Axel’s Song

Posted on March 2, 2013 by Steven Howell Wilson

Interior illustration by Carmen Carnero.

ReDeus is a shared universe, and the brainchild of Bob Greenberger, Aaron Rosenberg and Paul Kupperberg. In these stories, the gods return in 2012. Yes, all of them! In the first volume, Divine Tales, eleven authors told tales of the different pantheons and how their returns changed the world, and the lives of individual people.

My story tells of Axel, a 20-year-old musician who was poised to become the next YouTube sensation until the gods turned off the Internet all over the world. Axel comes to New York City, still the center of culture, hoping to reclaim the celebrity that was almost in his grasp. There he meets Bragi, Norse god of poetry, who demands his allegiance. What follows is an odyssey through the melting pot of pantheons, as Axel encounters more gods than he ever wanted to, and all of them want something from him.

You can order Divine Tales, published by Crazy 8 Press, from Amazon. This fantastic volume also contains stories by Aaron Rosenberg, Dayton Ward, Steven H. Wilson , Robert Greenberger, Paul Kupperberg, Dave Galanter, Allyn Gibson, Phil Giunta, William Leisner, Scott Pearson, Lawrence M. Schoen

The Social Philosophy Aspects of Capra & Riskin’s Lost Horizon

Posted on January 1, 2013 by Steven Howell Wilson

Utopia is an old idea. From Plato’s Republic to Moore’s Utopia, from the Book of Revelation to Candide, authors and philosophers have long speculated on what the perfect human society might look like. Shangri La, created by James Hilton in his novel Lost Horizon, and further developed by Robert Riskin in his screenplay for the film of the same name, is a Utopia, and perhaps the one with which modern audiences are most familiar.

The two principal utopias of the 20th Century were Shangri La and Galt’s Gulch from Atlas Shrugged. Interestingly, while the former was originally created by an Englishman, it was brought to the screen by a Russian Jew who emigrated to the United States, and Galt’s Gulch was created outright by another Russian Jew, Ayn Rand. Both went to Hollywood as young people and took up screenwriting, both attained great fame. Riskin, however, came with his family, and his work always reflected a strong sense of family loyalty. Rand came alone, and her work reflects a great sense of self-reliance. Also, the Riskins fled the Tsarists, while Rand fled the Leninists. It’s not surprising, though, that two people who belonged to a persecuted minority and fled a politically unstable country should be interested in what Utopia might look like.

Continue reading →

Henry F. Potter – Crony Capitalist

Posted on November 12, 2012 by Steven Howell Wilson

“That’s Henry F. Potter, the richest and meanest man in the county.” With these words we are introduced to the villain of It’s a Wonderful Life, the quintessential American Christmas movie. There are several versions of A Christmas Carol, of course, but Dickens was from England. No matter how many dozen American versions of the film there have been, it’s a British Christmas story, not an American one. It has almost no sense of humor, and little warmth toward humanity. Everyone’s either a greedy bastard or a wretch. There’s also A Christmas Story, which probably many Americans prefer to It’s a Wonderful Life, but that one’s so humorous that it knocks itself out of the running, for me. Christmas, and all the Winter celebrations from which it descends, rate a Winter’s Tale, and a Winter’s Tale needs some solemnity.

Lionel Barrymore is probably best remembered as Mr. Potter by today’s audiences. That’s too bad, in some ways, as that means a lot of people don’t know that Potter is despicable, not because Barrymore was despicable, but because Barrymore was such a great actor. Watch him in You Can’t Take it With You or Grand Hotel, both Oscar winners from the 1930s, and you’ll find it hard to believe you could ever hate this man in any role he played. But you can and do hate Henry F. Potter. The only sympathy he might evoke stems from the fact that he’s in a wheelchair. But, aside from the imperious way he commands his goon (Yep. That’s his name in the screenplay: Goon.) to wheel him around, that’s a detail you barely notice. This man is evil. (And Potter is in a wheelchair, I believe, only because Barrymore himself was confined to a wheelchair by arthritis aggravated by an accidental break of his hip at age 60.) Barrymore had excellent practice for playing a greedy Christmas film villain: he performed 19 times as Ebenezer Scrooge in the annual Christmas Day broadcasts of A Christmas Carol begun in 1934 by CBS and Campbell’s Soups.

But is Henry F. Potter, who, unlike Scrooge, is never redeemed, too much of a caricature? Indeed, in a country in which the politics of envy seem to be fueling an ever-greater hatred of financial success, is he actually a dangerous stereotype? Like Chris Cooper’s character in The Muppets, he could be taken as the producers’ way of saying that all industrialists and financiers are inherently evil (unless, of course, they’re spending their money making movies.) Henry Potter could be taken as an indictment of Capitalism. It’s for that very reason that many libertarians and Objectivists despise this film.

But I don’t see Mr. Potter as a caricature. I see him as an illustration of a very specific kind of person who really exists, who was with us in the 1930s and 1940s, who is with us still, and who, yes, manages to thrive when all around him are miserable. Henry F. Potter is a Crony Capitalist, or, as the great L. Neil Smith dubs them, a Rotarian Socialist.

In his introductory scene in the film, Mr. Potter is seen arguing with Peter Bailey, the father of our protagonist, George, who is, at the time, about twelve years old. Bailey is making a plea for thirty more days to repay a loan Potter has given him. Bailey owns a Building & Loan, a private cooperative of a type which became prevalent in the mid 1800s. Working class people wanted to buy houses, but banks were operated by the wealthy for the convenience of the wealthy, and did not lend money to those who didn’t have the collateral to secure the loan. Mortgages, as they exist today, were unheard of. In fact, the first mortgages were made by insurance companies, not banks, and payments did not reduce the amount owed, they merely collected the interest due. So Savings and Loan Associations, as they came to be called after FDR began subsidizing them with taxpayer dollars in the 1930s, pooled the limited funds of middle class customers and use them to provide home loans.

Potter makes several of his attitudes apparent in this first scene. For one, he detests begging, which he thinks Bailey is doing on behalf of his clients. Bailey believes he’s enabling the American Dream, something he makes clear in a statement to George in later years: “I feel that in a small way we are doing something important. Satisfying a fundamental urge. It’s deep in the race for a man to want his own roof and walls and fireplace, and we’re helping him get those things in our shabby little office.”

Keep in mind that the societies from which America tore itself away in the 1700s did not have a strong history of upward mobility. If you were born a serf on the estate, you belonged to the estate. You owed your service and loyalty to its owner, and, in return, he provided you with a place to live, and let you keep some of the fruits of your labors. At Christmas, he probably gave you a ham. This tradition of noblesse oblige is celebrated to an extent in A Christmas Carol. But the dark side of noblesse oblige is that, in return for his obligations to give you food and housing and a Christmas ham (and, dare I say it, Health Care?), the Lord of the Manor had control of your life to a large degree. The Lord of the Manor also owed his allegiance to higher nobles and to the King. Ultimately, all wealth in the land belonged to the one guy who sat on the throne. He just shared it with everyone else. (Marylanders should understand this concept after weeks and weeks of Question 7 ads, which made it very clear that every dime possessed by a Marylander really belongs to our beloved Governor, and we don’t have the right to spend it in, say, West Virginia.)

But, if you lived in a tied cottage on the estate, you did not aspire to ever become the Lord of the Manor. That title would pass next to his idiot son. The only chance you stood was to marry his idiot daughter and father his idiot grandson, but the mechanisms in place to prevent that ever happening were efficient. Nor were you likely to accomplish the more modest goal of owning your tied cottage, it being, well, tied to the estate.

In very American fashion, Peter Bailey is trying to throw sand in the face of this system, helping others like him to own their own land, rather than “crawling to Potter,” the Lord of the Manor’s equivalent in this story, who seems to have forgotten to order the Christmas Hams. Bailey is enabling upward mobility, not by requesting government grants (he founded his Building and Loan long before these were made available), but by coordinating private resources and getting paid by his customers for his efforts.

When Peter started his Building & Loan, it was relatively outside of Federal interference. After all, in 1919 it’s already an established concern. By 1932, the Fed was subsidizing S & Ls and many cropped up. But Peter is not one of these opportunists. His concept was very American, very DIY. Distrust for the big guy is extremely American in character, because it’s a key component of independence. This is why rich villains work so well in American entertainment. The American psyche doesn’t like aristocrats, and shouldn’t. But this often gets used as leverage to make us distrust anyone who makes money. So a lot of people assume you must be evil if you’re rich, when, in fact, the American spirit should merely say, “I’m not going to be dependent upon you to get ahead.”

Sadly, though, Peter Bailey is not independent. He has borrowed from Potter and owes him $5,000. He doesn’t have it, and he’s asking for 30 days’ extension on his loan. He’ll come up with the money, he says, but he refuses to use any sort of pressure on his customers. Potter has no sympathy and tells Bailey to foreclose on them. Bailey won’t because these are families with children.

