by Ray Bradbury
by GUY AMORY
The extremely interesting specimen to your right is not a head from aformaldehyde jar, though at times we have seen it, or him, pickled. Itis I, Henry Kuttner, the laziest man who ever punched a typewriter andgot paid for it. Like several other L.A. natives he is too busy livingto do much worrying--and besides--what does it get him? (a check fromWeird Tales) Henry has just sold them a 20,000 word yarn about Elak ofAtlantis. At present he has finished a story headed for STARTLING, fiftythousand words or more, and been working with C. L. Moore on a newchiller.
Hank's first story for Astounding was a disappointment, but he fullymade up for that by turning in a sockerooo to Unknown called _themisguided halo_, written after the fashion of his most highly cherishedauthor THORNE SMITH. What the fans don't know is that this little talehad a different ending than the one used by Campbell. Kuttner's finis tothe halo was hysterically funny, but John W. thought otherwise andtagged a new finish on it--spoiling it as far as this author isconcerned.
Kuttner is 24 years old. He's been writing most of his life--learned howto type at the age of eight and hasn't left it alone since. Was bornwith a type-bar in his mouth. Lives in a quiet catacomb called BeverlyHills, the first cemetery I've ever seen with street lamps. At present,though I have broached the subject on numerous occasions, Hanksteadfastly refuses to write for slick magazines. His best excuse beinghis laziness.
Hanks is quiet-speaking, sincere. But he has a sense of humor, the kindthat hits you amidriff abruptly. He is the perfect dead-pan jokester.His digs many times being too subtle for your correspondent to catchuntil several moments have passed, Kuttner is always ready to rush inmildly and put the immature fans to route. It is only when you see theghastly pictures that he takes out at his charnal cave that you realizehis true sense of comedy. He and Hodgkins and Shroyer, the fiends, gettogether in outre garb, in horrifying pose, and bring forth films thatwould shake the mind of even such a horror as Robert Bloch.
Kuttner likes the way C. L. Moore writes (and who doesn't). He wishes hecould write like her--but claims that when he tries imitating it comesout so much trash. If you've read any of his stories you realize thatHank is a master of the bingety-boom type of fiction--but with feeling!He puts more Incident in ten pages of Elak than any other author inWEIRD, and makes you feel it. He paints his picture with masterfullyabrupt dabs, while Moore lays on her horror with the touch of a mosaicmaster, building up. Kuttner knocks you down and keeps you bouncing.Moore swirls you in cobwebs and totes you away into infinity. Combiningtheir efforts in '37 for QUEST OF THE STARSTONE they turned outsomething to remember ... with Hank's flair for lightning pace andMoore's for description they went to town.
That's about all we can say about Hank, He doesn't like New York becauseit's too dirty, noisy and big. He dotes on Thorne Smith. Rite now he'strying to crash Argosy with a story--and in the future you can expectsome big things from this quiet author.
Oh, yes, and is it true what they say about Kuttner?
No, he doesn't use dope to get the effect in his stories. He has amassive painting of Art Barnes on his desk and when he prepares to writehe squints once and once only at that painting to get gruesomeatmosphere. Then he starts typing!
Take a bow, Mr. Kuttner.
(Jus bend over a little more, Hank! A' K' BARNES)
WHUMP!
Ouch! (KUTTNER)
The End (of Kuttner)
ANALYSIS
FROM J CHAPMAN MISKE: Pretty snappy cover on the 1st issue of fufa. Atleast I like it. Simple stuff looks best on mimeod covers. By the way,what, I'd like to know, is the sex of that Bokian creature? WHY MR.MISKE! WE THOT U ABHORED SEX! TSK! TSK! I'm for Technocracy. PersonallyI suspect Reynolds of being Kuttner NOPE.... TRY AGAIN, JACK. Yourpoetry not so hot. U wandered a bit and were melodramatic.
DALE HART POSTS: Bok cover good. Yerke and Reynolds interesting.Forrie's story unique. Yur poem full of thot but it didn't scan verywell. MAYBE IT'S BECUZ I'M MORE BRITISH THAN I AM _SCAN_-DIN-AVIAN.(BRAD) How about an increase in pages--this issue much too small. HOPEYU LIKE THIS BIGGER SIZE, DALE.
