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Fantasite, v. 1, issue 3, April 1941
Page 11
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Fantasy Factory By Donn Brazier A squat two stories high it sprawled: Fantasy Factory! My wish had been granted; I had arrived! Then disappointment surged through me, for the structure appeared like any other factory building, even to the door with letters on the glass: "Office, Walk In". Ah, but then I examined the foundation bricks more closely! What potent hideousness could explain the slight pink of the concrete in those bricks? I quelled my desire to investigate, opened the office door, and walked in. A little man with a long beard, whose tip dangled in a pan of ichor, was standing by a stack of manuscripts. He folded the stories, thrust them in envelopes, moistened the flaps with the point of his beard, and stamped them shut with a cloven hoof. In the wall behind him were three slots labeled W, S-F, and F. An octopus, wearing a monocle in one eye, sat with a tentacle in each slot waiting for more stories to arrive. With three other tentacles he was a. rolling a cigaret, b. itching his ankle, and c. picking his teeth. "Excuse me," I said timidly to the little man, whose beard lay in the ichor, "but I have come in..." "Yes, yes," he interrupted briskly. "Welcome, welcome." He glanced at a title on one of the stories. His nose twitched; so did his beard. Then he slapped a blue and white sticker (500/25 cents) on the envelope which proclaimed: PERISHABLE. I managed to catch a Chicago address on the envelope. The little man turned to the octopus who had finished a. rolling his cigaret, b. itching his anke, and c. picking his tteth. "Take over while I show our newcomer around the plant." The octopus stuck the cigaret in his mouth and grunted. We left the office and entered a mammoth room that seemes miles long and wide. Its hugeness surprized me, and I pointed out to my odd guide that the factory's exterior was scarcely so huge. "The outside is as you saw it", he replied wringing out the tip of his beard. "The bricks of this building are not solid. They are condensed gases. The author who devised them has a means for keeping the outside of each brick pseudo-solid while the inside remains gaseous, thus the inner surface is free to expand." "A sort of expanding universe in miniature," I remarked, displaying my intelligence and education. "It's a wonderful invention. Does the author work here? "No. He works in the branch in England." The little man took me by the hand. "But come, you have much to see." And the little man spoke the truth. This first floor seemed to be the workshop of the science-fictionists. It was inhabited by multitudes of models, beasts, and authors. In some cases it was hard to distinguish which was which. As we walked along we passed group after group of toilers. Here was a metal robot reading a
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Fantasy Factory By Donn Brazier A squat two stories high it sprawled: Fantasy Factory! My wish had been granted; I had arrived! Then disappointment surged through me, for the structure appeared like any other factory building, even to the door with letters on the glass: "Office, Walk In". Ah, but then I examined the foundation bricks more closely! What potent hideousness could explain the slight pink of the concrete in those bricks? I quelled my desire to investigate, opened the office door, and walked in. A little man with a long beard, whose tip dangled in a pan of ichor, was standing by a stack of manuscripts. He folded the stories, thrust them in envelopes, moistened the flaps with the point of his beard, and stamped them shut with a cloven hoof. In the wall behind him were three slots labeled W, S-F, and F. An octopus, wearing a monocle in one eye, sat with a tentacle in each slot waiting for more stories to arrive. With three other tentacles he was a. rolling a cigaret, b. itching his ankle, and c. picking his teeth. "Excuse me," I said timidly to the little man, whose beard lay in the ichor, "but I have come in..." "Yes, yes," he interrupted briskly. "Welcome, welcome." He glanced at a title on one of the stories. His nose twitched; so did his beard. Then he slapped a blue and white sticker (500/25 cents) on the envelope which proclaimed: PERISHABLE. I managed to catch a Chicago address on the envelope. The little man turned to the octopus who had finished a. rolling his cigaret, b. itching his anke, and c. picking his tteth. "Take over while I show our newcomer around the plant." The octopus stuck the cigaret in his mouth and grunted. We left the office and entered a mammoth room that seemes miles long and wide. Its hugeness surprized me, and I pointed out to my odd guide that the factory's exterior was scarcely so huge. "The outside is as you saw it", he replied wringing out the tip of his beard. "The bricks of this building are not solid. They are condensed gases. The author who devised them has a means for keeping the outside of each brick pseudo-solid while the inside remains gaseous, thus the inner surface is free to expand." "A sort of expanding universe in miniature," I remarked, displaying my intelligence and education. "It's a wonderful invention. Does the author work here? "No. He works in the branch in England." The little man took me by the hand. "But come, you have much to see." And the little man spoke the truth. This first floor seemed to be the workshop of the science-fictionists. It was inhabited by multitudes of models, beasts, and authors. In some cases it was hard to distinguish which was which. As we walked along we passed group after group of toilers. Here was a metal robot reading a
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