“They’re not my children,” is Potter’s only response, suggesting he has no responsibility to them. Very Scroogelike. But Bailey, unlike the judgmental ghosts from Dickens, does not tell Potter he should be the keeper of other people’s children, nor does he suggest that Potter owes him anything. He does remind Potter that he can’t begin to spend all his wealth, but, when Potter asks if he’s running a business or a charity ward, Bailey simply mutters, “Well, all right,” suggesting that he knows his business is not a charity. He simply believes that cutting people some slack will benefit his business in the long run. He may be right, he may be wrong. It’s his business.

But we see Potter as lacking sympathy for the working class and as being inflexible when it comes to business. Yes, he would turn a family out of their home. Or at least he thinks others should be willing to do so. That he does not give to charity is implied by Bailey’s suggestion that he can’t begin to spend all his money. Here, he’s a typical stereotype of a capitalist: He knows what’s his, and he feels no obligation to others.

But one other important aspect of Potter’s character shows up in this scene: he believes people are to be judged, not as individuals, but by their place in the social order. When young George, infuriated that Potter has called his father a “miserable failure,” rushes forward, shouting, and shoves Potter, Potter mutters, “Gives you an idea of the Baileys.” Here he’s suggesting that George is ill-bred, that his parents have failed to teach him manners. After all, in 1919, children were to be seen and not heard. They were never to speak in anger to adults, no matter how despicable the adult might be. So, never mind that George is showing loyalty, bravery and honesty, standing up to the most powerful man in town, he’s “ill-bred,” in Potter’s eyes. To a Crony Capitalist, social standing is of vital importance. Historically, successful capitalists have had no regard for class lines, often going from rags to riches and flouting conventional roles. But the Potters of the world know that their power depends on holding others back.

Bailey puts Potter on his Board of Directors for the Building and Loan, hoping that will give Potter more of an interest in seeing the business succeed. It doesn’t. Bailey describes Potter, later: “Oh, he’s a sick man. Frustrated and sick. Sick in his mind, sick in his soul, if he has one. Hates everybody that has anything that he can’t have. Hates us mostly, I guess.”

This is the first of several characterizations which suggest that Potter’s principle motivation is to own the property and thus control the lives of others. This is another important aspect of Crony Capitalism: you secure your wealth and power by making sure others don’t have more, instead of by being competent and producing wealth honestly.

In his next appearance, Potter bears out his opponent’s estimation of him. Peter Bailey has died, and Potter asks the Board of Directors to dissolve the business and turn its assets over to the receiver, presumably Potter himself. He’s not successful, because George demonstrates to the Board that he is a leader capable of carrying on his father’s work. In the course of the meeting, though, George describes Potter’s contempt for others: “People were human beings to [my father], but to you, a warped, frustrated old man, they’re cattle.” Throughout this exchange, Potter’s objection never seems to be that the business is losing money, but only that loans are being made to people that the bank wouldn’t loan money to. (Isn’t that the point of the business’s existence?)

There is a rather embarrassing paean to altruism in the speech George makes, honoring his father’s memory and attacking Potter: “Why, in the twenty-five years since he and Uncle Billy started this thing, he never once thought of himself. Isn’t that right, Uncle Billy? He didn’t save enough money to send Harry to school, let alone me. But he did help a few people get out of your slums, Mr. Potter.” This suggests that it’s virtuous that Bailey put the welfare of his family after the welfare of many, many others. That’s not virtuous, in my opinion, but “he never thought of himself” is a cliche accepted by many as a badge of merit.

But here again we see Potter’s nature: he wants the Building and Loan gone, so why doesn’t he buy it? Because that’s not how the Crony Capitalist plays his game. He uses his influence with others to get them to give him things he can’t or won’t pay for. He asks the Board to hand the assets of this business over to him, suggesting that he has no legal or legitimate alternative. The company doesn’t owe him enough money for him to simply say, “It’s time to pay up.” He’s trying to steal what isn’t his. A responsible capitalist knows that if he can get away with stealing, so can a lot of other people. His wealth will never be safe, so he doesn’t indulge in theft because it’s not in his best interests. But Potter believes he’s better than everyone else, and that he’ll get away with breaking the rules because they’re all too stupid to play that trick on him.

Here again, we’re reminded of the evil of serfdom, that it prevents you from getting ahead. Potter wants to prevent people from getting ahead — see his speech about a lazy rabble instead of a thrifty working class, countered by George’s challenge as to how long it takes a working man to save enough to buy a house. “What did you say just a minute ago? They had to wait and save their money before they even ought to think of a decent home. Wait! Wait for what? Until their children grow up and leave them? Until they’re so old and broken-down that they… Do you know how long it takes a working man to save five thousand dollars?”

The Baileys’ competence is demonstrated in the next Potter scene, which is in the middle of a run on the bank, presumably on the day of the Stock Market Crash of 1929. The Bank folds, and Potter buys it out by giving it money to continue operations. He tries a similar stunt with the Building and Loan, offering pennies on the dollar to shareholders. He’s not successful, and the Baileys, unlike many of their kind, survive the Depression, their business intact. It’s never said whether they do or don’t accept Federal subsidies, but they’re clearly shown surviving the crash itself by using the funds given to George as wedding gifts. Looters and moochers would not have been able to do that on their own devices. I suppose there are those who would say that George was being altruistic, trading his honeymoon for his business, but it would have been a pretty sad homecoming after the honeymoon if he hadn’t done it. The gesture served his own interests well.

And it’s a counterpoint to Potter’s earlier declaration: “Not with my money!” Potter is at that point telling Peter that he doesn’t have the right to spend on charitable or worthy causes money that doesn’t belong to him. It’s a valid and moral statement. And George supports his worthy cause with his money, playing by one of the few of Potter’s rules that is morally sound. Interestingly, “Not with my money” was a Barrymore catchphrase. His children said they used it around the house regularly, for their father had made it famous years earlier in You Can’t Take It With You. There, playing the lovable Grandpa Vanderhoff, he’d said it to an IRS agent, telling him he wasn’t willing to see Congress’s activities financed with his taxes. It’s a wonderful example of contempt for big government which way predates the Tea Party, though modern liberals believe distrust of government was invented by John McCain and the Koch Brothers. And, ironically, the sentiment is expressed in a play which also lampoons the red scare which eventually led to McCarthyism. If you haven’t seen this wonderful film, do so. It also features Samuel Hinds, Jimmy Stewart, H.B. Warner and Charles Lane from the cast of It’s A Wonderful Life, and is based on a play by legends George S. Kaufmann and Moss Hart.

So Potter is an opportunist who wants to profit off the misfortunes of others. That’s a common characterization of capitalists in Hollywood offerings. And those who believe that There Ain’t No Such Thing As A Free Lunch will tell you that it’s not immoral to profit off of someone’s misfortune. Indeed, they’ll also tell you it is immoral to expect others to help you out of your misfortunes without profiting. Is Potter evil because he finds a way to make money while others are suffering? That’s the implication. I’d say his greater evil, however, is in trying once again to take what’s not his, the Bailey Building and Loan. His evil is his envy, his covetousness of what rightfully belongs to someone else. It’s not that Potter is rich that makes his behavior here evil. It’s that he thinks he somehow deserves what other people have earned. He would be just as villainous if he were the town drunk who felt that he should have George’s business because George got all the breaks in life and he didn’t. But the town drunk would be hard to turn into a credible villain. He wouldn’t have the resources to really harm George.

In this scene, Potter, like a good Crony Capitalist, mouths the words of altruism: “I may lose a fortune…” He’s implying that helping others is more important to him than money. As if! But this breed of dog always knows how to mouth the words of altruism to their advantage.

Potter’s next act is one of desperation. He tries to hire George, all other tactics having failed. George sees through this, though. The screenplay says it’s because George feels a physical revulsion when he touches Potter’s cold hand. I always assumed it was because he’d discovered sweaty palms and realized Potter was afraid his game would be discovered. Either way, George can’t be bought off.

The next encounter is the most telling about Potter’s character. George’s Uncle Billy goes to deposit $8,000 in cash at the bank. On the way he stops to gloat to Potter that George’s brother has won the Congressional Medal of Honor. When he does this, he sets down his newspaper containing the cash. Potter finds it and makes a hurried exit with it.

Henry F. Potter is a thief on a very large scale. But he doesn’t stop there. Oh no. George, knowing that the sudden disappearance of the money will result in his being charged with misappropriation, goes to Potter to ask for help. Potter calls the Sheriff, acting as a member of the Board of Director’s of George’s company, to swear out a warrant for George’s arrest. He does it in a particular way, too. When the Sheriff answers the phone, he says pleasantly, “Bill? This is Potter…”

Potter is never pleasant, and he has no friends. He’s pleasant because he’s about to use his connections and his influence to send an honest man to jail for a crime he committed. He knows, along the way, that this is the act that will finally win him the Building and Loan and complete control of the Town of Bedford Falls. This is not the act of a businessman. This is not the behavior of someone who knows how to honestly earn and keep money. This is the act of a warlord, a bully, a thug… a Crony Capitalist. It’s not what you know, it’s who you know. And Potter knows all the right people to help him win his battle and hang onto his ill-gotten gains.

