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Fantasia, v. 1, issue 1, January 1941
Page 5
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FANTASIA 5 slides the lighter-sponge from the dashboard and touches its glowing tip to the papers. The sheets darken and crumble. Only a fine dust clouds the air. "Those reports," says the Young Man, "indicate the current situation of the organization. The principal stumbling-stone is -- " "That you have reached the saturation point!" the Scientist finishes. "You have a wide-spread network of espionage; your own ranks are without traitors; you have a potentially powerful organization; you have gained some ground and consolidated your gains. But you cannot engage in violence because a slip would spell the end -- and as far as your propagandizing is concerned, it will take too long in exerting any kind of decisive influence...You are stopped because you have neither the strength to revolt openly nor the endurance to keep your present hazardous but ineffective course!" Silently, the Young Man nods affirmation. "The man on top," he declares with fervor, "The Saviour, the aesthetic beast, is the keystone. Remove him -- and the entire mass collapses..." "I note," says the Scientist, "that the military commandants of three Corps Areas are members of the organization...And that none of them know of the membership -- of the others?" "That's correct. And others, too. Highly placed councillors in this rotten tyrany...But inertia grips the lot. While Barton lives, none of them can move..." Swiftly the highway rockets up, and from all sides other broad, glowing ribbons converge, streaming together into a single massive channel. The city is very near. "I will remove Barton," the Scientist observes. "I knew the method when they seized me seven years ago, and I haven't forgotten it. I can remove him, and will, and, as a matter of fact, already have." God in a bright blue uniform stands gesticulating before a battery of telemikes; The Saviour of North America perspires freely and shifts his volume and inflection, smoothly from roar to whisper and back to roar; John Barton delivers himself of another classic of impassioned extemporaneous oratory while the massed graybeards and baldheads of the Eugenics Council stand listening attentively, cheering and saluting in precise harmony. "It is my destiny, and through me the destiny of United North America," he thunders with feeling, "to consolidate the entire world under one banner, one culture and one master! My brave armies in the South are even now shattering the resistance of the degenerate South American Federation, while the corrupt, bickering plutocracies of the Old World tremble with fear at the overwhelming might of my legions." John Barton pauses while the wild cheers die away. He measures his audience with a practiced stare. He lowers his voice to a sinister growl, extends his arm and gestures with curled fingers. "They will be next!" he hisses, and steps back majestically as the galleries roar in frantic approval. "Destiny is on the march!" he cries. "I am started -- and nothing can stop me!" Another burst of mad enthusiasm sweeps the hall. "My men of science have served me well," the Saviour trumpets, "and must continue to devote themselves with increasing vigor to me and to the Cause of which I am the symbol! Our sacred mission of conquest and domination demands vitality and ruggedness and fertility in my people. My eugenics laboratories must work and work and work! We must be strong! We must be many! We must multiply ourselves tenfold!!!" A hideous thumping sound rocks the hall. Air cracks explosively, rushing outward from a jumbled mass of flesh and bright blue uniforms that has materialized in the center of the close-packed mob. John Barton -- multiplied not by ten, but by twenty! A score of John Bartons in bright blue uniforms sprawl limply on the floor and stagger dazedly away from the scene of carnage. John Bartons in bright blue uniforms crawl and stand dumbly with terror in their eyes. John Bartons with flesh and bone inextricably mingled and bright blue uniforms ripped and torn lie heaving and bleeding and dying. John Barton gasps open-mouthed on the rostrum.
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FANTASIA 5 slides the lighter-sponge from the dashboard and touches its glowing tip to the papers. The sheets darken and crumble. Only a fine dust clouds the air. "Those reports," says the Young Man, "indicate the current situation of the organization. The principal stumbling-stone is -- " "That you have reached the saturation point!" the Scientist finishes. "You have a wide-spread network of espionage; your own ranks are without traitors; you have a potentially powerful organization; you have gained some ground and consolidated your gains. But you cannot engage in violence because a slip would spell the end -- and as far as your propagandizing is concerned, it will take too long in exerting any kind of decisive influence...You are stopped because you have neither the strength to revolt openly nor the endurance to keep your present hazardous but ineffective course!" Silently, the Young Man nods affirmation. "The man on top," he declares with fervor, "The Saviour, the aesthetic beast, is the keystone. Remove him -- and the entire mass collapses..." "I note," says the Scientist, "that the military commandants of three Corps Areas are members of the organization...And that none of them know of the membership -- of the others?" "That's correct. And others, too. Highly placed councillors in this rotten tyrany...But inertia grips the lot. While Barton lives, none of them can move..." Swiftly the highway rockets up, and from all sides other broad, glowing ribbons converge, streaming together into a single massive channel. The city is very near. "I will remove Barton," the Scientist observes. "I knew the method when they seized me seven years ago, and I haven't forgotten it. I can remove him, and will, and, as a matter of fact, already have." God in a bright blue uniform stands gesticulating before a battery of telemikes; The Saviour of North America perspires freely and shifts his volume and inflection, smoothly from roar to whisper and back to roar; John Barton delivers himself of another classic of impassioned extemporaneous oratory while the massed graybeards and baldheads of the Eugenics Council stand listening attentively, cheering and saluting in precise harmony. "It is my destiny, and through me the destiny of United North America," he thunders with feeling, "to consolidate the entire world under one banner, one culture and one master! My brave armies in the South are even now shattering the resistance of the degenerate South American Federation, while the corrupt, bickering plutocracies of the Old World tremble with fear at the overwhelming might of my legions." John Barton pauses while the wild cheers die away. He measures his audience with a practiced stare. He lowers his voice to a sinister growl, extends his arm and gestures with curled fingers. "They will be next!" he hisses, and steps back majestically as the galleries roar in frantic approval. "Destiny is on the march!" he cries. "I am started -- and nothing can stop me!" Another burst of mad enthusiasm sweeps the hall. "My men of science have served me well," the Saviour trumpets, "and must continue to devote themselves with increasing vigor to me and to the Cause of which I am the symbol! Our sacred mission of conquest and domination demands vitality and ruggedness and fertility in my people. My eugenics laboratories must work and work and work! We must be strong! We must be many! We must multiply ourselves tenfold!!!" A hideous thumping sound rocks the hall. Air cracks explosively, rushing outward from a jumbled mass of flesh and bright blue uniforms that has materialized in the center of the close-packed mob. John Barton -- multiplied not by ten, but by twenty! A score of John Bartons in bright blue uniforms sprawl limply on the floor and stagger dazedly away from the scene of carnage. John Bartons in bright blue uniforms crawl and stand dumbly with terror in their eyes. John Bartons with flesh and bone inextricably mingled and bright blue uniforms ripped and torn lie heaving and bleeding and dying. John Barton gasps open-mouthed on the rostrum.
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