Or Darwin, If You Prefer
By Mel Hunter
Mr. Harbinger could not quite
believe in the Mouth. But poor
Mr. Harbinger—or Darwin, if you
prefer—are gone to other times.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Fantastic Universe September 1954.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Mr. Hunter's superb art work has appeared on a baker's dozen science fiction magazine covers during the past year, but incredible as it may seem with this story we introduce him to the reading public for the first time as a science fiction writer. We say incredible, because this is not a beginner's story. It is sparkling, sophisticated, erudite—the work of a craftsman.
Mr. Harbinger was tired of his job. In fact he was so tired of it he put down his pencil in the middle of a series of chemical notations. All noted, he realized with sudden clarity, in a disgustingly neat and orderly fashion.
"Mr. Cushman, sir," he said quietly to the small, prissy man at the desk near the wall, "why don't you take these titrations and jam them straight up the middle of you know where?"
And with that previously inconceivable remark Mr. Harbinger put on his hat, removed his spotless, starched smock and passed through the doors of the Cushman Chemical Co., Inc. for the last time and decidedly the most satisfactory time.