By contrast, the good-guy Baileys never use force or extortion. Although Peter suggests that Potter should use his money to help others, he backs off when Potter says no and takes no action to force the issue. Peter Bailey had friends. So does his son. We see that at the end of the film when the whole town comes up with the money to save George and his business. These connections could be misused. If Peter or George had wanted to, they could easily have swayed the town to take Potter’s wealth. But instead they helped the townspeople mind their own business, tend to their own homes and advance their own standing. They never make a single more to take Potter’s wealth or try to control him.

George’s respect for the property of others is strongly demonstrated in the Bank Run scene. Tom, and old man, demands to be given every dollar in his account. George makes a heartfelt speech, telling all his customers that their money isn’t actually in the building, but is invested all over the town. Tom still demands his money. George gives it to him, even overlooking the 60-day delay he’s entitled to invoke. Because it’s Tom’s money, and he knows it. (Although he also labels the act as a “loan,” and tells Tom his account is still open. I suppose this could be construed to be George attempting to maintain control over Tom. I prefer to think it’s his way of saying, “You’ve been a good customer and I hope you’ll continue to be one.”)

In final analysis, Potter is not evil because he’s rich and the Baileys are not good because they’re middle class. Potter is evil because he’s a liar, a thief, a class bigot, and a person who wants to control others. In America, that’s a villain, anyone who wants to control the lives of others. Henry F. Potter couldn’t be a villain in a film today. Hollywood is too well aware that it is the rich Lord of the Manor, trying to protect its wealth by scotching the development of new technology, by writing travesties like SOPA, ACTA and ProtectIP, and hiring elected officials to attempt to make them law.

You won’t catch Henry F. Potter in a movie in 2012. But make no mistake. He’s alive and well. Wish we could trade him and all his ilk to get Barrymore back.

Contact 03

Posted on October 27, 2012 by Steven Howell Wilson

By March, 1977, Contact had expanded to encompass works by more than two dozen writers and artists. This is the first issue which includes work by Martha Bonds, a young woman who had been discovered by the Contact editors and brought to court at Bev’s house. She became the third “sister” in the family of Contact. A writer, a zine editor herself, a musician and leader of the filk group Omicron Ceti III, Martha was and is to this day a major force in Fandom. Nor were any of the other contributors slouches. Contact’s quality was increasing with each issue, and the iconic cover by Pat Stahl was the strongest of the series.

Here are the links to the PDF and CBZ files.

Contact03.pdf
Contact03.cbz
Alternate PDF as scanned by Janet Quarton

This issue contains:

THEN TO PIECE THE BROKEN CHAIN by N. Kippax & B. Volker
Poem: A FLOWER IN THE DESERT by Martha J. Bonds
ABYSS by Jeanne Powers
THE FIRST STEP by Susan Dorsey
Poem: CORUNDUM by Jane Aumerle
NOTHING GOLD CAN STAY by Martha J. Bonds
Poem: TO JIM by Trinette Kern
FEU D’AMITIE’ by Nancy Kippax
Poem: BEGINNINGS by Beverly Volker
WHEN THE TIME COMES by Beverly Volker
NOT YET TIME by Beverly Volker
WRITING CONTEST
THE TEST by Sheila Clark
THE STARS GO DOWN by Cheryl Rice
NEW CONTEST
Poem: THE MELD by Beverly Volker
BORN OF THE SUN by Johanna Cantor
Poem: THE ENTERPRISE by Martha J. Bonds
Poem: TONE OF REFLECTION by Pete Kaup
Poem: ON COMPANIONSHIP by Trinette Kern
THE SPIDER’S WEB by Susan K. James
Song: “THE ENTERPRISE SONG”
DIFFERENCE IS A VIRTUE by Marion Dougall
Song: “YOU’RE MY HOME, ENTERPRISE”
PHASE II: SyNOPSIS
CHAPTER 3: THE REUNION by B. Volker & N. Kippax
Poem: REUNION by Martha J. Bonds
WE REACH! ( ADS)
Poem: REASONS by Beverly J. Volker

ART CREDITS
KATHY CARLSON: pp 55, 97, 106, 61
GERRY DOWNES: pp 41, 42, 43, 46, 48, 50, 52
~RY ANNE EMERSON: pp 63, 64, 65, 68, 69, 71
CONNIE FADDIS: pp 98, 99, 103
LESLIE FISH: PHASE II FOLIO: T’Pania
BRUCE HARRIS: PHASE II FOLIO: James T. Kirk, Back Cover
ALICE JONES: opp p.l, pp 4, 10, 15, 19, 21, PHASE II FOLIO: Stack
VIRGINIA JACOBSON: p. IV
JUDD: p 57
SIGNE LANDON: pp 108, 112
ROBERT LOVETT: p 84
BARBARA MINOR: p 151
JEANNE POWERS: pp 75, 96
CAROL SHUTTLEWORTH: p 74
PAT STALL: Front cover, pp 26, 29, 31, 33, 36, 38, 116, PHASE II FOLIO: T’Prett
RUSS VOLKER: p 23, PHASE II FOLIO: Peter Kirk
JONI WAGNER: pp 88, 93

Contact 02

Posted on October 7, 2012 by Steven Howell Wilson

Contact #2 was published just six months after its predecessor. By this time, the zine had drawn attention in Fandom, and no less than seven new authors appeared in its pages, as well as five new artists. It was also fifty pages longer than the first issue. Contact was moving up in the world!

Here then are links to the PDF and CBZ versions.

Contact02.pdf
Contact02.cbz

This issue contains:

EDITORS PAGE
THE THIRD WHEEL by C. R. Faddis
POETS SQUARE:
THE TWO SIDES OF ONE by Gerry Downes
THE QUEST by Beverly Volker
ODE TO A FRIEND by Joanne Bennett
AN ACT OF LOVE by Nancy Kippax
POEM: VISION FROM ORION by Beverly Volker
WITHOUT THE GARDENERS’ CRAFT by Kathleen Penland
SONG PAGEl
MCCOY’S SONG by Beverly Volker
BALLAD by Signe Landon
DENEVAN ORBIT by Johanna Cantor
POEM: YOU DO NOT BELONG by Pete Kaup
WRITER’S CONTEST: THE WINNERS
NEW CONTEST
LOGICAL CHOICE by Beverly Volker
KERT RATS by Nancy Kippax
POEM : THE ANSWER by Beverly Volker
NIGHTMARE ENDING by Diane Steiner .
PHASE II by Beverly Volker & Nancy Kippax
CHAPTER ONE SYNOPSIS
CHAPTER TWO: TARRA
ADS PAGE
TRIVIA ANSWERS

Remembering Contact: Sandra Zier Teitler – Editor of Mind Meld

Posted on October 5, 2012 by Steven Howell Wilson

Sometime in 1982 I walked into a video store (those were the days of VHS tapes), and I was renting a Star Trek movie. The girl behind the desk asked me if I liked Star Trek. That girl was Michelle Holmes. Why bring this up when I’m talking about Contact? Because it’s her fault (or to her credit) that I ever got involved. We talked about Star Trek. She asked me if I knew what a fanzine was. No, I said. Well, she lent me a few of hers and one of the first ones I read from start to finish was an issue of Contact. I was hooked. Big time. Some of the stories I admit took me aback a little… they weren’t “Star Trek” as I knew it, but they were character stories… stories that showed the friendship between these men. Regardless of the plot used, those friendships always won out.

As they do in fandom. Well, We won’t talk about how much money I sent with Michelle to the next MediaWest, so she could buy me more zines.

I subsequently wrote to Bev and Nancy at the address in Michelle’s copy of Contact, wanting to order the most recent copy. I included my mailing info as well as my phone number. A couple days later, I received a phone call from Bev. It went something like this:

Bev: “This is Bev Volker, got your order for Contact. I see you don’t live far from here.”

Me: “No…” (I might add I was still a little surprised at the call.)

Bev: Why don’t you come up for a visit? Let’s get acquainted!

So I did. And I told Michelle, and we went together. When we arrived, Bev, Nancy and Martha were all sitting in the living room. We were grilled. Who is our favorite character? Why do we like Star Trek? The usual. My favorite character has always been McCoy. Even though Contact is more of a Kirk-Spock zine, McCoy is the mediating character. Even Roddenberry said that the triad of Kirk, Spock and McCoy made up the “one.” We were in. We were invited to join them for their weekly “Saturday night” Contact group get togethers. So we went. We met many people who quickly became friends and extended family. In addition to Bev, Nancy and Martha, we met Mary Mills, Jan Davies, Suzanne Elmore. And Marion McChesney, who was chairing a convention, ClipperCon. We were bribed… hooked… into working the convention. And there you have it. How I got into this little group.

Well, Michelle and I were talking one day and she said, “You know… we could do a zine.” I said, “Uh… sure, why not?” My brother did the printing and Mind Meld was born. It lasted for seven issues before I had to give it up.

The conventions… ClipperCon… OktoberTrek… and now Farpoint… continued. The family grew. Bev’s kids grew up, thanks to Jan Davies, Renee met Steve and they have since formed a great family with two sons who are also growing up in fandom. Fandom is a wonderful place for kids. No one is judged. Everyone is accepted. It’s a perfect world. Almost.