GERTRUDE HEMKIN MUMBLES: Cover startling, technocracy article soundssensible, ron reynolds satire amusing and contains a few kernels oflogic, at that. And where hav I red 4SJ's RECORD bee4?
(WE _Wonder_) HENRY HASSE TYPES: "Hans Bok steals 1st honors 4 hiscover. Hope yu can get Hans to do all yur illustrations each month."YES; HENRY, WE'LL HAVE BOK ON THE COVER EVERY ISSUE FROM NOW ON EVEN THOHE'S BUSY IN NEW YORK WITH HIS PANTING--SINCE THE EDITORIAL FOR FUFA WASSTENCILED THE DECEMBER ISSUE OF WEIRD TALES HAS APPEARED ON THE STANDSALL OVER AMERICA WITH ITS COVER DONE BY BOK. IT WAS FUTURIA FANTASIA'SPLEASENT DUTY, THIS SUMMER; TO BRING ABOUT THAT DEAL BETWEEN BOK ANDWEIRD AND WE ARE JUSTLY PROUD OF HANS AND HIS SUCCESS. HERE'S HOPING HEHITS ASTOUNDING NEXT. HASSE CONTINUES: "Best written feature was yurpoem, Brad. Next is Reynolds piece and the one by Ackerman." DUE TO LACKOF SPACE IN THIS ISSUE WE ARE CONDENSING THE ABOVE LETTERS. IN THEWINTER EDITION THERE WILL BE A BIGGER LETTER DEPARTMENT--THAT IS, IF YUWRITE IN. WE'RE ANXIOUS TO KNOW HOW YOU LIKED OUR SPECIAL _thependulum_. UNTIL THEN, FU, FAREWELL!
RETURN FROM DEATH
_by ANTONY CORVAIS_
They were seated in his parked, car, miles from the city, when Roberttold Ellen; "I'll always love you, darling, forever and ever. I justcan't help myself, and I don't want to."
The girl nestled closer without reply.
"And if something should happen to one of us, the other wouldwait--because love like ours will never know death--it must go on--foreternity," he continued. "I know that I'll love you even when I'm dead,and if there are such things as spirits, I'll come back to you--somehow.Or would it frighten you?"
Ellen pouted: "Don't be so funereal! It makes me feel strangely inside.Of course nothing can separate us. It's a beautiful nite and we'rewasting it on--oh, dear!" Her eyes had glanced at the small clock on thepaneling. "It's late, Robert. You must hurry me home now or mother willbe furious!"
Sighing, Robert started the car. As they roared toward town over thetwisting roadway, suddenly the car swerved.
"Lookout, Bob! A man!" It was Ellen's high voice screaming.
The car skidded sickeningly on loose gravel, crashed thunderouslythrough the railing bordering the highway, and richocheted, turning overand over, halting as wreckage. Robert was crushed under the metal bulk,losing consciousness.
Thrown clear, Ellen scrambled to the man, bent over him. Something morethan pain filmed his eyes; he heard himself muttering: "I'll comeback?--you wait--" in a failing whisper as illimitable darkness sweptover him, accompanied by dreadful nausea. A point of light appeared inthe void, expanding into a dazzling rectangle which split into thousandsof lesser planes; these shaped a geometric pattern which whirleddizzily, humming, the drone rising in pitch with every sickeningrevolution, becoming incessant mechanical scream----
"And this is death. This is past human endurance." With suddenomniscience he knew that he WAS dead and the meaning of the spinningpattern. The knowledge ebbed and carried with it all of his memoriesexcept for Ellen's face and her name.
The wheeling design parted like a curtain, and Robert observed beyond ita branching path spreading before him like a flattened tree. At the endof every fork was Ellen's face, wavering and blurred. He fixed hisattention upon the nearest furcation, aspiring toward it desperately,and sensed himself hovering in space.
Shock, as of lightning coursing his veins, knotted him with agony.Involuntarily his eyes squeezed shut. Icy air tortured his lungs. As heraised his voice in weak protest, the pain ceased and he relaxed, spent.His eyes continued shut, as though the lids were gummed down. Failing inmany attempts to open them, he quested food, found it, and consoledhimself with it.
