one point, with detours pointing in all directions, we actually had to get out and get our bearings by the stars. If it had been cloudy, we would probably still be wandering around in South Overshoe somewhere. After traveling in a straight line for some time we came to—Lafayette! Keeping west we came to West Lafayette Horrors! "All Roads".... Continuing, we came to the state border and breathed a sigh of relief. The spell was broken. The only way we could figure it out, was that WL must've been U-shaped, extending on both sides of Lafayette proper, or else the goon who directed us didn't know his elbow from a hole in the ground. July 1st—Dawn found us gazing awestruck at a peculiar cloud formation over the map-flat surface of Illinois. The cloud, which had been rolled up into the shape of a gigantic tube extending from horizon to horizon, made us feel like we were in the future, standing beneath the pneumatic Chi-New Orleans transportation tube, or as Milty and Jack suggested, Skylark III itself. At 7:30 AM we arrived in Tuckertown, and with no trouble at all found the abode of the sly Celestial, and were welcomed in royally, altho Widner spoiled the effect by crawling in on his hands and knees. Everybody knew everybody else but were all re-introduced by their newly acquired (en route) nicknames—"Moneybags" Unger, "Pretty Boy" Madle, "Sourpuss" Bell, "Tree Toad" Rothman, and "The Thing" Widner. While Widner slept, Pretty Boy and Tree Toad registered for the draft, and PB had his picture in the paper with his head chopped off, and his name mentioned with a plug for the Denvention. Tucker has told the story of our visit, so we push on. Sunset found us looking contemptuously at Old Man River himself. It was the first time any of us had seen the Mississippi, and we were disappointed until we remembered that we couldn't expect it to be such a much that far north. We pierced the heart of Iowa—Centerville, the home town of Henry Aldrich—before we decided to bivouac. Madle and I thot we would try it in the car while the others used a hotel. Bob may have done all right in the rear, but you try sleeping on two bucket seats like I did, and I'll guarantee you seventeen new kinks in your orbit by morning. July 2nd—Iowa presented a rather pleasing daytime aspect. One in particular noticed the absence of billboards, and the presence of numerous hollyhocks covering culvert posts, or any other bit or roadside construction that might be deemed unattractive and small enough to hide thusly. This day was the most auspicious of the trip as far as covering distance is concerned. We made 550 miles in spite of numerous stops to fill the beleaguered radiator. If we went over fifty, the thermometer hurriedly went upstairs. We blamed it on the increasing altitude (about five feet per mile) which wasn't observable, the heat the day, clogged radiator, and whatnot. But none of these
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SPACEWAYS 6 THE LOG OF THE FOOFOO SPECIAL to be denied. "Ya got fingers, aincha?" he queried bluntly. "Yes," said Milty, unable to believe the implied connection. Widner insisted he have mustard despite an eloquent address from Milty on the evils of consuming said condiment. Milty looked at the mustard and then at the sandwich, trying desperately to figure some way out. It wasn't so much getting his hands dirty, as it was violating all rules and regulations of table manners. It was completely outside his sphere of ethics. So anti-Postish as to be almost revolting. Finally he sighed, dipped just one finger into the mustard, sloshed some on the ham, and presented it to Widner, who gobbled it avidly in 1:3:2-5. Milty said it was a far, far worse thing than he had ever done.... The 96° heat abated as we crossed into Indiana with the setting sun and rip-roaring game of stinky-pinky with no holds barred. In Richmond, I sent an apologetic telegram to Rocklynne for not coming when we had planned, and promising to see the Cinci gang on the way home. Most of the night was spent on the desolate state routes trying to make up for lost time by not sleeping. We got beautifully turned around near West Lafayette, or what some jerk said was West Lafayette. At one point, with detours pointing in all directions, we actually had to get out and get our bearings by the stars. If it had been cloudy, we would probably still be wandering around in South Overshoe somewhere. After traveling in a straight line for some time we came to—Lafayette! Keeping west we came to West Lafayette Horrors! "All Roads".... Continuing, we came to the state border and breathed a sigh of relief. The spell was broken. The only way we could figure it out, was that WL must've been U-shaped, extending on both sides of Lafayette proper, or else the goon who directed us didn't know his elbow from a hole in the ground. July 1st—Dawn found us gazing awestruck at a peculiar cloud formation over the map-flat surface of Illinois. The cloud, which had been rolled up into the shape of a gigantic tube extending from horizon to horizon, made us feel like we were in the future, standing beneath the pneumatic Chi-New Orleans transportation tube, or as Milty and Jack suggested, Skylark III itself. At 7:30 AM we arrived in Tuckertown, and with no trouble at all found the abode of the sly Celestial, and were welcomed in royally, altho Widner spoiled the effect by crawling in on his hands and knees. Everybody knew everybody else but were all re-introduced by their newly acquired (en route) nicknames—"Moneybags" Unger, "Pretty Boy" Madle, "Sourpuss" Bell, "Tree Toad" Rothman, and "The Thing" Widner. While Widner slept, Pretty Boy and Tree Toad registered for the draft, and PB had his picture in the paper with his head chopped off, and his name mentioned with a plug for the Denvention. Tucker has told the story of our visit, so we push on. Sunset found us looking contemptuously at Old Man River himself. It was the first time any of us had seen the Mississippi, and we were disappointed until we remembered that we couldn't expect it to be such a much that far north. We pierced the heart of Iowa—Centerville, the home town of Henry Aldrich—before we decided to bivouac. Madle and I thot we would try it in the car while the others used a hotel. Bob may have done all right in the rear, but you try sleeping on two bucket seats like I did, and I'll guarantee you seventeen new kinks in your orbit by morning. July 2nd—Iowa presented a rather pleasing daytime aspect. One in particular noticed the absence of billboards, and the presence of numerous hollyhocks covering culvert posts, or any other bit or roadside construction that might be deemed unattractive and small enough to hide thusly. This day was the most auspicious of the trip as far as covering distance is concerned. We made 550 miles in spite of numerous stops to fill the beleaguered radiator. If we went over fifty, the thermometer hurriedly went upstairs. We blamed it on the increasing altitude (about five feet per mile) which wasn't observable, the heat the day, clogged radiator, and whatnot. But none of these
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