Except you still lose people you love. When my mother died, Bev became one of my “second moms.” When I finally met Bruce, my to-be-husband, no one could have been happier for me than my extended family, the “Contact Crowd.” Bev and her oldest daughter, Robin, made my dress for me as a wedding gift. I must say that time was hectic as I had been in the hospital two weeks before the wedding. It took some doing to get the dress done in time, but they did it.

When Bruce died, it was like a lightning bolt had struck my heart; but my immediately family and my extended “Contact” crowd family were all there for me. Life sometimes isn’t fair, but they had welcomed Bruce with open arms and I truly believe they felt his loss as though he had been around forever.

When Marion died, it was hard on us all. We all realized that the immortality that we had been reading, writing about in zines, keeping these characters alive, really did not exist.

The hardest on all of us, I believe, was Bev. She was a “mom” to us all. She was our “go-to” person when we needed advice. She was always the voice of common sense and brought us back to reality. I was privileged to be able to spend a day a week with her for several months before she died. Her family welcomed me as part of the family the weekend she died, and, while I could do nothing to take away the pain, I knew I was with people feeling the same way I did. I miss her to this day, as I do Bruce and my own mother.

Since Bev’s death, we have also lost Nancy. Nancy and Bev were the founders, so to speak, in my opinion, the strength of the Baltimore fan group. Some may feel differently, but if it weren’t for them I know I would not still be involved as I am now. I am thrilled that Dave Kippax, Nancy’s youngest son, has now become involved once again in the group and in Farpoint.

I am truly thankful for everyone I met because I wrote that one letter to Bev asking for a copy of Contact. I’m so afraid I will forget someone, but some of those people who I consider extended family include: Renee and Steve and their sons, Mary and Michelle and their daughters, Suzanne Elmore, Karen Donnelly, Sharon VanBlarcom and her family, Martha Bonds, everyone who has worked on the conventions with us, past and present. I know I have forgotten someone. For that I apologize. Anyone I’ve forgotten, know that it is not deliberate. I know I don’t keep in touch with people as I should, but I value everyone’s role in what is my life today. I was also able to develop a friendship with Ginna LaCroix, a frequent contributor to Contact, Mind Meld as well as many other zines, and while I don’t talk to her often, we usually write each other 1-2 times a year to catch up on things. She and Sally now raise Alpacas.

I am thrilled that this site to commemorate… remember… and allow good memories to be shared is coming to fruition. I know it’s been a project that has been in the works for some time now. Anything I can do to contribute, I’d be honored.

Sandy Zier-Teitler

The Better Way

Posted on October 2, 2012 by Steven Howell Wilson

Art by Russell Volker, Sr.

“Infinite Diversity,” The Vulcan medal boasts,
“In Infinite Combinations is a better way than most.”
Logic, not emotions, can keep your course set straight.
Never feel what humans call love or fear or hate!
Then, tell us of the “Pon Farr,” with its logic-ripping needs,
And unemotional mercy shown by quiet Vulcan deeds.
And the linking of two minds, the understanding gained.
Just a “logical” experience to a Being, Vulcan trained.
Unfeeling logic, crystal clear—then tell us how its so,
That a culture based on peace, as yours, does not love of others show.

In a Pig’s Eye

Posted on October 2, 2012 by Steven Howell Wilson

(An unsent letter from the Chief Medical Officer to the First Officer of the Enterprise.)

STARDATE: 4019.6

DEAR SPOCK, (How you will cringe at that salutation!)

The purpose of my writing this to you is that there’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you for a long time. I couldn’t tell you in person – I’d be too embarrassed. And if you were an emotional being, you would be too. That’s the point, I mean the crux, of what I wanted to say to you.

I know I’ve teased you a lot, grumbled about it, but the truth of the matter is, Spock, that I really do admire and envy your logical, non-emotional approach to life. As a man of science, I’d be remiss if I didn’t admit that yours is a better way than ours. We humans go charging off helter-skelter, guided by our feelings in every crisis we face, while you remain cool and unemotional, logically taking all the right actions. Take, for instance, that time on Vaal’s planet.

I would never have been able to assimilate all the data, arrive at such a logical conclusion and take such an unemotional action as quickly as you did. You saw that the thorns from that plant were aimed right at the Captain. You realized that if Starfleet had so much invested in you, they must have even more invested in him, so logically he must be the more valuable one to save. And you reasoned if you just shouted to him he may have delayed a second and the thorns would have still hit him. So your only logical course of action was to remove him physically. Completely unemotional action! I admire that!

And then there was that time on Janus VI when we didn’t know what kind of creature the Horta was. All we knew was that it was killing our people. But you, always the scientist, had pointed out to Jim that, if it were the last of its race, it would be a shame to kill it. I remember even the Captain was worried that you might take an unnecessary risk to yourself to keep it alive. So, I can appreciate the logic and reasoning it must have taken for you to completely reverse your thoughts when you learned the Captain was trapped alone in the tunnel “only ten feet away” from the creature. Your unemotional, “You must kill it, Jim!” only serves as a tribute to your ability to correlate all the facts and arrive at so swift a decision. My unbound compliments to you, Spock!’

Time and again, you have astounded us with your astute logic and taught us how efficient unemotionalism can be. A Captain tortured by thoughts of a lost love would not be 100% effective, so the logical thing for you to do would be to touch his mind and cause him to “forget”. I can understand that. And how many times you’ve volunteered for hazardous duty because you’ve logically pointed out that a First Officer is more expendable than a Captain or Chief Medical Officer. And of course, we all understood that you were motivated by pure logic the time you kidnapped Captain Pike, stole the Enterprise and headed for Talos IV without telling Captain Kirk, so that he wouldn’t be implicated.

I must admit, I stand in awe of your explanation when you lost the shuttlecraft Galileo. You managed to save our lives by “logically reasoning that it was time for an emotional outburst.” Now, that was a gem!

And speaking of emotional outbursts, I really believed you were going to have one once. The time you thought you had killed the Captain in the duel on Vulcan and then found out you hadn’t. I had to drug him to get you both out alive. I thought for a minute you were going to really let go, but then you very unemotionally explained it was merely your relief in learning that Starfleet had not lost a valuable officer—

In a Pig’s Eye!

Illogically Yours,

Leonard McCoy

Not of That Feather

Posted on September 30, 2012 by Steven Howell Wilson

By Beverly Volker and Nancy Kippax

Art by Russell Volker, Sr.

The tall lean Earthman stepped up to the Enterprise trio who had just beamed down onto his porch.

“Welcome to the Kessler Colony, gentlemen,” he greeted them. “I’m Leon Kessler at your service!” The man’s voice was resonant and strong.

Kirk, Spock and McCoy looked at their surroundings curiously. This was a well developed, self-sustaining Earth colony on the outer fringes of the Procyon star system. Its technical name was Damion II and it had been colonized seven years ago by this man Kessler and his party of 31 men and women. But the Federation had heard no reports from them for almost six of those years, so they’d finally sent a Starship to investigate. Detecting life forms but getting no response to their transmissions, they beamed down to what seemed like the center of the colony. Their greeting unsettled Kirk.

“Mr. Kessler. I’m Captain James Kirk of the USS Enterprise. This is our Science Officer, Commander Spock, and our Chief Medical Officer, Dr. Leonard McCoy.” He paused for acknowledgement, then continued. “I must say, sir, you don’t seem surprised to see us,” almost adding, as if you expected us.

Kessler nodded sadly. “It was inevitable, Captain. We knew the Federation would send someone here eventually.” He broke off and indicated the house. “Come inside out of this heat and I’ll try to answer your questions.”

They entered the house which appeared from the exterior to be a huge whitewashed wooden dwelling, faintly resembling the ancient Southern plantation homes of Earth. The interior was anything but crude. The first thing that struck one was the infinitely cooler, filtered air. The furnishings were quite modern and opulent. As they entered the room Kessler indicated as his study, a young girl tidying up looked up at them in surprise and, it seemed, alarm.

She was small, finely featured, with thick brown hair and dark eyes. After her initial shock she stood quietly observing them with keen interest. She appeared especially fascinated with the Vulcan.

Kessler finished speaking and turned to the girl. “Gentlemen, this is my sister, Lydra,” he said proudly, and introduced the trio to her. “They’re from a Starship, dear. The Federation has sent them.”

Her eyes darted from one face to another uneasily. “Hello,” she stammered in confusion. Appearing about to say something else, she caught her brother’s eye and retreated to the file case behind the desk.

Kessler sat down and indicated they do the same. “Lydra will supply you with my reports. I’ve kept them faithfully since our transmitter was destroyed in a small fire six years ago,” he said, flicking a button on his desk. A man appeared in the doorway. Tall, ruggedly muscled, with a weathered face, he was a formidable looking contrast to the luxury of the room.

“Yes, Sir?” he questioned Kessler.

”Hartley… will you bring our guests some refreshment, please.” Turning to Kirk, he explained, “We make our own fruit ale here which I’m sure you ’11 enjoy, Captain.” The tone was calm and benevolent, but Jim sensed something about this man, something he couldn’t quite put a finger on, that he distrusted.

