"Where did the Piper come from?" asked the Martian boy.
"From Venus." The old man took out his pipe and filled it. "Oh, sometwenty years ago or more, on the projectile with the Terrestrians. Iarrived on the same ship, coming from Earth, we shared a double seattogether."
"What is his name?" Again the boyish, eager voice.
"I can't remember. I don't think I ever knew, really."
A vague rustling sound came into existence. The Piper continued playing,paying no heed to it. From the darkness, across the star-jewelledhorizon, came mysterious shapes, creeping, creeping.
"Mars is a dying world," the old man said. "Nothing ever happens of muchgravity. The Piper, I believe, is an exile."
The stars trembled like reflections in water, dancing with the music.
"An exile." The old man continued. "Something like a leper. They calledhim THE BRILLIANT. He was the epitome of all Venerian culture until theEarthmen came with their greedy incorporations and licentious harlots.The Earthlings outlawed him, sent him here to Mars to live out hisdays."
"Mars is a dying world," repeated the boy. "A dying world. How manyMartians are there, sir?"
The old man chuckled. "I guess maybe you are the last pure Martianalive, boy. But there are millions of others."
"Where do they live? I have never seen them."
"You are young. You have much to see, much to learn."
"Where do they live?"
"Out there, beyond the mountains, beyond the dead sea bottoms, over thehorizon and to the north, in the caves, far back in the subterrane."
"Why?"
"Why? Now that's hard to say. They were a brilliant race once upon atime. But something happened to them, hybrided them. They areunintelligent creatures now, cruel beasts."
"Does Earth own Mars?" The little boy's eyes were riveted upon theglowing planet overhead, the green planet.
"Yes, all of Mars. Earth has three cities here, each containing onethousand people. The closest city is a mile from here, down the road, agroup of small metal bubble-like buildings. The men from Earth moveabout among the buildings like ants enclosed in their space suits. Theyare miners. With their huge machines they rip open the bowels of ourplanet and dig out our precious life-blood from the mineral arteries."
"Is that all?"
"That is all." The old man shook his head sadly. "No culture, no art, nopurpose. Greedy, hopeless Earthlings."
"And the other two cities----where are they?"
"One is up the same cobbled road five miles, the third is further stillby some five hundred miles."
"I am glad I live here with you, alone." The boy's head nodded sleepily."I do not like the men from Terra. They are despoilers."
"They have always been. But someday," said the old man, "they will meettheir doom. They have blasphemed enough, have they. They cannot _own_planets as they have and expect nothing but greedy luxury for theirsluggishly squat bodies. Someday----!" His voice rose high, in tempo andpitch with the Piper's wild music.
Wild music, insane music, stirring music. Music to stir the savage intolife. Music to effect man's destiny!
"Wild-eyed Piper on the hill, Crying out your rigadoons, Bring the savages to kill 'Neath the waning Martian moons!"
"What is that?" asked the boy.
"A poem," said the old man. "A poem I have written in the last few days.I feel something is going to happen very soon. The Piper's song isgrowing more insistent every night. At first, twenty years ago, heplayed on only a few nights of every year, but now, for the last threeyears he has played until dawn every night of every autumn when theplanet is dying."
"Bring the savages?" the boy sat up. "What savages?"
"There!"
Along the star-glimmered mountain tops a vast clustering herd of black,murmuring, advancing. The music screamed higher and higher.
"Piper, pipe that song again! So he piped, I wept to hear."
"More of the poem?" asked the boy.
"Not my poem--but a poem from Earth some seventy years ago. I learned itin school."
"Music is strange." The little boy's eyes were scintillant with thought."It warms me inside. This music makes me angry. Why?"
"Because it is music with a purpose."
"What purpose?"
"We shall know by dawn.
"Music is the language of all things--intelligent or not, savage oreducated civilian. This Piper knows his music as a god knows his heaven.For twenty years he has composed his hymn of action and hate andfinally, tonight perhaps, the finale will be reached. At first, manyyears ago, when he played, he received no answer from the subterrane,but the murmur of gibbering voices. Five years ago he lured the voicesand the creatures from their caves to the mountain tops. Tonight, forthe first time, the herd of black will spill over the trails toward ourhovel, toward the road, toward the cities of man!"
Music screaming, higher, faster, insanely, sending shock after macabreshock thru night air, loosening the stars from their riveted stations.The Piper stretched high, six feet or more, upon his hillock, swayingback and forth, his thin shape attired in brown-cloth. The black mass onthe mountain came down like amoebic tentacles, met and coalesced,muttering and mumbling. "Go inside and hide," said the old man. "You areyoung, you must live to propagate the new Mars. Tonight is the end ofthe old, tomorrow begins the new! It is death for the men of Earth!"Higher still and higher. "Death! They come to overrun the Earthlings,destroy their cities, take their projectiles. Then--in the ships ofman--to Earth! Turnabout! Revolution and Revenge! A new civilization!When monsters usurp men and men's greediness crumbles at his demise!"Shriller, faster, higher, insanely tempoed. "The Piper--The BrilliantOne--He who has waited for years for this night. Back to Venus toreinstall the glory of his civilization! The return of Art to humanity!"