Occasionally plaintive voices babbled unintelligibly, arousing him.Always, if he listened, he heard a gentle murmur reply to the voices.And then everything was quiet. He felt very sleepy. Finally he droppedoff into slumber, deep and restful.
Between perio
ds of sleep, Robert struggled with his heavy eyelids.Memories might have associated his sightlessness with blindness--but hehad none. There were only Ellen's face and her name which, whenexpecially desperate, he called again and again.
Gradually his vision became clear, and he stared in awe at a world ofimmensity which was peopled with Titans. The picture of Ellen in thisgigantic place troubled him, for the colossal beings looked upon him asan animated toy. Often he was elevated to their reeking mouths, kissed,and dropped aside; if he were insistent upon attention, inquiring forEllen, the giants beat him and thrust him from their presence.
Inert bare-surfaced looming things inclosed him, from some of which,when he approached them, he was kicked away. Incredibly huge portalsbarred egress to an outer world, from which seeped strange sharp odors.By calling his one word to the world beyond the doors, Robert endeavoredto explain to the Titans that Ellen might possibly be outside. But theyhushed him with amusement, sometimes with abuse.
There had been others prisoned here like himself while he had not seen,but they had vanished now, but this bothered him not in the least--histhoughts were of Ellen, and finally the giants lifted him and put himinto a windowless room and clamped a fretted ceiling over it. Thechamber rocked gently; he realized that it was being moved from oneplace to another. Leaping frantically he touched the ceiling's lattice,clung to it, struggling to force himself through its interstices.Unsuccessful, tiring, he fell back, crouched in a corner, weeping.
Motion of transit ended--the confining ceiling vanished. Robertscrambled over a wall, dropped to the ground of the outer world, whoseheavy conflicting odors, dazzling lights and moving shadows alarmed him.Dim with distance was the withdrawing form of a giant, which he pursued,crying out his one word, "ELLEN!"
The giant vanished among weird wavering plants. Alone, Robert skulkednervously through tall rustling things, was terrified at times by anunexpected sound or motion. But the swaying things appeared unaware ofhim and he became self-confidant. Discovering a stretch of damp earthgemmed with puddles, he drank. His head cocked at a sound reminiscent ofEllen: her soothing voice.
A giantess had appeared over him. She was--ELLEN! At sight of her,Robert's pent memories burst free, overwhelming his consciousness withturbulent pageantry. He thrust up his arms; gently indulgent, the girlbent and drew him to her breast. She cuddled him, cooing to him. At themoment her monstrous size did not concern him.
"I've found you! I've found you!" he cried. "Oh, Ellen, if only you knewhow lonely it has been--" He opened his glad heart to her in astammering urgency, bliss in his eyes, tears in his voice. Breathless,he raised his face to the girl's; she hesitated. Then she kissed him andset him down at her feet. She strode away. Crying with hurt amazement,he followed. She shook her head. She kept walking swiftly. He could notkeep up with her and he stopped forlornly as she disappeared behind anobstruction. He stared after her with unbelieving eyes. Tho mysteriouslystunted, he had returned to her from death, and she had not acceptedhim. He stepped close to one of her prodigious footprints in the mud andsurveyed it grimly. His eyes sought an impression of his own foot. Andsuddenly he cried in mingled grief and horror--for there in the mud washis footprint--small--strange--the footprint of a half-grown cat!
CONVENTIONAL NOTES or the report on THE S.F.L. BALL GAME
by the editor
score: 27 sprained ankles to 3 cracked knees.
Ross Rocklynne: Tall, freckled, red haired, pleasent looking,good-natured and humorous--that is Rocklynne--and, by the way, in reallife he spells it Rock_lin_. Makes the ideal traveling companion.Continually clicking away with his candid camera. Is versed in manysubjects--likes plots about gigantic ideas, such as THE MOTH, giant men,and THE MEN AND THE MIRROR with an amorphous reflector, while JUPITERTRAP gave us a giant siphon. Rocklynne, 26, looks 22 or younger.Favorite expression, when agreeing with anyone is, "That's right."Spending most of my time after the convention with Ross, painting thetown a delicate pink, I found that he is now trying a bit of Weirdwriting which has been unsuccessful, and some Western concocting--ditto.Ross is quite different than his characters Deveral and Colbie. SomehowI had imagined a Rocklynne with a sharp gaunted face and bulgingmuscles--I found, instead, a good example of what mite be called typicalcollege species number #569Z, a cross between science and wit, wellmixed and jelled in an Empire State tall body. Lives in Cincinnatti. Hischaracters, Colbie and Deveral, are two of the most consistent andpopular guys in s.f. today, according to Campbell.