Meanwhile, Lydra had extracted a thick folder and after a moment of indecision she handed it to Spock. Her eyes locked with his so intensely for a moment, that even Spock reacted. He could almost feel her mind reaching out for his, and it startled him. Then the moment was gone, and Spock turned his attention to the reports.

Kessler settled himself more comfortably. “As you can see, everything has gone smoothly. We are in need of nothing. Since we are a productive society, I’d prefer no interruptions in the pattern of our daily life.”

“Spock, scanning the reports, spoke up. “Captain, I note here there have been four deaths over the past six years. One of them was Todd Mason.”

Kirk rubbed his chin. “Hmnn… Regrettable. We carried news for Mason. He’d come into quite a legacy from his grandfather,” he explained to Kessler. “How did he die?”

Kessler spoke quickly. “He was killed in an explosion in the foundry almost three years ago.”

Spock looked up in surprise. “This report indicates, Mr. Kessler, that Todd Mason was the victim of an accidental drowning. And it took place five years and three months ago.”

Leon Kessler stirred uneasily and there was a pause when everyone held their breaths. The awkwardness ended when the man, Hartley, brought in a tray of drinks. Kessler coughed and cleared his throat.

“Thank you, Hartley, that will be all,” he said casually. Handing out the glasses he spoke easily to Spock. “I must have Mason confused with someone else.”

Kirk stood up. “Mr. Kessler, if you don’t Object, I’d like to contact my ship and then take a look around your colony. I shall try to be unobtrusive, but I do have a report to make.”

Kessler’s smile was frosty. “Oh, yes, Captain, I quite agree. But you will come back and join us for dinner, won’t you?” he asked politely.

Kirk smiled. “I’m sure that will be fine. Till then,” he nodded.

As they walked out into the bright sun, the Captain was thoughtful. All about them was the bustle of a productive colony, yet something seemed oddly out of place. He stood in the middle of the road, again trying to pinpoint the source of his uneasiness. He spoke to McCoy.

“Bones, do you sense anything… different here?” Kirk groped for the right words. “Anything about Kessler himself, perhaps?”

The doctor looked around him easily. “No, not really, Jim. Kinda reminds me of the Old South around here.” Kirk looked at him in amusement, and McCoy grinned, the easy comradeship of shared laughter.

“When they had slaves and masters?” Jim smiled wryly. He walked ahead of his officers and pulled out his communicator. “Kirk to Enterprise… Come in, Scott,” he said. Getting Scotty’s reply, Kirk reported that they found the colonists alive and well. “But,” he added, “we’re going to stick around here for a while, just to make certain.”

“Trouble, Captain?” Scott asked.

Kirk hesitated. “No, not exactly, I just want a closer look. I’ll contact you later. Kirk out.”

The man, Hartley, slipped quietly away from his hiding place nearby and headed for the big house.

“They are suspicious, sir. They will dig and probe…”

“Is all secure?”

“On the surface, yes, but these men…”

“Yes, I see. Perhaps an accident…” .

“Understood. It would be the easiest solution.”

“Go, then!”

The trio had wandered a distance from the colony itself. Spock, taking his tricorder readings, found no abnormalities. The air was oppressively humid and still, and they had worked up a sweat climbing over the rocky terrain. Kirk didn’t know what exactly he was looking for; he’d hoped to get some perspective out here. But there was nothing to be found and he turned now to the other two.

“Let’s head back to the colony. I want to talk to some of the people before we get back to Kessler.” He started down the path, a little ahead of Spock and McCoy.

“Nothing like a walk in the woods to sharpen the appetite,” McCoy grumbled, kicking a rock out of his way.

“Doctor, even you must realize the benefits derived from… ” Spock’s reply was cut off by a rumble from somewhere above them. His comrades hadn’t picked it up, but Spock’s sharp Vulcan ears had. Looking up, he saw the landslide headed for them, and he shouted, but his warning came a fraction of a second too late. With a deafening roar, it suddenly seemed like the whole mountain descended upon them, flinging them this way and that, like helpless little toys.

As the dust cleared and clean air filtered its way back into Spock’s lungs, he sat up stiffly, gingerly testing his muscles. He felt uninjured and hearing McCoy’s coughs to his left, he made his way in that direction, over the rubble of rocks and sand.

McCoy sat up with Spock’s assistance and together they cleared what small debris they could out of the way. The doctor realized he’d lost all his equipment and Spock had too. But right now that thought was not uppermost in their minds.

“Where’ s Jim?! McCoy asked in sudden alarm.

“He was ahead of us just before the landslide,” Spock replied, scrambling in that direction quickly. He and McCoy looked around, seeing nothing at first, then Spock turned1to the right and moved a few rocks out of his way violently, to get to the body which McCoy could see now too, pinned under the main part of the landslide.

“Jim!” Spock’s voice was uneven as he bent beside the still form. McCoy reached them and put his fingers on Kirk’s neck.

“He’s alive,” he said grimly, feeling so much at a loss without his instruments. Spock had started to move away the smaller rocks, but it was a pyramid effect and for every one that Spock pulled out, three more took its place.

The Captain roused and began to cough the dust out of his lungs. He tried to sit up, but found he couldn’t move. Only then did he realize he was pinned down. His chest felt like a ball of fire and he blinked dazedly at his friends.

McCoy’s voice was ragged. “Don’t try to move, Jim. Just lie still.” The pain on McCoy’s face told Jim what he wanted to know, what he had to know; it was bad.

Spock, on his knees at Kirk’s side, was looking at him in concern, unmindful of the small trickle of green blood working it’s way down the side of his face. His superior Vulcan physiology had failed him and he felt the frustration of helplessness engulfing him. Again he tried to move one of the bigger boulders obstructing his progress but a clipped moan from Jim stopped him instantly. Their eyes met and Kirk read the confusion in Spock’s face. He felt Spock’s frustration, and tried to move his free hand toward him. It was a brief moment of weakness for Kirk, an instant when he thought: I’m going to die and I don’t want to die! and Spock understood this and reached his hand out and grasped his Captain’s fingers tightly, willing the strength to flow from him to Kirk.

McCoy came around and touched Spock’s shoulder. They got up and moved a few yards away.

“Spock, you’re going to have to go back to the colony for help,” he said softly.

Spock’s face was tight. “How bad is it, Doctor?” There would be no jokes now about McCoy’s abilities.

McCoy shook his head. “I’ve no way of telling without my instruments, but there’s got to be some internal damage — from all the signs there’s internal bleeding. All I know for’ sure is that if he doesn’t get help—and get it soon, he’ll die, Spock. Jim will die!”

Spock didn’t reply, but he flashed McCoy a piercing look, then turned back to the Captain.

As Spock knelt, Kirk spoke in a somewhat stronger voice. The initial shock had passed and the Captain was feeling his wits returning. “Spock,” he said, “give me your communicator. I can’t get to mine. I’ve got to call the ship, get a team down here…”

“Captain,” Spock cut him off, “there are no communicators. All our equipment was lost in the landslide. With your permission I’ll go back to the colony to get help from the people there.” The ramifications were obvious to Kirk, as they were to Spock. Without communications it would be some time before Scotty got suspicious enough to send down a re-con party and even if they managed to get Kirk dug out and brought back to the house, they had none of the medical facilities of the Enterprise to treat a badly injured man. And there was that other thing, Kirk thought. That uneasiness he’d sensed back there. Something about Kessler. He swallowed visibly and blinked in the glare of the sun.

“Okay, Spock,” Jim said evenly. “But be careful. We can’t be sure these people are our friends.”

Spock nodded and stood up. Needlessly he turned to McCoy. “Take care of him,” he said simply. Before he left, he took one last look at Jim Kirk, proud, strong, vital Captain of a Starship, laying here helplessly pinned down, possibly dying, and with a great effort he turned and began to descend.

“You fool!” Kessler hissed.

Hartley cowered visibly. “I tried, Sir. It was difficult…” He was interrupted by a third man, stationed at the window in this comfortable study.

“The Vulcan is approaching ‘the house now, Sir,” he informed Kessler.

“All right, we’ll deal with this one first.” He picked up a pen and began writing with a good deal of concentration. It was thus that Spock found him upon entering the study.

“Mr. Kessler… There’s been an accident,” Spock said rapidly, pausing when Kessler failed to respond or give any indication of awareness. As he opened his mouth to continue, Kessler spoke, but to Hartley, not Spock.

“Has this man been given permission to enter my chambers?” he asked.

Spock stood there, not quite comprehending; a sense of bafflement replacing his urgency. Hartley stepped up to him.

“Sorry, you’ll have to make an appointment and wait your turn, ” he said, giving Spock a slight shove.

Spock’s tone was neutral. “You don’t seem to understand. Captain Kirk has been injured in a…” Before he could finish, Kessler stood up and suddenly Spock saw it all. It had been no accident! For some unknown reason this man had caused the landslide. It was illogical, but it was true!

Kessler’s tone had changed again and it was easy and warm. “Yes, Mr. Spock, a great pity, isn’t it? But I’m afraid I can’t let you report back on our little colony here. Taylor,” he indicated the third man who had drawn his phaser, “show Mr. Spock to our ‘guest quarters.'”

