THE RECORD
by FORREST J. ACKERMAN
For twenty years--for twenty long, horror filled, war laden years theEarth had not known peace.
Hovering over the metropolises of the world came long, lean battleprojectiles, glinting silver in the sunlight or coming like gauntmirages of grey out of the midnight sky to blast man's civilization fromits cultural foundations. Man against man, ship against ship--aceaseless and useless orgy of slaughter. Men, at their battle stationsin the ships, pressed buttons, releasing radio bombs that blisteredspace and lifted whole cities up in shattered pieces and flung themdown, grim ruins, reminders of man's ignorant hatreds and suspicions.
And gas--thick black clouds of it--billowing over the cities, seekingevery possible egress, pushed forward by colossal Wind machines. Buteven when Victory came for the one side, often Nature, in one of hervengeful moments, would send the black gas flowing back to annihilateits senders.
Rays cut the air! Power bombs exploded incessantly! Evaporays robbed theEarth of its water--shot it up into the atmosphere and made of it a fogthat condensed only after many months. And heat rays made deserts out offertile terrain.
Rays that hypnotized caused even the strong minded to commit suicide orreveal military secrets. Rays that effected the optical nerves sweptcities and left the population groping and blind, unable to find food.
It was a war that destroyed almost all of humanity. And why were theyfighting? _For pleasure and amusement!_
In the middle of the twenty-second century, every nation had a standarddefense. The weapons of war of each were equal--not in proportion tosize, but actually, since man-power no longer counted high. Pacifism haddone its best, but the World was armed to the hilt. And now--thoughillogically--it felt safe--for every nation meant the same as if all hadnothing.
Another thing--there was no work to be done. Robots did it. And thereseemed nothing left to discover, invent or enjoy. Art was at itsperfection, poetry was mathematically correct and unutterablybeautiful--worked out by the Esthetic machines. Sculptoring had beengiven the effect complete, artists hands guided by wonderful pieces ofmachinery. Huge museums were crammed with art put out synthetically.
And thus it was with the many Arts and their creators who grew stagnentin their perfection. And it was that way with the many sciencesalso....
Paleontologists had found, and articulated, and catalogued every fossil.The ancestor of the Eohippus, the little four-toed Dawn Horse, wasdiscovered; the direct line between man and ape established in skeletalremains; the seat of _life_ itself definitely proved Holarctica. Andgreat bio-chemists, skilled in the science of vital processes, hadcreated synthetic tissues and muscles and flesh, built upon the framesthat had been recovered bodies with skillful modeling ... even suppliedthem with blood and given them the spark of LIFE ... so thatPaleobotonists recreated the flora of a prehistoric era. Again theponderous amphibious brontosaur pushed through marshes. Fish emergedupon the land, and the first bird archaeopteryx tried his imperfectwings for flight. In the regulated climates of long dead ages, fish,amphibians, reptiles, birds and mammals lived again for the edificationof those interested in the very ancient--or who were amused with queeranimals.
But that was only paleontologically speaking. There were the heavens tobe considered. They had been: the stars and planets weighed andmeasured, their composition noted, courses plotted with super-accuracy.Every feature had been mapped--every climactic condition recorded. Lifehad been named and numbered ... then photographed. And these were butfirst considerations. Actually, what wasn't known about the Solar Systemhad not occurred as yet. But that would probably be remedied by amachine to view the future.
There was physics, biology, anthropology, zoology, geology,bacteriology, botany--and 'ologies' and 'otonies' and 'onomies' such asran into figures which only machines could calculate.
A book could indeed have been written of the accomplishments of superrace. But this is of the WAR itself, and how it came about, and howit all ended.
Stated simply, in 2150 the point of DIMINISHING UTILITY had beenreached. To the hungry man, the first course of dinner is wonderfullydelicious, the second good, the third satisfying. Through the agespeople have hungered after luxury and leisure--but when he finds hisfood, a lot of it, MAN finds suddenly that it no longer appeals to him.In fact, too much is bound to make him sick and often disagreeable. Helooks around for something else. So did the people of the 22nd Century.They had all of the pleasurable amusements they wanted, but it was allso intellectual. Everything was culture. They had surfeited with it. Andsuddenly they wanted to forget it. All play and no work made MAN adiscontented citizen. A reaction set in. Man was not completelycivilized as yet----THE WAR!
Twenty-one years the war raged. And scarcely a million survived. Bit bybit this million was whittled down by the weapons of destruction toragged handfuls of things that once had been cultured. Finally only onehundred humans remained alive--and they kept fighting blindly, none ofthem realizing how close to oblivion they were crowding themselves andthe future of humanity--and they went on killing, killing, killing!
It is doubtless but what the entire human race would have vanished,leaving the world to the more competent, though half-ignorant, hands ofthe beasts, who fought and killed one another for self-preservation andfor food--not because of madness ... and who did not have books and talkand have _culture_. The human race would have gone, had it not been forthe record.
