_DON'T GET TECHNATAL_
by ron reynolds
For several moments Stern had eyed his typewriter ominously,contemplating whether he should utter the unutterable. Finally:
"Damn!" he roared. "I can't write any more! Look, look at that!" He torethe sheet out of the rollers and crumpled it in his fist. "If I'd knownit would be this way," he said, "I wouldn't have voted for it!Technocracy is ruining everything!"
Bella Stern, preoccupied with her knitting, glanced up in horror. "Whata temper," she exclaimed. "Can't you keep your voice down?" She fussedwith her work. "There now," she cried, "you made me drop a stitch!"
"I want to be a writer!" Samuel Stern lamented, turning with grim eyesto his wife. "And the Technate has spoiled my fun."
"The way you talk, Samuel," said his wife, "I actually believe you wantto go back to that barbarism prevalent in the DARK THIRTIES!"
"It sounds like one damned good idea!" he said. "At least I'd havesomething decent, or indecent, to write about!"
"What _can_ you mean?" she asked, tilting her head back and thinking."Why can't you write? There are just oodles of things I can think ofthat are readable."
Something like a tear rolled down Samuel's cheek. "No more gangsters, nomore bank robberies, no more holdups, no more good, old-fashionedburglaries, no more vice gangs!" His voice grew lachrymose as heproceeded down an infinite line of 'no mores'. "No more sadness," healmost sobbed. "Everybody's happy, contented. No more strife and hardwork. Oh, for the days when a gangland massacre was headline scoop forme!"
"Tush!" sniffed Bella. "Have you been drinking again, Samuel?"
He hiccoughed gently.
"I thought so," she said.
"I had to do something," he declared. "I'm going nuts for want of aplot."
Bella Stern laid her knitting aside and walked to the balcony, lookedmeditatively down into the yawning canyon of the New York street fiftystories below. She turned back to Sam with a reminiscent smile.
"Why not write a love story?"
"_WHAT!_" Stern shot out of his chair like a hooked eel.
"Why, yes," she concluded. "A nice love story would be very enjoyable."
"LOVE!" Stern's voice was thick with sarcasm. "Why, we don't even havedecent love these days. A man can't marry a woman for her money, andvice-versa. Everyone under Technocracy gets the same amount of credit.No more Reno, no more alimony, no more breach of promise, or law suits!Everything is cut and dried. The days of society weddings and coming outparties are gone--cause everyone is equal. I can't write politicalcriticisms about graft in the government, about slums and terribleliving conditions, about poor starving mothers and their babies.Everything is okay--okay--okay--" his voice sobbed off into silence.
"Which should make you very happy," countered his wife.
"Which makes me very sick," growled Samuel Stern. "Look, Bell, all mylife I wanted to be a writer. Okay. I'm writing for the pulp magazinesfor a coupla years. Right? Okay. Then I'm writing sea stories,gangsters, political views, first class-bump-offs. I'm happy.... I'm inmy element. Then--bingo!--in comes Technocracy, makes everyonehappy--bump! out goes me! I just can't stand writing the stuff thepeople read today. Everything is science and education." He ruffled histhick black hair with his fingers and glared.
"You should be joyful that the population is at work doing what theywant to do," Bella beamed.
Sam continued muttering to himself. "They took all the sex magazines offthe market first thing, all of the gangster, murder and detectivepublications. They been educating the children and making model citizensout of them."
"Which is as it should be," finished Bella.
"Do you realize," he blazed, whipping his finger at her, "that for twoyears there hasn't been more than a dozen murders in the city? Not onesuicide or gang war--or--"
"Heavens!" sighed Bella. "Don't be prehistoric, Sam. There hasn't beenanything really criminal for twenty years now. This is 1975 you know."She came over and patted him gently on the shoulder. "Why don't youwrite something science-fictional?"
"I don't like science," he spat.
"Then your only alternative is love," she declared firmly.
He formed the despicable word with his lips, then: "No, I want somethingnew and different." He got up and strode to the window. In the penthousebelow he saw half a dozen robots moving about speedily, working. Hisface lit up suddenly, like that of a tiger spying his prey. "JumpingJigwheels!" he cried. "Why didn't I think of it before! Robots! I'llwrite a love story about two robots."
Bella squelched him. "Be sensible," she said.
"It might happen some day," he argued. "Just think. Love oiled, welded,built of metal, wired for sound!" He laughed triumphantly, but it was alow laugh, a strange little sound. Bella expected him to beat his chestnext. "Robots fall in love at first sight," he announced, "and blow anaudio tube!"
Bella smiled tolerantly. "You're such a child, Sam, I sometimes wonderwhy I married you."
Stern sank down, burning slowly, a crimson flush rising in his face.Only half a dozen murders in two years, he thought. No more politics, nomore to write about. He had to have a story, just had to have one. He'dgo crazy if something didn't happen soon. His brain was clickingfuriously. A calliope of thought was tooting in his subconscious. He hadto have a story. He turned and looked at his wife, Bella, who stoodwatching the air traffic go by the window, bending over the sill,looking down into the street fifty floors below....
... and then he reached slowly and quietly for his atomic gun.
* * * * *
AN EXPLANATION: You may have wondered why I placed the Technocrat storyand article in FuFa. Well, it's because I think Technocracy combines allof the hopes and dreams of science-fiction. We've been dreaming about itfor years--now, in a short time it may become reality. It surelydeserves support from any serious fictioneer. And you can't say this magisn't balanced!--first I give you Yorke's article on Tech., then I giveyou a satire on the same thing, jabbing at it in a good-humoured way,and then--when you read Ackerman's article, you'll see almost thecomplete annihilation of EARTH. So, whether you are an optimist or apessimist about the future of humanity, you'll find either side in FuFa.(But on the side, I'm all for the Technate, aegh!)
Ye Editor....
* * * * *
This being the first issue of FuFa I feel fortunate in being able to offer a piece of scientifiction by the field's most famous fan.
THE RECORD was written first in 1929, scarcely more than a sketch, on two pages. Ackerman was thirteen. ED EARL REPP, LA author of THE RADIUM POOL, said of it: "I found it delighting and exceptionally interesting for the writing of a boy so young." Ackerman re-wrote it into a three page story, later, the present product. It has not been touched since. It is not being retouched now. Allow me to present THE RECORD as a _record_ of how Forrie wrote, spelled and punctuated six years ago at the age of sixteen. _ED._