Spock was shoved roughly out of the house and down a path toward a windowless brick building containing barred cubicles just big enough for a man to stand in. He tried to protest as they locked him in, telling them it was illogical to attempt this on the Federation, but he was ignored, then left alone.

Alone, to stand there and think about that man up on the mountain, possibly dying, and he was powerless to stop it. He tried the bars; they were tight. He could see no possible means of escape. He forced his mind to the unanswered questions. What was Kessler’s motive for wanting them dead? What would they have found if they’d explored further?

At that point he heard the scraping of the outer door being opened. It was the girl, Lydra, bearing a tray of food.

“It is dinnertime.” She attempted a smile.

Spock shook his head forcibly. “I do not desire sustenance!”

Her look was open and amazed. “Do not fear, Mr. Spock. It is clean. I prepared it myself.”

At first he thought she meant hygienically clean, but his puzzled look made her stammer and flush.

“Oh! I thought you knew! That is…” she broke off in confusion.

His mind was working fast now. She had backed off a few steps and he tried to reach through the bars to her, but they were too close together. “Lydra,” he said, his voice soft, coaxing, “there’s something in the food, is that it? Your brother puts what in the food?”

She spoke hesitantly. “A plant extract. I don’t know what it’s called. I don’t even know where it comes from. But it makes people passive, obedient, like slaves,” she said, her voice growing stronger. “He found out its use about a year after we came here, and with the help of a few loyal men began to administer it to the rest of the people so he could have total control!” She broke off, looking dismayed. “But, if you didn’t know this, why would he lock you up?”

“It would be easily detected and he knew we’d learn the truth,” he explained patiently. “So that’s why he didn’t want us bothering anyone,” he mused. “Has no one here attempted to resist?”

“Some have tried,” she replied tonelessly, eyes down. “They are dead.” She looked up at him sadly. “Mr. Spock, I’m sorry you had to get involved in this! I wanted so to warn you away earlier but I was afraid to!”

Spock looked at the girl, an idea dawning on him. “Lydra, there’s an injured man up on the mountain. Can you get up there with a few men and…”

She shivered. “No! I cannot interfere! I should not even be here!”

Before he could stop her, she had fled the way she came. Since she seemed the only logical chance for his freedom, he set about trying to call her back with his mind. So enrapt was he in this endeavor, that he didn’t hear the two men enter until they were at his cell. He looked up as they unlocked the door, phasers pointed at him.

“The boss wants you,” Taylor said grimly, and they led him again to the big house, to that cool, soft, deceptive room.

He had no chance to resist with those phasers trained on him. They shackled his hands behind him and pushed him into a chair. Then Kessler dismissed them with a wave of his hand.

“Leave us! “he commanded. He sat silently observing Spock for a moment, then he spoke. “You mentioned the Federation, Mr. Spock. I wanted to ease your mind on that. You and your friends met with an accident here. Regrettable, but just an occupational hazard, wouldn’t you say?”

“Kessler,” Spock replied, “it is only a matter of time before our ship sends down more men to investigate our absence. They will take the same steps we took upon arrival. They will draw the same conclusions.”

The smile Kessler gave him was chilling. “Yes, but meanwhile your Captain will be dead!” Perhaps Spock’s face gave him away, because suddenly Kessler pounced on this fact. “You would see your Captain die, Spock. Is that what you want?”

Spock was puzzled. This was no game for logic. The man was totally illogical and Spock had no guidelines for human madness.

“I do not understand what it is you want,” he replied.

Abruptly Kessler’s tone changed. “Of course, I could save your Captain. For a time, at least.” He smiled slyly. “The Federation would see I had done everything I could. A pity that he died anyway.”

Spock’s face was noncommittal but he felt a tightness inside, a feeling akin to hatred that was foreign to him. Kessler went on.

“But the important thing now is to get Captain Kirk off that mountain, isn’t it? For what would it matter if you find a way to escape if he is already dead? That is what you must logically conclude, is it not, Mr. Spock?”

Spock still did not reply.

“Well,” Kessler said, “perhaps I could still save him. For the right price.”

The Vulcan thought he understood that one. “If you mean, sir, that we make no mention in our report… ” Kessler cut him off.

“No, no,” he denied. “You cannot be bought that easily.”

“Correct. You have no way of winning and the death of my Captain would serve no purpose.”

“Does that bother you, Spock? It doesn’t bother me. After all, it’s not the winning that counts, but how you play the game,” he chuckled.

But what game we playing? Spock wondered. What are the rules with this madman? Kessler was speaking again.

“So, your ship sends down men to search for you. Well, we have ways around here of controlling a man. Perhaps you know of them.”

“I know of them,” Spock said shortly.

Kessler looked surprised, then he smiled. “Good. Well, regardless of how this all turns out, Captain Kirk is bleeding to death.”

Spock’s head was spinning from the man’s constant change of pace.

“What is it you want from me?” he asked wearily.

“I spoke of a price, Spock. A price for you Captain’s life.” Kessler stood up straight, and his eyes took on a glow. “Will you beg, Spock? For your Captain’s life, will you get down on your knees and beg?”

Spock looked at him in astonishment. It was a ghastly practical joke.

The man was totally insane. Every fiber of his Vulcan heritage rebelled against the act. “Vulcans do not beg!” he spat out.

Kessler’s chuckle was soft. “I know. That’s why it’s such a high price I place on your Captain Kirk. Is he not worth it, Spock?”

Spock repressed the emotions churning in himself and shook his head. “I cannot.”

Kessler seemed angry as he pushed the button on his desk. “We will give you a second chance, Mr. Spock, after you have a chance to think it over.”

The two men entered; one was carrying a hypospray… Spock knew what was coming and he tried to resist, but the combined strength of the two men was too much for a Vulcan with shackled hands. As the hypo pressed into his arm, the last words Spock heard were Kessler’s.

“As I said, we have ways of controlling men here, Mr. Spock.”

A wave of dizziness overtook Spock and he blacked out.

McCoy’s probing fingers made Jim wince. The doctor looked apologetically at his friend and reached up to wipe away the beads of sweat forming on Kirk’s face. His skin under McCoy’s hand was cool, even with the hot sun glaring down on them. Jim’s voice was weaker now.

“How long has it been, Bones?”

McCoy looked up at the sky, trying to read the movement of the strange sun. “Too long,” he muttered.

Kirk tried to move again and was hit by a fresh wave of pain. McCoy eased him back and standing, removed his blue tunic and rolled it into a pillow, which he placed carefully under Jim’s neck. The stark black of his shirt provided a glaring contrast to the whiteness of his dust covered face, as he bent over Kirk.

The Captain tried to speak, his voice coming out hoarse. “There must have been trouble, Bones. Spock must have… ” He broke off, unable to go on.

McCoy was torn by the inactivity. He wanted to go find out what had happened to Spock, to go bring help back, yet he couldn’t leave Jim here all alone, to lie here and die by himself.

“Take it easy, Jim.” He forced himself to smile. “Spock’s never let either one of us down before. I’d never admit it to him, but that Vulcan’s pretty handy to have around when the chips are down.”

Kirk managed to grin. “That’ s what I’ve been telling you… ” His voice trailed off as he lost consciousness again. McCoy hastily grabbed for the pulse, alarm in his eyes. It was there; faint, but still there. Rubbing his eyes, Bones peered off in the direction of the colony. If Spock didn’t get back soon, it would be too late. What was keeping him, he wondered.

As Spock’s consciousness returned, he realized he was alone again with Kessler. The man was studying him avidly. Spock felt oddly at peace here, his senses lulled into a state or amiability by the drug. Kessler was speaking, and Spock looked up passively at his voice.

“Now then, Mr. Spock, we were discussing the price of your Captain’s life.”

It all came back to Spock with a rush of emotion strange to him. With a great effort he willed his mind to clear, even physically tossing his head as though to diminish the cobwebs. His voice was low and controlled. “I am a Vulcan!”

Kessler’s voice taunted him. “And Vulcans do not beg, or so you said. Yet your Captain is dying. Right now, out in that hot sun, his life ebbs from him.”

Spock said nothing, so intent was he on freeing his mind from this foreign influence. He would do just about anything to save Kirk’s life, he thought. Just about…

“Don’t you care, Spock? Don’t you care that he’ll die, his insides smashed under the weight of those rocks?”

Illogical! The Vulcan coming through strengthened Spock. This man will not let us live. It will serve no purpose for him to save Jim.

“You can save him, Spock. I can help him. Isn’t what I ask a small price for a life?”

Spock had almost mastered it now. His sanity was restored, but his emotions were still churning.

“He’ll die, Spock, unless we help him, you and I. Our sun stays up for another four hours. Four more hours for him to lie in that hot sun with the rock’s weight on him, crushing the breath from his lungs, crushing the life from his useless body!”

Kessler’s words fell like hammers on Spock’s ears. He winced under each phrase like a blow. With tortured eyes, he looked at Kessler.

“You can help him! Why won’t you help him?!” Spock almost screamed the words.