Charlie Hornig: The dark horse who says neigh to every manuscript Iwrite for him. Dark-haired, dark-eyed, dark-skinned fiend who deals fromthe bottom of the manuscript pile over at _Science-fiction_. He has justlearned to speak English during the past week and now he finds it muchmore fun picking out the manuscripts instead of leaping into a pile ofthem and bobbing up with one between his teeth. Makes lousy speeches. Isa human dynamo and expert guide to anyone in Manhattan. Makes money onthe side selling shoestrings on the I.R.T. between the Bronx and ConeyIsland. Father was a toupee manufacturer which makes Charlie hair to abig-wig's fortune. Thanx, Charlie, for your presence in New York toguide me around. And I just LOVE Science Fiction! (paid adv.)
Impressions cawt short: John W. (werewolf) Campbell, a scientific theoryin a potato sack suit with high rubber boots to match.
Julius Schwartz and Groucho Marx look-alikes.
Mort Weisinger, a plump smile.
A. Merritt, the man on the billboards with a mug of Milwaukee beer inhis hand. Jovial, glasses, chubby. Not a bit mysterious.
Forrest J. Ackerman, dressed in future garb at convention, looking likea fugitive from a costume shop.
Willy Ley, a pair of thick-lensed glasses with an accent.Lowndes--moustache and gold tooth--double feature. Leslie Perry--MadameButterfly with bangs.
Henry Kuttner, a voice from a pile of cigarettes. Morojo, short andsweet, commonly referred to as the VOICE OF MIDGE. Sykora, nervousbreakdown with hair. Moskowitz, human fog-horn: following his openingspeech New York gripped by earth tremors. Wollheim, Communist, born in arevolving door, believes in revolutions, get it? Or do you? Sykora,Moskowitz, Taurasi--three little pigs. Manly Wade Wellman--the humanJELL-O! Kornbluth, a well-padded belch. Swisher, massive literary BabeRuth, king of so-what! Robert J. Thompson, the leaning tower of Pisawired for sound.
LOCAL LEAGUE LIFE
Nite of Halloween the Paramount theatre found itself besieged withmembers of the S.F.L. when 4Sj, Morojo, Pogo, Bradbury, Corvais, Rogers,Amory, Eldred and others met there to enjoy special preview of Bob Hopefilm CAT AND CANARY. Bradbury took along weird mask fashioned byHarryhausen and, in spookiest part of film, scared hell out of innocentblonde sitting alongside. Her scream was heard over in Pomona.Chandeliers rocked. Bradbury then took off mask and laffed and the girltainted.
* * * * *
One month ago Bradbury stenciled and printed the editorial to thissecond issue of FuFa, only to be delayed by various troubles, mostlytypewriter and stencil scourges, until now. In the meantime the DecemberWeird had come out and FuFa's artist Bok had a cover on it. We'd like totake this opportunity to congratulate Bok on his splendid work and wishhim luck.
* * * * *
Yerke, in one of his britest moments, growled, "The little man whowasn't there, certainly didn't take up lots of air, but just think ofthe air he wouldn't take up if he were twins!"
* * * * *
Henry Hasse, now a regular writer for Weird again, according to latereports, has one coming up in a short while. Hopes to have itillustrated by Bok.
* * * * *
Last moment arrival of material from various authors thrust theTechnocracy article out of this issue. We suggest that all thoseinterested in Technocracy go to your nearest Section in your city andsave us the trouble of converting you. We will, tho, in the WinterEdition, give you a few facts and predictions made by Technocracy.
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ADDRESS COMMUNICATIONS:
FUTURIA FANTASIA AN L.A. SFL PUB. 30 54 1/2 W. 12th St. Los Angeles, Cal.
Ray Bradbury, Editor