The fighters of WAR'S END, leaving their machines and countries tocongregate for personal combat, were engaging in hand-to-hand attacks inthe ruins of what once had been a tall and powerful city in theTwentieth Century, but now lay crumbling, its proud buildings falling tothe ground, sticking out iron-rusted skeletons to the sky--and the citywas LOS ANGELES!
HEDRIK HUNSON was fighting with phosphorized fists--hand inclosed inchemically treated gloves that burned as they struck the antagonist,insulated on the interior for the wearer--when suddenly the two of themwere caught by a spreader. The other man died instantly, but Hedrik gotit in the side and was whirled about sickeningly, and survived.
He was lying painfully on something when he came to, but felt too dizzyand sick to move. At last, when his head had cleared a bit, he rolledover into a sitting position and reached out his arms to grasp--aphonograph!
Big things came in small packages in the days of 2171, and a portablephonograph might well be taken for a weapon of some sort--which wasexactly what Hedrik thought! And you can hardly blame him, because noone in that generation had ever seen one of the things.
There was a curious story connected with the dying of music, concerningthe days of 2050 when there was a movement to stamp out all symphoniesand songs and things even slightly sentimental.
--but back to Hedrik!
Hedrik found the crank that wound the portable, turned it, reasoningthat perhaps it gave power--and then--holding it away from him--hewaited for rays to spurt out or something to explode. Nothing happened!Hedrik was disappointed. After an agony of perspiration and puzzlementhe finally accidentally placed the needled arm onto the disk. The disk,he noticed, was black and filled with little undulations. The disk waslike a wheel--so Hedrik thought--it should revolve like one, shouldn'tit? He pushed the starter thoughtfully and was more than surprised whenthe disk started spinning.
From the phonograph came music--music and singing! The lost Art hadreturned! The Art banished under compulsion had made a comeback.
Some man was singing on the record--in a queerly interesting andfamiliar tongue, the ancient English. The singer seemed sad, almostcrying. And Hedrik was thrilled as he played it over and over again,drinking in the new experience like wine on the lips of a connoisseur.The voice rose, fell, lingered. And Hedrik suddenly didn't feel likefighting anymore!
The music floated out over the tumbled ruins, descended to the ears ofthe other people. AND THE FIGHTING CEASED! They were transformed. Theycame running to crowd about the machine.
And there in that aged mus
ic shop they stood enthralled--music filledtheir souls. It was exactly what they had needed and wanted for manyyears. And it had been denied them. Music was the balancing force ...the force that would help them struggle ahead rebuilding the world. Andnext time they would be saner ... they knew ... the lesson of luxury hadbeen learned and learned well. Never again would they leave all of thework to the machines. Now they would work and sing and play.
It would be work ... hard work ... for some time to come. But they hadfound music again, and that would anchor them to sanity.
And thus was mankind saved through a record--_SONNY BOY!_
* * * * *
FUTURIA FANTASIA! FALL ISSUE COMING UP AS SOON AS YE EDITOR RETURNS FROMJAUNT TO MANHATTEN (in case you intend writing me and telling me Ispelled MANHATTAN wrong in the editorial and above, I already knowit ... it was just a typical-graphical error.) THE NEXT ISSUE WILL BEEVEN LARGER--CONTAINING YOUR COMMENTS ON FUFA AND ARTICLES BY ACKERMAN,YERKE, HENRY KUTTNER, JACK ERMAN AND RON REYNOLDS. There will also be aplay by play dew-scription of the trip to New Yawk and the happeningsthere in the science-fiction outfield--by Bradbury of course.
* * * * *
THOUGHT AND SPACE
BY RAY D. BRADBURY
Space--thy boundaries are Time and time alone. No earth-born rocket, seedling skyward sown, Will ever reach your cold, infinite end, This power is not Man's to build or send. Great deities laugh down, venting their mirth, At struggling bipeds on a cloud-wrapped Earth, Chained solid on a war-swept, waning globe, For FATE, who witnesses, to pry and probe. BUT LIST! One weapon have I stronger yet! Prepare Infinity! And Gods regret! Thought, quick as light, shall pierce the veil, To reach the lost beginnings Holy Grail. Across the sullen void on soundless trail, Where new spawned suns and chilling planets wail, One thought shall travel midst the gods' playthings, Past cindered globes where choking flame still sings. No wall of force yet have ye firmly wrought, That chains the supreme strength of purest thought. Unleashed, without a body's slacking hold, Thought leaves the ancient Earth behind to mold. And when the galaxies have heeded DEATH, And welcomed lastly SPACE'S poisoned breath, Still shall thought travel as an arrow flown. SPACE--thy boundaries are TIME----AND TIME ALONE!
* * * * *
FAMOUS LAST WORDS:
"But, Mr. Smith, how do you explain thatgyro-statistic-electromagnetiosonomonator on the radiostuntomotor?"
"CLUNK!"
* * * * *
RETURN ADDRESS:
Futuria Fantasia, A SCIENCE CIRCLE PUB. 1841 S. MANHATTAN PL. Los Angeles, Calif.
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends