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Fantasia, v. 1, issue 1, January 1941
Page 4
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Plurality by Lou Goldstone The Scientist walks into the setting sun, leaving the gray prison behind him forever. Stiffly, unfeelingly, he treads the same cold pavements that echoed to his footfalls seven years before when that livid, rain-drenched fortress seemed unspeakably terrible as he stolidly marched to an unknown fate. Now it is forgotten, like a dream of dark horror that slides mercifully into limbo under the bright, burning radiance of the knowledge that he is alive and awake and free. The wind tugs at his drab coat, pasting it against his gaunt, withered frame. He pulls his hat down over unruly gray hair, hefts the suitcase that rattles because it is almost empty. Innumerable deep creases about his mouth and cheeks twitch as the narrow stone path comes to an end, and he steps out onto the broad motor highway that zooms in a clean white ribbon to the eastern and western horizons. In his coat pocket he carries a release card bearing his fingerprints, physical data, name, and record of incarceration. God in a business suit sits sipping his wine; the Saviour of North America listens with half-closed eyes to Tchaikowsky while rich colors play on the telescreen; John Barton, by grace of political corruption, secret police and a standing army, Lord and Master of a continent, wonders vaguely, sleepily, if he should adopt a rabble-rousing or dignified attitude in his speech tomorrow before the Eugenics Council. He hears the soft, shuffling footsteps of armed bodyguards in the corridor, and smiles wryly. Now he returns to the wine and Tchaikowsky. Darkness has settled, and far ahead, the hard white pinpoint lights of the city blink and flare. The highway glows with a frosted, shadowless yellow radiance. The slim racer speeds along almost noiselessly, the robot drive taking curves and flat stretches smoothly, maintaining a constant velocity. The Scientist relaxes his grip on the Young Man's hand, presses tired eyes with fingers that are worn and skeletal, breathes again deeply of the air of freedom, scarcely believing... "The organization, then..." The furrows on his face are etched indelibly, but a new light lives back of his faded eyes. "...Follows me yet?...I wouldn't have believed it...These years..." The Young Man touches a spring beneath the dashboard; a click, and he withdraws a sheaf of papers. "Destroy this copy when you've read it." He passes the sheets to the Scientist. The racer hums on, the city lights draw nearer; the stars are out, and other blobs of light flash past on the northern lane of the highway. The papers rustle in the Scientist's hands as he reads. He finishes and grins wearily at the Young Man, then
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Plurality by Lou Goldstone The Scientist walks into the setting sun, leaving the gray prison behind him forever. Stiffly, unfeelingly, he treads the same cold pavements that echoed to his footfalls seven years before when that livid, rain-drenched fortress seemed unspeakably terrible as he stolidly marched to an unknown fate. Now it is forgotten, like a dream of dark horror that slides mercifully into limbo under the bright, burning radiance of the knowledge that he is alive and awake and free. The wind tugs at his drab coat, pasting it against his gaunt, withered frame. He pulls his hat down over unruly gray hair, hefts the suitcase that rattles because it is almost empty. Innumerable deep creases about his mouth and cheeks twitch as the narrow stone path comes to an end, and he steps out onto the broad motor highway that zooms in a clean white ribbon to the eastern and western horizons. In his coat pocket he carries a release card bearing his fingerprints, physical data, name, and record of incarceration. God in a business suit sits sipping his wine; the Saviour of North America listens with half-closed eyes to Tchaikowsky while rich colors play on the telescreen; John Barton, by grace of political corruption, secret police and a standing army, Lord and Master of a continent, wonders vaguely, sleepily, if he should adopt a rabble-rousing or dignified attitude in his speech tomorrow before the Eugenics Council. He hears the soft, shuffling footsteps of armed bodyguards in the corridor, and smiles wryly. Now he returns to the wine and Tchaikowsky. Darkness has settled, and far ahead, the hard white pinpoint lights of the city blink and flare. The highway glows with a frosted, shadowless yellow radiance. The slim racer speeds along almost noiselessly, the robot drive taking curves and flat stretches smoothly, maintaining a constant velocity. The Scientist relaxes his grip on the Young Man's hand, presses tired eyes with fingers that are worn and skeletal, breathes again deeply of the air of freedom, scarcely believing... "The organization, then..." The furrows on his face are etched indelibly, but a new light lives back of his faded eyes. "...Follows me yet?...I wouldn't have believed it...These years..." The Young Man touches a spring beneath the dashboard; a click, and he withdraws a sheaf of papers. "Destroy this copy when you've read it." He passes the sheets to the Scientist. The racer hums on, the city lights draw nearer; the stars are out, and other blobs of light flash past on the northern lane of the highway. The papers rustle in the Scientist's hands as he reads. He finishes and grins wearily at the Young Man, then
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