“You must beg me, Spock. On your knees. And I’ll send the men up to get him. You can lead them. Beg, Spock. That’s all it takes.”

A quiver of revulsion ran through Spock’s nerves. He owed Kirk. his life a thousand times over. Jim had risked his career, his life, his all for him. Was that which Kessler demanded really so high a price to pay? Was pride worth a human life? That life which was so closely bound up with his that they were more than brothers. Almost without thinking about it, he was on his knees, the touch of the thick carpet soft on his legs. Carried away by the force of emotion so new to him, he looked up at Kessler without shame. Somehow this seemed so logically right all of a sudden.

“Please,” he implored. “Help me. Help the Captain. I beg of you!'” The words, once out, could not be recalled and self-revolt set in as Kessler laughed that maniacal laugh. Fully aware now, an aching sense of shame came upon Spock, who realized what he’d done!

Bones had been digging in the rubble, trying to locate some of their lost equipment. At least feeling like he was doing something, he wasn’t surprised that he was unsuccessful. A sound from Kirk brought him instantly to the Captain’s side.

“Easy, Jim. Just lie still,” he cautioned.

The sheer frustration of being unable to move around put an edge to Kirk’s voice. “Bones, did you have any luck?”

McCoy shook his head. “None. It must’ve all gone down the Cliff somewhere. It could be anywhere by now. He stood abruptly, straining his eyes down the path. “Jim!” he exclaimed. “I think someone’s coming!” He threw Kirk a look of relief and ran a few feet ahead, as a voice called out from below.

“Ahoy! Are you there?” It was Hartley, and McCoy recognized him as the man he’d met earlier in Kessler’s office. With him were two other men and Spock.

“Over here!” Bones answered.

As they reached Kirk and began clearing away the rocks, Spock hurried to his Captain’s side to see for himself that he had arrived in time.

McCoy’s voice was anxious. “Well, it sure took you long enough,” he growled, but something in the Vulcan’s blank face stopped him from saying more.

Kirk looked up at his First Officer with what little strength he had left. “Spock…” he began, and appeared about to say something else, but changed his mind. What words could one use, Kirk wondered, the dizziness engulfing him again.

Spock’s voice was controlled. “I shall assist with these rocks, Doctor. Stand by with the first-aid kit,” he ordered.

McCoy had checked it out and it seemed adequate on a short term basis. As the rocks were cleared away, he administered pressure packs and bandages to the worst of Kirk’s superficial wounds. The Captain, although weak, was conscious and obviously in pain. He tried not to show it, but as the last great boulder was lifted from him he gave in with a mighty shudder. McCoy prepared a pain-killing hypo, but Kirk waved him off.

“Bones, I don’t want… ” he began as McCoy pushed it home.

Inert now, they lifted him gently onto the stretcher and descended to the house. There wasn’t really time for words until they got him settled in a bedroom on the second floor. Then McCoy turned to Hartley.

“We’ve got to get back to our ship,” he told him grimly. “Perhaps some of our equipment could be located if… ” The man’s chuckle cut him off.

“Forget it, Doc. You three aren’t getting any help,” he sneered. When Kessler gets back you’re going for a little walk, you and the Vulcan. If you meet with an accident, that’s just too bad.” He moved to the door where the other two men stood, armed now with phasers. “Don’t try anything. As Spock will tell you, it’s useless around here.”

McCoy stared after him in disbelief , as the door was bolted on them. Then he turned to Spock in frantic horror. “What in thunder’s going on here?!” he exploded.

At that point, Jim stirred. McCoy came to his side. The Captain reflected he felt better now. Something in that hypo McCoy’d given him, no doubt. He took in the richly furnished room with clear eyes. The doctor was putting something warm and soft over him and it almost lulled him back to sleep, but he fought off the lethargy with effort. He was the Captain, after all, and the success of this mission, like all others, was his responsibility. He looked at McCoy expectantly.

Bones looked at his friend and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Welcome back, Jim,” he said softly, smiling into that inquisitive face.

Spock stepped over to them and Kirk faced him eagerly. Choosing to ignore the concern he saw on their faces, he concentrated instead on the surge of command he suddenly felt. “Your report, Spock, on our situation?” he asked.

“The landslide was no accident,” Spock explained. “Kessler intended then to kill all three of us. He could not have us inquiring too deeply into his colony.”

Kirk looked at him sharply. “Did you discover the secret he’s hiding?”

Spock replied tonelessly, his eyes fixed straight ahead. “He discovered a drug — a native plant extract — some form of extreme barbiturate, I would surmise. It makes the colonists mentally weak and submissive. He uses it to achieve total control and power.” His eyes met Kirk’s. “He is a madman, Jim. He has no intention of letting us out of here.”

Kirk’s voice took on an urgency. His head was spinning again and he had to get this out. “Spock, you’ve got to get back to the ship! Get out of here, somehow, and hide until the re-con party gets here. Someone has to… stop… this,” he trailed off, lapsing into unconsciousness again. Spock bent over his Captain in concern, and McCoy looked at him thoughtfully.

“We’ve got to get him back to the ship soon, Spock, or it’ll be too late. He needs transfusions and treatment right away,” he told him. Spock didn’t seem to be listening; he’d walked over to the window and stood staring out at the growing dusk with unblinking eyes. McCoy watched him curiously. Something about Spock was all wrong. It was apparent when he talked, in the way he stood, but the doctor couldn’t put his finger on what it was.

“I can see no logical answer, Doctor,” Spock said softly.

Bones walked over close to Spock, who stood with one hand on the windowsill. The fingers were quivering of their own volition, he noticed. What have they done to you, Spock? he wondered sadly, but this man was a Vulcan and he couldn’t say the words — not to him. McCoy’s voice, when he spoke, was gentle.

“I’ve never seen you give in so easily, Spock,” he chastised, and Spock turned to stare at him with such a wounded look that McCoy suddenly knew. What had Spock said about that drug? It made men mentally weak and submissive. That’s what the difference was! The missing element was Spock’s defeatism and lethargy! But, something more, he thought suddenly. He sensed that somehow, someway, Spock had compromised and was now fighting some inner battle with himself. The Doctor longed to reach out to him, to erase the pain in those haunted eyes, but he didn’t know how.

The air was charged with the electricity of unspoken words and thoughts as the two men, Human and Vulcan, triad to bridge the gulf between them, in a situation so totally different for them.

Spock broke it off as he crossed the room and sat down. McCoy hesitated only a moment, then he followed and stooped down by Spock’s chair.

“You heard what the Captain said, Spock. You’ve got to do something! You can’t just sit here and allow this to go on!” he snapped, trying desperately to get through the barriers Spock had put up. Jim would know, he reflected. He could reach Spock where no one else could.

The Vulcan shook his head. “We are locked in, with armed guards at the door. We have no weapons or means of communications. What would you have me do, Doctor?”

McCoy chose his words carefully. “I don’t know what they’ve done to you, Spock, and I know you won’t tell me. But you’ve got to snap out of it. This isn’t like you; you’ve got to realize

that!”

Spock looked at him thoughtfully, McCoy’s words penetrating at last. He sensed there was something wrong with his thinking processes. Perhaps he did have to take action of some sort.

Just then, the scraping of the bolt snapped them both back to the present as they turned their eyes toward the door. Lydra entered timidly, and after a moment’s hesitation she came up to Spock, her eyes brimming with tears.

“He’s going to kill you, isn’t he?” she asked frantically.

“We cannot be allowed to report what we know,” Spock answered flatly.

McCoy’s voice was gruff . “Doesn’t he realize killing us will only postpone the inevitable? It’s a senseless move!”

Lydra shook her head. “It doesn’t matter to Leon. He’s convinced himself he can handle anything.”

“The man is insane,” Spock injected.

Lydra looked at him with understanding. “I know that now,” she admitted. “If only I could help.”

“It’s too late,” Spock replied tonelessly.

“Perhaps not, perhaps there is something… ” she began.

“What could you do?” he asked in disbelief.

Her voice grew stronger. “We have a radio. It’s in a little shack not far from here. Only Leon and Hartley know of it. Even I’m not supposed to, but I do.”

While she was speaking, Spock’s face had grown intense; his eyes bored into her. Hope, for the first time, kindled in him, banishing all cobwebs, all sense of dullness from his mind. Adrenalin pumped into his veins and unchained his wits again.

“You must take me there,” he spoke urgently.

“No… ” Lydra hesitated. “I’m afraid. If Leon finds out, if… ”

Spock looked at her intensely, but his voice was composed, logical, as he felt his senses returning. He spoke reasonably.

“Lydra, you have admitted that your brother is insane. You know that forcing the colonists to be slaves is wrong. Kessler will kill my friends and I and there will be an investigation by StarFleet . The end is inevitable. To pretend it is not is illogical. But you can save our lives, perhaps the lives of more, by helping us to hasten the end.”

Lydra hesitated only a second, then she spoke resolutely. “I will bring the guards their dinner. I shall tell you when it is safe to leave.” Her eyes met Spock’s with grim determination.