"But they are savages, these unpure Martians," the boy cried.
"Men are savages. I am ashamed of being a man," the old man said,tremblingly. "Yes, these creatures are savages, but they willlearn--these brutes--with music. Music in many forms----music for peace,music for love--music for hate and music for death. The Piper and hisbrood will set up a new cosmos. He is immortal!" Now, hurrying,muttering up the road, the first cluster of black things reminiscent ofmen. A strange sharp odor in the air. The Piper, from his hillock,walking down the road, over the cobbles, to the city. "Piper, pipe thatsong again!" cried the old man. "Go and kill and live again! Bring uslove and art again! Piper, pipe the song! I weep!" Then: "Hide, child,hide quickly! Before they come! Hurry!" And the child, crying, hurriedto the small house and hid himself thru the night.
Swirling, jumping, running, leaping, gamboling, crying--the new humanitysurged to man's cities, his rockets, his mines. The Piper's song! Starsshuddered. Winds stilled. Nightbirds sang no songs. Echoes murmured onlythe voices of the ones who advanced, bringing new understanding. The oldman, caught in the whirlpool of ebon, was swept down, screaming. Then upthe road, by the awful thousands, vomiting out of hills, sprawling fromcaves, curling, huge fingers of beasts, around and about and down to theMan Cities. Sighing, leaping up, voices and destruction!
Rockets across the sky!
Guns. Death.
And finally, in the pale advancement of dawn, the memory, the echoing ofthe old man's voice. And the little boy arose to start afresh a newworld with a new mate.
Echoing, the old man's voice:
"Piper, pipe that song again! So he piped, I wept to hear!"
A new day dawned.
The End
_THE ITCHING HOUR_
by Damon Knight
Mind you, I don't believe the story, myself. It was obvious, from thestart, that the old man was mad. Besides, I was stinko at the time, andI may not have got some of the details right. But in its essentials, thestory still sticks in my mind.... I can see the old man now, with a pairof my best socks around his neck, moaning and wheezing and spitting onthe floor, and in between times telling his strange, strange story. Ofcourse, the whole thing w
as fantastic; the old loon had probably escapedfrom some nut factory.... and yet.... No, no, the old man was booby. Andyet.... And yet....
The night it happened I was sitting in my study in my white silk Russianlounging robe, smoking a narghile or Indian water-pipe and throwingdarts at a signed photograph of Sally Rand. I'd just pinked her neatlyin the gluteus maximus, when I was startled by a crash of glass, andturned around to see an aged man tottering carefully thru the remains ofmy French windows.
At once the chill of horror griped me. Oops, I mean _gripped_!! Unableto move, I stared speechlessly as the old man went directly to my chestof drawers and fumbled within, the overhead light throwing his face intosombre shadow.
Blowing his nose on one of my dress shirts he grumbled to himself aboutthe starch and selected a pair of lamb's wool socks and tied them aroundhis neck. This done, he hobbled over to a chair facing mine, sat down,pulled his tattered undershirt, which for some reason he was wearing asa shawl, more closely around his thin shoulders, stared reproachfully atme, shivering at the icy blast that came in thru the shattered windows."There's a draft in here, and you know what you can do about it," hecomplained.
"Yes, there is," I managed to get out.
He nodded, satisfied. "I thought there was," he said. Then, dragging hischair closer, he leaned over and, grasping me firmly by the lapels, saidpleasently, "Ipswitch on the amscray, don't you think?"
Half stifled with terror, I gasped, "Uh, yes." At once his manner wastransformed. Drawing himself up indignantly he sneered "That's a lie!That's what they all say, the sniveling hypocrites! They know it's alie!"
Then he drew nearer once again. "But," he said, "I'm going to tell youmy story anyway. You have a kind face. And I--I just don't have any atall." He raised the rim of his hat and I saw it was true! He had noface! Gibbering, I tried to get away, to flee or scram, but it was toolate. Taking a firmer grip on my lapels, and standing heavily on myfoot, the old man began his story.
"You may not believe it (he began) but I, too, was once a carefree youngfan like yourself. From morning til night I thot of nothing but eating,sleeping, sex, and my fan-mag, PUKE. In the evening I would stay up tilmorning, splashing happily in my hecto inks, and turning out pages andpages of material like mad. And at last I'd go to bed, tired but happy,knowing I had done my duty as an honest fan.
"And then, one day, it happened. By some unfortunate chance, I got alittle double-strength purple hectograph ink on my face. Noticing it inthe mirror the next morning, as I was trying to decide whether to shavethis week or not, I took a washcloth and tried to rub off the stain.Alas, poor fool that I was, I recked not of the consequences!
