It is Summer. Out of a clear blue sky the Sun glares relentlessly down on the white concrete pavements of the London suburb of Welling. The white concrete pavements just lie there and glare right back. Butterflies flit lazily, bees buzz drowsily, and fans fan furiously. Through the slit of the half-open letterbox of No. 16 a tall broadshouldered young man watches the shambling approach of the Harris Thing along Wendover Way.
As it stops at the gate and begins tinkering with the latch the hidden watcher checks quickly to see that the beard and dark glasses are securely in place. Garden gates are the same all over the world. The ten minutes or so it takes to solve the combination give the observer the chance to get a good look at the loathsome being at close range.
He sees grey flannels and, inevitably, a rather shoddy imitation Harris tweed sportscoat; and hornrimmed glasses. There is also a vague impression of a face of sorts, which is tanned a deep rich brown. The effect of extraordinary good health is spoiled, he thinks, by the tan ending abruptly just under the chin, giving way to a horribly dirty and greenish white skin, like the colour of a zombie on one of its bad nights. (Actually it was Harris's shirt collar. The observer had on sunglasses and astigmatism.) Thick pendulous lips drawn back in a perpetual snarl and rows of uneven brown and yellow teeth complete the rather unwholesome picture.
The gate opens, and Harris comes lumbering up the path.
As the footsteps halt at the door the tall broadshouldered handsome young man grips the inside handle firmly and waits, tense. His other hand holds the gun, fully charged. This is it. His moment of destiny is at hand. He flings open the door.
The Harris Thing stands there petrified, with one claw-like hand outstretched towards the spot where the bellpush should have been, and the surprise on its face changing rapidly to utter terror as it realises the implications of the beard and the gun. But before its reflexes can take over the other has gone into action.
He has been waiting for over a year for this. He knows exactly what to do; so coldly ruthlessly and silently he does it. Two lightning bursts on the glasses --- the resultant spray of droplets on each lens alters drastically their refractive properties, thus completely blinding the brute --- then three fast, accurate shots into each nostril. This, besides interfering with their functioning as organs of breathing, tends to have a demoralising effect on the recipient. This is shock tactics. There is no time to think. It does the one think its adversary had hoped for. It opens its mouth to scream.
It doesn't scream, quite. To one who has repeatedly drowned a fast-flying blue-bottle at ten paces this is a very easy target. Just like firing into a barrel. Sound waves trying to get out meet water succeeding in getting in; the result is a most intriguing gurgling noise. The Thing staggers back shaking its head, desperately trying to avoid those deadly accurate shots: but in vain. The tall, broad-shouldered handsome intelligent young man follows it remorselessly, pumping all the time. He is losing control now, grimacing and spitting and shouting things: but perhaps he can be forgiven -- he has waited so long for this. His lightning speed and accuracy remain unimpaired. "Take that --- squish -- for the Biro pen cover crack, and that --- squish --- for that Lily crack, and that --- squish ---- for the bit in SFN, and that --- squish --- for the garrett piece, and that --- squish --- for the Biro pen cover crack ......." He babbles, he chortles, he laughs hysterically. Revenge is so sweet.
It is on its knees now, mouth open, choking and strangling in a hopeless attempt to breathe air when there is nothing available but staccato hard-driven jets of water. Out there in that pleasant sunlit garden, miles from any lake or sea, the unspeakably foul and monstrous life-form is slowly being drowned to death. It gurgles wetly for pity. It bubbles for mercy. In vain. It dribbles "Ubble gop glug?" --- but the fan with the gun won't forget it and be friends. He stands over it and squirts rapidly down that obscenely gaping gullet, smiling coldly. In a sudden fit of sadism he directs a few rounds down the inside of the open-necked shirt; then he goes back to his task of filling the lungs of this air-breather with water. With utterly ruthless efficiency he squirts, and watches it slowly drown. This is what he has lived for. Fulfilment.
But no. It is not to be. He has been snuck up upon. Fannish hands seize, overpower, disarm him. The sodden mass is helped to its feet and poured into the sitting room and revived. One of the others present wishes to speak to it and has ordered that the gunfan be restrained.
Next year, maybe .....
EDITORIAL NOTE: Shocked readers must realise that when James first showed me his water pistol I thought this was too terrible a weapon ever to be used. Even when he spoke of bringing it from Paris already loaded I thought he was merely giving Bob an opening for his famous pun about Harris being "wringing in the Seine." I was wrong, terribly terribly wrong; and now I publish the above starkly horrible account to rouse public opinion to put an end to this terrible feud before it is too late .... before next year's Armageddon. I hear that Chuck has already bought a Govt. surplus fire pump. Worse, the other day while I was weeding the garden path with my blowlamp James began talking reflectively about flame-throwers! This armaments race must be stopped. The matter must be taken before the United Nations --- or even the National Fantasy Fan Federation!!
--WAW
(data entered by Judy Bemis)