She was gone for what seemed to McCoy to be an eternity, but was, in fact, a very short amount of time. He paced the room impatiently, but Spock stood quiet and controlled beside his Captain’s bed, the balm of his purposeful plan soothing the few tortured ghosts of his past actions into oblivion.

They heard Lydra’s return. She beckoned to Spock.

“The guards have eaten. They won’t stop us now,” she said. “But hurry, Leon will be returning soon.”

Lydra and Spock hurried past the guards, lulled into passiveness by the extra amount of plant extract she had put in their dinners. Spock stared at them for an instant with revulsion for what this drug could do to men if used by the wrong hands. Then he went on, out of the house and down a small path to a rickety wooden building.

She led him into the dusty gloom carefully. Lighting the area, she indicated the old communications console resting there.

“Does it work?” she asked breathlessly. “I know Leon has listened on it — that’s how he knew of your arrival.”

Spock had bent over and was working with the dials. “I believe it needs a few adjustments. Are there tools?” he asked. Together they poked around the area and came up with a toolkit. He sat down and was soon lost in concentration.

He was almost finished when suddenly, the door was flung open. Spock and Lydra looked up, startled. Her brother stood there, silhouetted against the night sky, the anger contorting his face into a grotesque mask. He pulled out a phaser and pointed it at them.

Spock stood, brushing aside a feeling of loathing for this man and what he had forced him to do. He was a Vulcan and he must deal with this logically.

Lydra was not bound by such a code. She rushed over to Kessler. “Leon, no,” she cried. “You mustn’t… ” She was flung aside roughly.

Venom in his voice, Kessler turned to her. “You too, little sister! You plot against your own flesh and blood!” he roared.

Spock made a move and the man swung back to him. “Stay where you are!” he warned.

“You cannot kill me in this manner. It would be far from accidental,” Spock reminded him.

Walking toward Spock, Kessler turned his back on the weeping Lydra, who was huddled on the floor. “Don’t count on it, Mr. Spock. You will beg me again — this time for your death — before I am through with you!” His eyes were glowing, all semblance of rationality gone from him. “You will suffer, I will make you suffer, and she will watch it!”

Lydra rose quietly and reached carefully to one side where the tools were kept. Her fingers tightened on the axe handle.

Oblivious to her, Kessler raved on. “My sister will learn as I learned that there is nothing special about Vulcans. They beg and grovel just as every other man. Men are worthless, despicable creatures. Especially men who interfere into other people’s concerns. For that you’ll pay!”

She had advanced cautiously but as she raised the axe, Kessler sensed something, perhaps a flicker on Spock’s face, and he spun, only in time to cry out as she brought the weapon down viciously.

Hysterical, Lydra swung it again and again, until Spock reached her side and forced it from her hands. She clung to him, sobbing, and he felt the weight of her as she mercifully passed out.

Laying her gently on the floor, Spock looked thoughtful for a moment, then turned resolutely back to the radio.

Striding purposefully down the corridor toward Sickbay, Spock felt the familiar comfort of the ship easing all other thoughts from his mind. He was back in his sane, logical world again and his senses responded to it. He was about to lay waste to the last nagging worry of that nightmare as he checked with McCoy on Kirk’s medical report.

The doctor looked up as Spock entered and smiled eagerly. “Glad to see you, Spock. Maybe you can help convince my patient he can’t go running up to the bridge right away!”

They both walked over to where Jim sat up in bed, looking tired, but well. Spock raised his eyebrow.

“He looks well, Doctor. Are you certain he isn’t malingering?” he asked drily.

Kirk’s eyes twinkled. “Tell him, Spock. He’s trying to keep me down here so he’ll have someone to talk to,” he protested. “Convince him I’ve got a job to do!”

Spock looked archly from one to the other. “It seems to be a most comfortable arrangement for both of you.” Sobering, he added, “It is good to see you looking better, Captain.”

Lifting his chin, Kirk gave Spock a look of triumph, putting his silent thanks to his Vulcan friend without the need for words. “What’s the report from the team on Damion, Mr. Spock?”

he asked.

“The Colonists have elected to stay there and are showing no after-effects from the drug. I’ve assigned three crew members to help them set up their government and they give an excellent prognosis for success. The three men — Hartley, Taylor, and Wyman — who worked for Kessler, are in the brig and we’ll be dropping them off at Starbase Six, where they’ll await trial and deportation.”

McCoy’s voice was thoughtful. “And, there’s Lydra Kessler, down the hall being put through medical examinations, but I don’t think she’ll have to worry about standing trial. From your statement, Spock, it was clearly self-defense. What worries me is the psychic damage. She may have to undergo some rehabilitation.”

“I am sure the rehabilitation will be minimal,”Spock replied. “She exhibited signs of being a very courageous young woman, and it is reasonable to assume that she will be able to reconcile her actions and make a new start for herself. And now, Captain,” he added, turning to Kirk, “with your permission, I shall return to the bridge. In your absence there is much work that I must do.” .

Kirk looked soberly at his First Officer. “Spock,” he began, “there’s something I wanted to say… I, well, I never did get a chance to thank you. Spock, I know more happened than I’ll never

know about, but… ”

“Yes,” Spock cut him off. Embarrassed? “Captain,” he said, “I really must get back to the bridge.”

Kirk looked long at him. They would speak of what happened on that planet no more. He nodded to Spock, who turned and left Sickbay.

McCoy looked after him. “Well, Jim,” he said thoughtfully, “I’d say Spock certainly is a man who’s ‘not of that feather’.”

Kirk looked puzzled. “A man who’s not what, Bones?”

“‘Not of that Feather.’ It’s a quote from Shakespeare,” he explained. “It goes, ‘I am not… ” he trailed off as an inspiration hit him. “Look it up in the library tapes. That’ll keep you busy and I’ll be able to get some work done.” He grinned. “I’ve got better things to do, too, than playing nursemaid to convalescent Starship Captains. His eyebrow shot up testily as he left the room.

Kirk sighed and leaned back in his bed. He grinned openly at the doorway, then he pressed the button on his bedside console.

“Can I help you, dear?” came the soft, feminine, voice of the computer.

“Yes,” Kirk replied. “Library tapes on the complete works of William Shakespeare.”

THE END

Contact 01

Posted on September 29, 2012 by Steven Howell Wilson

Contact #1 was published in 1975. The original issue contains 66 numbered pages, plus un-numbered artwork pages, totaling at least 72 pages. The copy in Bev Volker’s archives is sadly missing the original cover, title page and table of contents and begins with page 3. The page numbers on this copy are part of the photo-copy, but hand-drawn. Were they hand-drawn on the original? Or is this a copy of the original that’s been marked up? The fact that the printing is only on the front of the pages suggests the latter, but it’s hard to know, 37 years later. If anyone has an original copy of Contact #1, please comment!

The two links below point to:

A pdf file containing 70 pages of this archival copy, beginning with page 3, the Editors’ Page. Updated! This file now contains the cover, as well as Bev’s hand-written draft of the Table of Contents.
A .cbz file of the pages from Contact #1 which were re-issued in Contact Collected Volume 1 in 1985. Eventually, we’ll add the additional pages to this file. Updated! This file is now a CBZ of the original issue, including the hand-written TOC. We’ll post Contact Collected separately at a later date.

Contact01.pdf
Contact01.cbz

A .cbz file is a format developed for reading scanned comic books. It’s really just a zip file containing all the images in jpg format. With the extension .cbz, however, software like CDisplay (for Windows), SimpleComic (for your Mac), Bookman or Cloudreaders (for your iPad) allows you to read the issue on your computer or tablet. If clicking the .cbz link just fills your browser with garbage, try right-clicking on the link and doing Save As.

The original issue contains the following:

NOT OF THAT FEATHER – Story by Beverly Volker and Nancy Kippax
THE BETTER WAY – Poetry
IN A PIG’S EYE – Letter from McCoy to Spock by Beverly Volker
THE SILENT CONNECTION – Story by Nancy Kippax and Beverly Volker
Writers’ Contest
UNDERSTANDING – Poetry
AMOK TIME – Poetry by Beverly Volker
EULOGY – Story by Nancy Kippax
Star Trek Song Sheet – Includes “The Good Ship Enterprise,” “Our Guy Gene”
Star Trek Crossword
Star Trek Word Find
THE TRUTH – Poetry
DE PROFUNDIS – Story by Connie Faddis
Fun Fotos
COMMAND DECISION – Poetry by Beverly Volker
Phase II – Chapter One – The Invitation – Story by Beverly Volker and Nancy Kippax
Help! – A plea for a musician to transcribe recorded original Star Trek songs by the editors
Trivia Test
Answer Page (Alas, missing!)

Much of this material is absent from the 1985 re-release. Titles in all CAPS represent material which was reprinted.

Steven H. Wilson

Author, Publisher, New Media Artist

Author Archives: Steven Howell Wilson

Axel’s Song

The Social Philosophy Aspects of Capra & Riskin’s Lost Horizon

Henry F. Potter – Crony Capitalist

Contact 03

Contact 02

Remembering Contact: Sandra Zier Teitler – Editor of Mind Meld

The Better Way

In a Pig’s Eye

Not of That Feather

Contact 01

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