"With hard rubbing, I managed to get some of the ink off, but when Iwent on rubbing, to remove the rest, the ink I had rubbed off wastransferred back to my face. And so it went, the adament ink going fromwashrag to face and from face back to washrag.
"The ink, as I have said, was double-strength purple undiluted, andsuffered nothing in the process. But something had to give way. Thewashrag, by an unhappy coincidence, was a brand-new one, and my face wassome years old. Only one thing could have happened. It did."
Thus, shedding a tear on the carpet, the old stranger ended his weirdtale. Getting slowly to his feet, he drew his hat down over his eyesonce more, tied his socks around his neck more tightly, and shuffled offtoward the shattered windows. At the sill, he turned, faced the room,and made one last parting shot, ere he vanished in the gloom. "_Dogshave fleas!_" he screamed.
But sometimes I wonder.
I'VE NEVER SEEN
by Hannes Bok
I've never seen a Flirtenflog. I've heard that it's a Martian dog. But science-fiction has romanced That the Martian race is much advanced; So thus my reasoning should be, Has a Flirtenflog ever seen ME??????
* * * * *
_HAVE YOU TRIED READING_
freehafer's POLARIS?
HANNES V: BOK ARTIST
AS SEEN BY HANNES V: BOK CRITIC.
Hannes Bok, born in Seattle. Age; 23. Arrived in New York in August,1939. Is doing interiors and covers for Weird Tales and several otherwellknown fantasy magazines.
ninevah
_by_ J. E. K_elleam_
They say the bittern and the cormorant Have nested in the upper lintels there. The wind builds flowers of dust upon the air, Lifting and falling, slow and hesitant. Within the crumbling temples beasts have laired; Eyeless the windows, broken the terraces; No laughter breaks the silence. The palaces Are weathered and the cedar work is bared.
If this be glory's wage, then let me trust The fragile things that are not built of might, The lovely things that leave no trace when gone: The rose that swiftly turns into the dust, Beauty that blazed a moment----Or a night Of golden stars forgotten with the dawn.
Do U Want Fans to
Point At U & Say
"HE'S BEHIND THE TIMES--HE WRITES WITH AN OLD BLACK & RED RIBBON"?Or--"Well, he uses one of those swell _fan_tastic green-&-brown ribbonslike Erle Korshak & Tom Wright & Russ Hodgkins & Ackerman & 'Alchemist'& Yerke & Freehater &"--look at the record: _3 dozen sold to date!_ $1ppd from MOROJO, Bx 6475 Met Sta, Los Angeles Cal.
Daugherty's _2_ Sensations
Walt Daugherty: 1039 W 39 Los Angeles Cal
(Both for 15c!)
SHANGRI-LA 10c]
_The Rocket_ 10c
* * * * *
LE ZOMBIE--the Nickel Nifty, the Flower of Fandom. From Bob Tucker, POBox 260, Bloomington Illinois
* * * * *
Get the Lead out of your Shoe, son, & send for that copy of _Snide_, the"Thud & Blunder" mag, 10c from Damon Knight, 803 Columbia, Hood RiverOre.
* * * * *
_THE MERCURY_ is rising! Send for this temperature-raising news-mag ofPacificoast Palaver, only 5c a copy from Tom Wright, 1140 Bush St,Martinez, Calif. Companion, _The Comet_, costs but 10c from samepublisher, & will be sure to please U!
_BOK'S_ creatures of _Lorelei_]
LOCAL LEAGUE LIFE
--GUY AMORY
THE ROADS MUST ROLL! And the road rolls right into Campbell's office androlling right back comes a check to Mr. Robert A. Heinlein, member ofthe L.A. S.F.L., whose _noval_ is currently in ASTOUNDING now.Heinlein's yarn about roads deals with a culture where roads are themost important things to mankind and he just sold it to John W., forwhich, BRAVO, BOB!
Story will appear with above title or as ROADTOWN, all dpendin' on whichside of the bed Campbell gets up from.
* * * * *
How's about a letter of criticism, Mr. Swisher. We would like to know what you think of F.F. Thanx.
THE EDITORS
* * * * *
SCIENTIFAN 15 c
Jan-Feb
Terrificover! The only magazine of its size for fans--slick covers! Material by Tucker, Hart, Sullivan & others! "Horrors Cellar", feature-length fiction by Harry Warner Jr. Long fan-interest article by Lowndes. 10 interesting depts. Publication profusely illustrated.
SPECIAL SUPPLEMENT: _Mercury_--controversial matters.
A SMASHING PUBLICATION, 1836 - 39th Ave, Oakland, Calif.
* * * * *
FUTURIA FANTASIA
An LA SFL Publication Ray Bradbury, Editor 3054 1-2 W. 12th St. Los Angeles, Calif.
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